A tribute to my mother...

and the magic of birds

Trigger Warning: The following post includes talk of death and grief, which some readers might wish to avoid.

N.B. I do not wish for words of sympathy by sharing this post, I just want to honour my mother. My teacher. The woman who taught me to read and write and relish the magical power of stories.

I rarely share personal information, but on this, the fifteenth anniversary of my mother’s death, I’d like to pay tribute to her by sharing the following with you.

My mother, Gwenda McCarthy

In the first pic, my mother is 17. In the second she is 71 and days away from a grade 4 brain tumour diagnosis.

Those who know my work will also know how often I incorporate birds into my stories: the robin in Immortelle, the blue jay in A Moonlight Path of Madness, the crow in Mosaic. There are many reasons for this, one being the way in which birds played an unexpected part in my mother’s death.

But first a little openness. I’m a non-believer. My mother was not. She believed right up to her last that she would go to Heaven and be reunited with her loved ones. For me, what happened at the moment of her death was beautiful but has no religious connotation. That’s my personal belief, but make of it what you will. I would like to think that she was right and I am wrong, but we cannot talk ourselves into believing something we do not, nor do I wish to.

Fifteen years ago today, I sat at my mother’s hospital bedside with my father and brother, knowing it would likely be her last.

She’d been unconscious all day, but we held her hand and talked to her. Two in the morning on March 18th, my mother’s laboured breathing suddenly softened, becoming almost normal. Time slowed…in fact everything slowed as the struggle seemed to ease. It’s hard to put into words, but for a few minutes it was as though she were healed. After a relentless nine month battle, I almost expected her to sit up and say, “There you are, I’m much better now.”

Of course it was not to be.

The middle of March and winter still held the reins, but the hospital room in which she lay was stifling, so despite the lateness of the hour and the cold outside we opened a window. Silence reigned. Silence and darkness and a mix of emotions, because although we want the suffering to end we’re never ready to say goodbye, are we? Outside her room a few trees stood, but not a sound could be heard. Then, just after two and several hours before dawn, she took her last breath.

Many of you might not believe what I’m going to say next, but it’s the truth. All of a sudden the birds started singing. Their song was sweet and gentle. My brother (an even bigger sceptic than I am) turned to me and said, “Can you believe it? It’s incredible.” We listened for a minute or so, until the birds fell silent.

It was an incredible moment and one that will never leave me. How did they know? Is it something they sense? A oneness with nature we humans have lost.

She died on my birthday.

Each year, on my birthday, I honour her memory by celebrating in my own strange way. I refuse to dwell on sadness and instead try to fill the day with joy, just as she would have wanted me to.

This year, on March 18th, the weather is forecast to be beautiful, so here is my plan…

My husband and I will drive to one of out favourite villages, Nevern in Pembrokeshire. I will sit in the beautiful old churchyard of St Brynach’s, where a bleeding yew lines the avenue and a Celtic cross stands proud, and I will write a poem in her memory. Not a poem of loss, but a poem about a crow. Like me, my mother loved old churchyards, so I know she would approve.

Celtic cross, St Brynach’s, Nevern

She was my first teacher. She was my friend. She was someone who had the most generous heart I have ever known. Selfless, caring, wonderful. Without her I would not have learned to love language the way I do, and I will cherish that gift and those memories forever.

Love you, Mam. Today and always. x