Yesterday would have been your birthday, mum. Just three days shy, on Friday 29 June, you died. It was a bleak, rainy day.
I don’t think I ever told you how inspiring you have been, mum. You raised us, my brother and me, all by yourself. It can’t have been easy becoming a widow, suddenly and brutally, with a toddler and a 2-month-old. But growing up, it never occurred to me that might be difficult. You were living proof it’s not what happens to us that counts. Rather how we respond to it.
You instilled us with heaps of self-confidence. I think I must have been well into my teens before I stopped believing the world could not exist without me (no doubt annoying everyone else).
You were tough and unafraid. When we were kids, you took us to New Orleans. No big deal today, but in the 70s, that was a long and complicated journey, involving five different airports. You had hardly been out of Norway before, never flown. Yet you thought nothing of taking two raucous kids abroad, and on such a long trip. First when I began travelling with my own kids did I understand the complexity of that. Damned admirable, mum.
I never felt I missed out on anything by not having a father. There was nothing my friends had that I didn’t. I think I remember him. Though I suppose I can’t have, not really. I was only 2 when he died. Likely, it was the photo albums you showed us and the stories you told. You kept him alive for us. And you were quite the storyteller.
When I was expecting Alex and it became clear I was on my own, I never questioned whether I could make it as a single mum. After all, it was the only thing I knew. Also, I knew without a doubt you’d be there 110 %. And you were. I think you changed just as many nappies on her as I did. Perhaps more.
And when Alex and I travelled to China to get Cat, you were still there, from the moment you met us at the airport, teary-eyed, so moved at the sight of that beautiful, bouncy baby. My children were equally at home in your house as in mine.
You were a practical, no-nonsense kind of girl. No patience with politics or grand philosophical discussions. Your children and grandchildren, your house and garden, the cabin your father built 112 years ago, where you spent many of the happiest days of your life; those were what mattered. The near things. The here and now. You were of the earth. Gaia.
For the first 85.5 years of your life, your body served you well. It was strong, lithe and energetic. You had extraordinarily good health. I can’t remember you being ill once. You life was very physical, very active. Your feet were your major means of transportation. Always outdoors, walking, working, gardening. And shovelling miles of snow each winter. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Without wearing a reflective vest. We worried a car would run you down outside the gates one dark winter night, and that would be that. “Hah,” you said. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
But in the end, it wasn’t a poor, unsuspecting driver that got you. The last year and a half was troublesome. You gradually lost strength, became tiny and fragile. Yet you continued to have a commanding personality.
You had strong opinions, mum – and a stubborn streak. You could drive me absolutely mad. We had numerous arguments over the years. That is, I argued. You didn’t. You mostly ignored my tantrums and just got on with things. Damned frustrating it was. Oddly, that makes me smile now.
The stubborn streak was useful. When county planning authorities wouldn’t let you renovate the boat house at the cabin, I said “well, that’s that, then”. But you would have none of that. You kept fighting the bureaucracy, peppering them with letters. Handwritten. And you won! It took a few years, but you won. You finally saw the boat house up last autumn, just before the snow. “As soon as summer comes, the boat house must be painted,” you said.
An 87-year-old dying isn’t tragic. It’s merely the way of life. But I miss you. I even miss your infuriating stubbornness. It feels unreal knowing you’re no longer in the yellow house on top of the hill, just a few hundred metres away. A bad dream.
In the end, you were like a baby bird with a broken wing. During the last four days and nights, we were all there in the hospital room with you. Somehow they managed to fit beds for all of us in that one room.
All your energy was needed just to breathe then. There was nothing I could do for you, apart from being there. Nothing anyone could do. Gradually, your body shut down, like a music box winding down. Until you drew your last breath. At 5:25 pm on Friday.
You would have been 87 yesterday. Inside, you were always the young girl at the cabin in the forest.
Yesterday, we celebrated your birthday. We rounded up friends and rustled up a spontaneous barbecue in your garden. We played the usual games: archery, croquet, boules. You always won at boules, even last summer. You had a good aim and a strong right arm. Damned strong for 86.
I don’t think I ever told you how inspiring you have been, mum. I reckon I have another good 40 years in me. I’ll tell you then. Which, I suppose, is but a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things.
Meanwhile, we’ll get on with painting the boat house.
See you down the road, mum!
Oh Sophie, I’m so sorry for your loss.
Your mum clearly was a driving force and inspiration to those around her and her memory will be greatly cherished.
Thanks so much for your kind words, Ana.
What a lovely, moving tribute Sophie. I’m very sorry for your loss but glad for you that you had your Mom around until 87.
Thank you, Leigh. Yes, I was lucky.
What a beautiful tribute. You have my sympathy.
Thank you, Mette.
Thanks for your article, I was moved to tears.
Friday the 29th was also the day my mother died, her birthday would have been on July, 12th.
She died peacefully with her family around her just four weeks after she was diagnosed with liver cancer at the age of 76.
We will also gather at her birthday to celebrate her life and the countless things she did for us.
