Mother’s Day is just around the corner and I’ll be avoiding the expensive Sunday lunch tables, inflated prices for flowers and pink cards. Tony and I will probably take my step mum out for a drive and fish and chips (her favourite) and it will be a huge surprise for her as her memory is very bad now. But the good thing is that every visit, phone call or delivery brings her immense joy as she isn’t expecting it (even though we’ll have planned it and phoned to remind her countless times). My gorgeous sister will hopefully be taken somewhere lovely by her two grown-up sons and I’ll be thinking about my mum Margaret as I do every day.My mum Margaret decided one year that she wanted 99 red balloons on Mother’s Day as it was her favourite pop song. If you can remember back to 1984 it was top of the UK charts for Nena. I was sitting in her living room, in fits of laughter when she told me about the balloons, imagining her being raised up into the cloud whilst hanging on to a huge bunch of them. And while I was laughing she joined in and soon it was a loud mess of crinkled faces, tears, aching diaphragms and whimpers of “Stop, no more, no seriously STOP!” Do you know what? I reckon she’d have loved it and would have found a way of getting down unscathed. She was a genius at creating impossible situations and working her way out of them.
We were lucky to live across from a park in Hendon in a tumbledown house which she’d inherited from an old man called Stanley. I had a flat on the top floor and Mum lived on the ground floor. The old chap was someone Mum had befriended while she was working down the road. An old friend had asked her if she could help him out a day a week and it all went from there. She moved in to be his full-time carer and nursed him through his illnesses (he was 92 when Mum moved in) and despite many offers of marriage, Mum refused him politely and carried on. He invited me to live in the house too as I was about to start my first job at the BBC and he thought it would be nice for me to have a bit of independence and start paying bills from the get-go. When he passed, Mum found out that he hadn’t actually left her a “bit of cash” as he’d mentioned, but the whole house which, at the time was costing £290 a month in rates alone. It was in this old place that I heard a spooky noise coming from the ground floor. Upon investigation I saw Mum lying on the sofa with a cassette player under a cushion, playing Nena’s “99 Red Ballons”. The volume was turned up and i asked her why she wasn’t just playing it like normal people do. Her reply was that under the cushion it sounded like it was in a room somewhere else, muffled by people having a party. And it made her feel part of something fun going on somewhere else. I remember feeling sad in that moment as it felt like a lonely thing to say, although she never said she was. This “feeling part of something going on somewhere else” was a normal thing for her. She’d organise parties for me and my brother, get everyone there and then disappear, leaving us to organise our own party from then on. I took these skills into adult life as I was used to arranging parties, functions, outside broadcasts etc. at breakneck speed as it was in my DNA.
I’ve often wondered what drew her to Nena’s song – was it something in the lyric that intrigued her?
“You and I in a little toy shop, buy a bag of balloons with the money we’ve got, set them free at the break of dawn, ’til one by one they were gone.”
Now I’ve just Googled the words I can see it. She had very little money, we did often buy balloons to blow up and bounce around and then the letting free which was something my Mum was always doing. Getting herself out of situations, running away, disappearing. She always said she only loved the song as there were red things in it (and she was the stereotypical redhead), but I wonder if the deeper words resonated with her without her really understanding why.
It’s a year now since I started the MUMBELIEVABLE podcast in Mum’s honour and I’m working on series 2 with a few more famous faces letting us glimpse into their lives through the prism of how their mums have influenced them. I was hoping to get a few in the bag in time for Mother’s Day this year, but there are a couple of people who can only do recordings in April and May, so series 2 will float into the world in the Summer. If you can’t find an individual unique present for your mum, why not get her a red balloon and see her reaction to the idea that a bunch of 99 of them could make her float up into the sky? Maybe there will be a few more houses with daughters laughing mumcontrollably with their children.
Beloved step mum rang this morning in a panic as she’d forgotten to go to her dance class. When I say dance class, I mean stretch a bit, breathe, sit down, gossip about absent members and stretch another bit class. I’ve been a couple of times and in the beginning it was all disco pump, aerobics and dance routines to give Pineapple a run for their money. Now, it’s about curling and uncurling toes, alternate shoulder lifting and granny dancing for grannies with no puff.
