Only my mum would insist on buying a designer swimsuit on her deathbed. She had always found emotional solace in clothes, but shopping for herself had become futile by that point. She was, after all, lying in a cancer hospital having been told there was no further treatment available for her relentless myeloma; she had exhausted all available options in the 11 years since her diagnosis. But my 37th birthday was coming up and there was no way terminal blood cancer was going to stop Rhona from buying me a present. She loved showering her family with gifts. I would reprimand her for spoiling us. “I can’t spend it when I’m dead, can I?” she used to respond.
Of course, there was only one thing I truly wanted that birthday, but I was being forced to come to terms with that being a deluded fantasy. Despite my protestations that I needed nothing, my mum insisted: “Something nice for your holidays, perhaps?” “Holiday clothes” was one of her favourite oeuvres. (I know of no one else who described a dress as a “going-down-to-breakfast” dress). So I relented and mentioned I’d always liked the look of those Hunza G swimsuits that supposedly suit any body shape, mostly because I thought she would find that idea interesting to discuss. We enjoyed discussing clothes. We enjoyed discussing everything. “Brilliant! Pass me my phone.” I did what I was told. On reflection, this was probably one of her last acts of joy. Perhaps the last. I sent her a bathroom selfie in the costume when it arrived. “Lovely and soft, thanks Mama.” “You’re welcome,” she replied for the last time. She died two days later.
As I grew up, when people would occasionally ask, “Are you close with your mum?”, I was always thrown. Being close to my mum was as obvious and natural as breathing. Something that, I’ve since learned, is not a given. This is not to brag, but to try to convey the size of the loss in my life. It has been four years since she died and I am still staggered by the absurd notion that I am living life without her here. She would listen to every inane and innocuous thought that ran through my head and be truly interested. Or at least feign interest with admirable skill. I miss our everyday, not-much-to-report chats that I have since realised filled the crevices of my existence. With her gone, I will always feel a little broken.
In the immediate aftermath of her death, when the pain was suffocating, I found it impossible to be around any of her stuff. I couldn’t visit the flat she had shared with her partner, Ian. Walking down our village high street in south Manchester felt precarious, lest I be pelted with people or places that, in my mind, belonged to her. It took months before I felt even remotely ready to start sorting through her clothes. It was a mammoth task. My mum’s wardrobe was on the generous side. To be clear, she was no Mariah Carey. It wasn’t that she was splurging all the time. It was more a combination of a penchant for shopping, especially in sales or at outlet stores (her dream day out), and an inability to throw anything away. She was a thoughtful, sharp and wise woman, adored by everyone who knew her. She just so happened to really like clothes. Talking about them, looking at them, shopping for them, savouring them, wearing them, holding on to them to pass down. They gave her joy. Some people have art. Some people have stamps. Some people have clothes. Judge them if you must, but know you are making the world a little less pleasant when you do.
I’ve now been sorting these clothes for the past four years. It is often a sidelined element of grief – what to do with the things a loved one leaves behind – but it has been seismic for me, in ways I could never have predicted. It has felt both draining and affirming. It has nudged me closer to confronting my new life without her in it, but it has also helped me celebrate everything about who she was. Eight months after she died, Ian gently asked if I was ready to come over to their flat to start going through Mum’s clothes. I thought I was. I was wrong. On the back of the bedroom door hung the last dress she bought. It was a khaki green gingham “floaty number” as she called it, from Monsoon. In the very late stages of her disease, Mum suffered from lymphoedema, which meant her legs became swollen up like “bloody tree trunks” (her turn of phrase will always soundtrack my memories).
