One person.

One person has texted me today to say she was thinking of me, and this time last year she had only met me twice.

Now, I remember dates. Birthdays, anniversaries, that sort of thing. I just do. I know that we’re all different and that not everyone else does, and that some people think that marking anniversaries is unnecessary and bourgeois. That there’s no point in making a fuss about anything human. And I’m equally aware that I am tender-hearted and can be a little over-sensitive sometimes. How on earth could I ever forget that when I’m reminded of it, mocked, so often?

To be clear, I don’t expect everyone to make a fuss or even remember, but it seems only basic thoughtfulness from those who are supposed to be close. If, however, you forget my birthday when I always remember yours; if you decide that you’re not even going to acknowledge the existence of Mothers’ Day; if you ostentatiously “like” the FB posts of everyone else in my family yet ignore mine and contact me only when you’re making seating arrangements for your Christmas table, I’m going to notice. That behaviour will diminish you in my eyes. And it has. It makes me wonder whether being part of such an insouciant family, numbed by distance both geographical and emotional, or being friends with such careless people has much true worth.

It’s important to live and let live, of course, and I try hard to respect that different people value different things and, though it often hurts that they don’t seem to care about the same things as me, I hide my bruises because I don’t want to lash out or be passive/aggressive about it. I’d find that deeply undignified. I generally try to give people the benefit of the doubt. There is more than one point of view, after all.

They say that in life there are vacuum cleaners and radiators, but who takes care of the radiators?

Today, however, I think it’s probably forgiveable if I indulge this one opportunity to lash out and moan for once. If this makes you uncomfortable, so be it. I’m as imperfect as anyone else. You’re probably not reading this anyway.

I know that I did not get on with my mum, that she was difficult to be with and that we just could not relate to each other emotionally, even before her dementia took hold. Goodness knows I’ve tried everything I can to learn from that and not be the same way with anyone special to my heart.

But today is the first anniversary of my mum’s death and the only one to take the trouble to get in touch and say that they were thinking about me is the person with whom I’m having lunch later in the week because it felt weird to do so today. That’s it. It was kind of her to text but it throws into relief everyone else’s silence.

ENDS