It’s sad to see the decline in her memory and the slow dwindling of her energy. And despite being nearly 80, she feels as if she can still conquer the world. I can put a funny spin on it, as is my way as you know, but it upsets my poor sister more as she’s on the receiving end of the frequent calls and is the daily support. Let’s refer to step mum as “D” as she may one day get her head round the internet and read this, although I suspect that’s as likely as Gemma Collins winning Mastermind. No, that’s unfair, Gemma could win if pitted against Joey Essex in the Celebrity version. I digress. Here’s a snippet of the sort of conversations we’re currently having. Picture the scene … D ON PHONE – I’ve fallen over and hit my head. I’m a bit dizzy and can’t focus. ME – I’ll be right over. D – why are you coming over? ME – because you’ve hit your … look, never mind. I’ll be round in 10 minutes to take you to the hospital. CLICK. KNOCK KNOCK – Hello darling. how lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were coming. ME – Good lord, look at your head ( huge bulbous bump, deep purple shiner, swollen eye). OFF TO HOSPITAL. After various inappropriate conversations with women in veils, naughty kids and drunk patients, we’re whisked into triage. NURSE – Hello D, so what’s happened to you today? D – haven’t you got pretty eyes! NURSE – thank you. Do you know why you’re here today? D (ANGRY NOW) – Of COURSE I know why I’m here. I’m not an idiot. NURSE – OK, can you tell me why you’re here today? D – I don’t know. Was I going shopping?
My reason for sharing this difficult story? Memory loss is horrible for the one losing memory, but it’s a also very difficult for loved ones, family and friends to cope with. I’ve learned a few tips on how to make the whole sad process easier to navigate and have been wondering whether those tips and more recently acquired professional insight could help people going through the same things. As with my mum Margaret (the inspiration for this blog), I love D very much and I spoke to her recently about sharing these stories. She’s totally up for it as she too feels that her experiences, if shared, could help support others. A cousin is outraged at the whole idea and that is a legitimate reaction, because the whole thing is sad, but my way of coping is to write the hell out of it in order to get things clear in my own mind rather than melt down and get depressed, because that doesn’t help in my books. My sister and I support each other by sharing the stories and coming up with different strategies as D’s state changes, so I hope I’m my sister’s main support, even though I sometimes have to make light of it all for my own sanity.
My precious mum (Margaret, real mum) didn’t lose her memory, even up to the day she died six years ago. She just lived in a fantasy world and couldn’t focus. She used to call D “Fancy pants” because of her posh clothes, but it was never malicious. In fact, Mum did everything she could to praise D when she took over the family. Every Sunday we’d get a knock on the door and a stranger would ask in a puzzled and slightly scared voice if we were ready as Mum was lurking around the corner. On the bus Mum would then tell us how pretty D was and wasn’t it better to have nicely cooked food? And when we came back from a day out that Mum had obviously been planning all week, we tried to act as if the day was just a hum drum event so as not to cause any ripples. I always felt that if I enthused too much about Mum’s trips to go fishing (with tights stretched around a bent coat hanger) or visiting a kipper factory (with very curious workers wondering why their fish dunking efforts were being scrutinised by a little blonde girl dressed like a bride), it might upset her. Little did I realise at the time, that D was going through her own inner turmoil, but did a wonderful job of covering them up, whereas Mum’s were loud, proud and out there.
I feel as if I’m entering a whole new mum phase now. D is now suffering the real effects of not having Dad around. He was her memory bank and we didn’t really see it when he was alive. I was always inwardly amused when D thought she was including him in her non-stop chatter with the occasional, “Didn’t we, Charles?” or “That’s right isn’t it?” to which Dad would find a hundred different upbeat ways of saying “Mmmm”. Now that her memory’s failing and she’s been banned from driving, the roles are reversing and once again I’m the adult in the mother/child relationship. She doesn’t understand the ban and thinks I’ve stolen her car, which in a way I have as the doctor whispered “take her keys and move the car to another location” after delivering the blow that D was now officially banned and had to give up her driving licence as a mini stroke could have been the cause of her fall. The loss of independence must feel so unjust, but we all agree ( even her in her more lucid moments), that driving with an underlying health problem is dangerous and with memory loss it’s easy to lose your way geographically too.
I’m now working with a brilliant professor of neuroscience on a new podcast to talk about memory loss and how to cope with the effects it has on loved ones, and also on the carers who need their own support (and occasional spa break). I can’t wait to tell you all about it when it goes LIVE, because it’s going to be such a help, as both myself and the wonderful host have had issues with motherly memory loss. And you won’t be surprised to know that I throw in the odd mumbelievable anecdote to lighten the mood and shed light on one of Mum’s brilliant antics.
