ANDILE NDLOVU: On losing my mother

THIS past weekend my family marked the end of ukuzila, the mourning period for our mother, who recently lost her year-long battle with colon cancer.

Her passing was the culmination of the worst 12 months of my adult life. Everything seemed to disintegrate, from my career to my relationships, and seemed to confirm what many adults have since told me: when many of life’s little losses happen in quick succession, it is usually preparation for something heavier.

There has been no bigger loss than losing my mother. We lost our father over a dozen years ago and, while it was a confusing time for me, but especially for my younger brother, losing our mother has been the most debilitating. It is one no words can encapsulate.

The most traumatic aspect is finding out that what should be a time when the world affords you as much time and space as you need, is a time when everything needs your attention.

It means perusing and signing every single form and document, taking every single phone call that comes through lest it be the funeral parlour or the life-cover provider or far-flung relatives seeking final details about funeral arrangements. Everything demands everything of you.

There is no nice way of putting this, but for most parts of the past month, I wished people would leave me alone. These are well-meaning friends, family and colleagues past and present. There was the usual “How are you doing?” and “Please let me know if there is anything I can do” and even “How did you find out she was gone?”

I tried to vary my answers to the first question to avoid it sounding flippant. I have subsequently told some of my closest friends that I don’t quite know how my siblings and I made it through that week of the funeral.

My mother’s final week was one which stole innumerable hours of our sleep. It toyed with our emotions — there were days when, despite her inability to talk, she responded with a nod of the head or raising her brows: I would play her some Luther Vandross (Buy Me A Rose), Whitney Houston (My Love Is Your Love), Lira (Feel Good) and several songs by Joyous Celebration. These were some of the songs which we bonded over.

I now hear Vandross’s Here and Now and Barry White’s Practice What you Preach very differently, while I completely avoid the former’s Can Heaven Wait and Simphiwe Dana’s Umzali Wami.

There were moments leading up to the funeral when I prayed the day would come and go as quickly as possible, and then there would be days when I would be wracked with guilt — because it meant quickly erasing her from our memories and not mourning her sufficiently.

But I have realised that I will likely spend the rest of my life doing that. There were moments when I would lock myself in her room, her pillow soaked with my tears, and I would be too guilt-ridden to listen to music I usually find uplifting and joyous because I thought it wasn’t the right time. Everything plays on your mind.

It is an incredibly lonely time. Even some of the most important people in your life can feel quite inadequate if they have never gone through such an experience (even my best friend admitted this).

So I turned to podcasts and books. I found Sheryl Sandberg’s latest book, Option B: Facing Adversity, Building Resilience, and Finding Joy, co-written with her friend Adam Grant, a psychologist.

Sandberg, the Facebook COO, threw herself into writing this book after the loss of her husband, Dave Goldberg.

Here she attempts to give tips on how to tackle grief. She found that there are three myths that people who have experienced grief cling onto the most: they somehow feel responsible for what has happened, that they must be perpetually sad, and that they will never get better.

In March a friend of mine, Lelo Boyana, lost her mother. I remember texting her, saying among other things that “I can’t claim to even understand what you’re going through ...”

A month later, I texted her to tell her that “I said I don’t understand what you’re going through, but now I do”. She has proven to be an invaluable ally in the healing process — through talking, we realised how similar our stories were: from our fears and regrets to the family politics which cropped up.

We both agreed, too, with Sandberg, who didn’t know how to respond when people asked: “Is there is anything I can do?”

We agreed that the better approach is for people to do something specific, without making the person grieving feel like an imposition (thankfully, I had some friends who understood this).

I have realised that nobody really knows the best way to deal with a grieving person — what’s more, we all grieve differently.

The best way, according to Sandberg, is: “Instead of making assumptions about whether or not someone wants to talk, it’s better to offer an opening and see if they take it” — and, lastly, to understand that it may take a while before they are ready.