Thank you and so sorry for your loss, Dietmar.
Such a lovely tribute to your mum, Sophie – and I’m so sorry for your loss. Thinking of you and your girls.
Thanks, Lisa.
So sad for your loss, Sophie. Wish I had also written such a moving tribute to my Mom when she passed away.
Thank you, Marlys.
My deepest condolences to you and your family, Sophie. This is a beautiful and touching tribute to your mom, a true trailblazer and a wonderful role model.
Thanks. Yes, she really was an inspiration.
Oh Sophie, I’m so sorry to hear this. I know you said that your mom was sick, but I didn’t realize that she was this sick. My thoughts are with you. She sounds like an incredible lady and like she has passed on a lot of her qualities to you.
Thanks, Laurel. We didn’t think she was that sick, either. I just returned from the press trip in Austria, and the next day she was admitted to hospital.
Sophie that is one of the most beautifully written pieces I have ever read. I am joining with the others in sending my sympathy for your loss. Losing a mom regardless of age is the saddest of experiences. Take care.
Thanks, Jackie. It really is very sad.
What a beautiful tribute to you Mom, may she rest in peace.
Thank you, Nancie.
I can see how your mom inspired you and that is a great gift! She sounds like a great lady and one the world will sorely miss. We need more people like her in the world! My thoughts are with you.
Thanks for your kind words, Debbie.
Beautiful way to honor your mother, Sophie. I’m so sorry for your loss – the loss of a beloved mother being such a difficult one, even though not an unexpected one. Reading your words and seeing those precious photos have given me an idea of what an exceptional woman your mother was. She clearly raised an exceptional daughter.
Very kind of you, Cathy.
What a beautiful post! Your mother raised a strong daughter.
Thank you, Sabrina.
I really enjoyed reading this. You wrote a beautiful tribute to her and her life. She sounds like a strong woman who knew what was important in life. Wishing you peace and comfort in this difficult time.
Thanks, Jenna.
That is an amazing tribute to your mom. May her soul rest in peace.
Thanks.
That’s a beautiful birthday tribute. You must miss her so much. I believe that families are forever and that you will see her again someday.
Thank you, Allison. I hope you’re right.
Hi Anne Sophie.
Suddenly I saw the death notice in the local newspaper and snippets of memories from my childhood were flowing their own way in my mind. I felt sorry and sympathy for you but also curiosity about your path all these years. My impulse based action was to search LinkedIn for you, and there your face appeared.
You look exactly as I remember you from my hidden archive of mind. The dusty place where fragments of history are stored and just waiting to be activated. From this place I recalled different facts, or maybe they just are fiction from a child’s interpretation. Well, I think you are the owner of the truth, at least your description of truth.
You were a silent girl, a kind of shy or maybe just analyzing the environment for input and facts. I also remember you as intelligent even if I couldn’t recognize the real meaning of that word as a boy just 7-8 years old. In my mind you had an early interest of discussion, politics or social-minded thinking at least before 1971-72. Maybe something related to Vietnam or the cold war. It’s just a wild guess without objective facts, so it could have been anything regarding our class, a teacher, the school or the city of Drammen. Or maybe it’s just not correct at all.
I have lot of similar memories to most of the people in our class, hidden in my mind. From time to time I sit down and make my philosophical housekeeping, just to relax, and I find it strange to think about what makes peoples paths through life and what kind of happenings that make the building blocks.
I also have a slight memory of your mum (I think), but at least I know my mum mentioned your mum some years after I was grown-up. I cannot tell what it was about, so this is just a fragment of memory without any button to hang it on.
In your post mortem birthday memories you say “I think I remember him. Though I suppose I can’t have, not really. I was only 2 when he died”. In my opinion you are remembering him but you was too young to have any words or “buttons” to hang this memory on. I believe this is some of your mind fragments and that they will become more visualized sometime in the future, when you discover other fragments that can be put together to one larger piece. This is up to you. Maybe you just don’t need or want to do this kind of exercise, which of course is OK.
I hope you find my words to be a kind of comfort, a kind of remembrance of peace and also as a short story that describe my sympathy in your grief.
An “ancient” classmate
Roger! What a blast from the past, as the Yanks say.
Thanks so much for your words of comfort. I think what you say is true in so many ways – and I do like the term philosophical housekeeping. Thanks for finding me on LinkedIn as well – I’ll send you a message.
Happy bday to your mom, you have to be glad that you could spend so much time with her together!
There is that. Thanks.
I struggled to get through this – very, very moving and a loving tribute.
Thank you, Robin.
What a beautiful tribute to you mother. I am sorry to hear about your loss.
Thank you, Christine. She was a remarkable woman.
So sorry for your loss, Sophie. Your mum sounds like a very cool lady.
She was cool, Kim. Thanks.
Ingunn and Heather:
Sadly, the blog crashed yesterday and I wasn’t able to recover comments from after the last back-up on 28 July. Just wanted to let you two know I read and very much appreciated your thoughtful comments.