My Mother Died And I Have Survivor's Guilt

My mother passed away in December of last year, after a short battle with cancer. She was only sixty-eight years old. She was diagnosed in March and, even though it was already stage three at that point, she kept her hopes up and did everything she could to beat it. She went to all of her hospital appointments, and then started the chemo. But then some weeks later, several other problems arose, and, in the days leading up to her death, she deteriorated at such an alarming rate, both physically and mentally, that she was barely recognizable.

The past four months have been a blur of pain, grief and admin. So much admin, in fact, that I have barely had time to sit with my pain and deal with my grief. In the first two-and-a-half months, I was back in my hometown doing things I had never done before. I moved to London at eighteen years old and before that, I was in school, so I never really had to deal with my country’s bureaucracy and ‘way of doing things’. Until now, that is. And as an only child, it was up to me to handle everything to do with her estate, at least from a legal point of view. I had to handle my mother’s finances, talk to lawyers, go to the notary, sign documents and paperwork, go to the bank and clean and manage the house, while several friends and family members dropped by on a regular basis to see how I was doing. This was all new to me and I was completely overwhelmed. When I did manage to get some free time in between appointments, city hall bookings and the likes, I took our family dog Rio for several walks during the day, I bought food, I went down to the marina, I met with people for coffee… I was trying to distract myself, if nothing else because things had to be done. And I was doing things. I was also acutely aware that she wasn’t.

I realized that, apart from grieving my mother, I was also experiencing survivor’s guilt. And I know that is not logical. I know her death wasn’t my fault. I know that at least she is not in pain anymore. That ‘it is what it is’. I know I didn’t actually die along with her, like I said to my cousin at her funeral. And I know my mother would not have wanted me to say that, either. My cousin reassured me that she would have wanted me to live my best life. And I know that. And I am trying to do that every day. But I can’t help but feel like she should be living her best life, along with me. She should be getting excited about her next Mediterranean cruise. She should be on Ebay buying yet another George Michael calendar. She should be reading this article, like she read all of my articles and supported all of my artistic endeavours. She should be able to take our dog for walks with me. But she’s not. I’m doing that by myself.

I brought Rio over to the UK to live with me, and just the other day, she saw a squirrel for the first time during one of our walks. She stopped in her tracks, her ears perked up and she started wagging her tail with excitement. She wouldn’t take her eyes off it, as she watched it jump from one tree branch to another. And for a split second, I made a mental note to text my mom about it later.