Have I run out of tears?

Mum, are you there?

“Hang on a minute, love. Let me just put these bags down. Geoff, come and take these off me, will you? Go on, Queen, what is it you’re saying? Have you run out of what?”

Tears. Have I run out of tears?

“How do you mean, love?”

Well, it’s four and a half years ago now since you died, and when I think of you, I no longer burst into tears when Corra comes on or sob heavily into the neck of my jumper, inhaling your perfume.

I’ve stopped crying when you pop into my head. In fact, most of the time I smile or laugh raucously.

“That’s a good thing, love. Time is a great healer.”

You’re right. You are no longer a pain in my chest or a ringing in my ears.

I’m not angry anymore or disillusioned. I’m not sinking steadily.

Come to think of it, I’m not even floating to keep my head above water.

I’m not bobbing up and down; most days, I’m flying.

“That’s wonderful, Queen.”

Isn’t it weird?

“What, grief?”

Yes. It’s an absolute rollercoaster.

Highs, lows, exhilarating at times, but frightening. It’s sickening to the stomach — the stopping, the starting, the soaring.

Grief has become an old friend now, someone who pops round occasionally with a bunch of flowers or a quiet concern.

You’re embedded in me, Mum.

It’s like when you found out you were pregnant and carried me inside you for nine months… not forgetting that extra two weeks when I stubbornly refused to leave your womb. I knew I had it too good.

“You did, love. I was the size of a whale.”

You’re inside me now, Mum. Our roles have reversed.

It took a while, don’t get me wrong.
In the early gestation of grief, I not only had morning sickness, I had afternoon and evening sickness; it could last all day and sometimes during the night.

I couldn’t eat soft cheeses — in fact, I couldn’t eat anything. I’d lost my appetite altogether on some days.

But then the cravings came.

I wanted mince pies, soft buttered toast, mini pork pies — any fast foods that reminded me of you.

I overindulged in grief.

I waded in it.

I gorged.

But now there’s balance again. There’s new life, there’s peace.

I enjoy grieving now.

Isn’t it weird?

“It’s growth, Queen. Like when you grew inside me. You’re right, I’m growing inside you now. You’re my safe space.”

I am your safe space. It’s quite a revelation, really. I wish I could shout it from the rooftops, but the truth is, you can’t shout about grief. You can’t even whisper about it.

You have to feel it.

Nobody can describe the pain; they can only endure it.

“Come on now, Mrs. Davies,” the midwife reassured you. “You could have this baby in the next fifteen minutes. Remember to breathe and only push when I tell you to. You can do this.”

You didn’t think you could. You told me you were in labour for hours, you were exhausted, and your hands kept slipping off your knees.

“One more push now. I can see the baby’s head.”

I was coming — typical me. But better late than never, on the night before New Year’s Eve, 1973, at around six o’clock in the early evening. St. Mary’s Hospital, Manchester, England.

“She wanted to call you Lorraine.”

Who?

“The midwife. She told me I had a girl. You were nine pounds, and she said you looked like a Lorraine. Perhaps you might call her Lorraine?” She suggested.”

Bit pushy.

“I know. She was lovely, and I was grateful for the push, but there was no way I was calling you Lorraine.”

I quite like Lorraine. Lorraine Kelly. Lorraine Chase.

“No, not Lorraine, love. Besides, I wasn’t sure whether you were going to be a Sarah or a Lucy. It was only when your Auntie Mimi said, ‘What about Lucia?’”

“Oh yes, now I like that.”

And then you called me Queen for forty-seven years.

“I did, Queen.”

I’ve got stretch marks, Mum.

“They’ll be from all those mince pies and sausage rolls.”

They’re a sign of grief.

“Yes, but to be fair, you’ve always loved a sausage roll.”

That’s true.

Love as always,

Queen x