My mum would often laugh at herself, tap her head and say “My brain is playing up, Sonia darling. I want it to do things that are normal, but it just won’t.” It was heartbreaking and hilarious in equal measure. Step mum eventually laughs at herself after a lot of distraction, bringing in jokes and reminding her that life is a gift that Dad would have loved to be enjoying with her too. She soon comes round and we always remind each other how much we love each other, but boy is it a struggle at times.
One thing that came out of a recent podcast recording is that we should all start thinking about how we’d like our lives to be organised if we do start going a bit ga-ga. Not as in strange clothes made out of steak or telephone hats, but if we grant early power of attorney in anticipation and tell our loved ones that we’d be happier being looked after in a care home so that they can enjoy their own lives. I’m not kidding … if my beloved husband went before I did, I’d want to set myself up in sheltered housing with a bit of independence while I’m still fit and active. That way I’d have people around and support if I needed it, unlike D who believes that she lives a totally solitary life because everyone has drifted away, despite daily phone calls, visits and people caring for her.
Next week I’m picking D up and taking her to dance class which I’ll be forced to participate in. Oh well, I guess my thumbs could be with a bit of waggling and my knees could do a bend or two. Louis Spence, look out!
“Once met, never forgotten”, is one of the phrases used by a special guest on my new MUMBELIEVABLE podcast about our challenging, courageous, confusing and cherished mums. Margaret was a one-off. For anyone who met her, she wasn’t one of those women who merged into a beige memory – oh no, she was a bright red, luminous green kind of woman. A woman not afraid of speaking her mind, flirting with any man within winking distance, demanding money off strangers or brazenly stealing bunches of flowers from flower stalls or front gardens. The only thing that scared her was that I could become well known and get my house burgled. She was convinced that if anyone knew my name they could look me up and break in. I think secretly she knew that she was capable of doing it, so was suspicious of the world of Margarets out there.
Today being Mother’s Day is a mixture of celebration and sadness as Mum is no longer with us, but her memory and life is the basis for the new podcast which has already had dozens of famous faces agreeing to come onto talk about their own mums. We are officially launching today and put up a couple of episodes online for people to get a flavour of what’s to come and the reaction has been overwhelming. With 24 hours we had 900 downloads, so that’s a good sign in podland, so I’m told. That’s the happy bit. The sad bit is that Mum isn’t here to listen to the stories. She would laugh her head off at the memories I have of her antics, because she always told me that she had no real recollection of doing or saying the things that caused me so much embarrassment in my childhood. I suppose it was because she was doing them all the time, not just to me, but to my long-suffering dad, mixed up brother and anyone around her. I think what’s making the podcast so appealing is that it’s a celebration of our mums, mixed in with more poignant, deeper stories about how their lives were so different to ours. The first two episodes on the podcast feature Steve Nallon and Kerry Howard. Steve was the definitive Maggie Thatcher on the original Spitting Image and we learned from him that around the time he lost his mum when he was 9 years old, he realised he had a skill for impressions. His story about how unbelievably open-minded his mum and grand parents were is a lesson to us all. Kerry’s mum sounds incredible and a TV star in her own right as she has been accompanying her son, Russell Howard (Kerry’s brother) on screen around the world and getting her teeth into adventures she never would have dreamed of having. Another insightful and moving story that reinforces the message that life’s there for living, if we choose to live it.
This blog will soon become part of the MUMBELIEVABLE family as it’s too confusing for my little brain to have so many concurrent blogs and pods going. The podcast is inspired by the stories I’ve been telling about Margaret here and I want the podcast to become an archive of generational stories that help tell us who we all are, through the lens of the mothers who brought us into this world. I’m thankful that my cancer journey completely missed Mum. She would have been beside herself. because in one of her lucid moments when I was about to go into hospital for a gall bladder removal, she said. “Now, don’t you die on me, Sonia darling. That’s not a gift a mother wants from her daughter.” Looking back, I went into hospital on the Monday after Mother’s Day which must have been behind her thinking over 30 years ago.
I’m on a mission now to include stories of our mums, good, bad or ugly (stories, not the mums) to help support people who may have had tricky relationships, amuse those who love a giggle and to help us all dig a bit deeper into our own lives. One guest said that we only really think of parents from the moment we were born. Their history isn’t relevant to us until we’re much more enquiring as adults. I sometimes regret not sitting down with my dad to ask him more about his upbringing from a working class family who were supportive, but confused by his career choice to be a classical violinist. I did ask my mum about her early life, but to be honest, the stories were so fantastic and mostly made up, I’ll never really know.
In my bones I feel that I may get to know more about her through the podcast as I’m hoping that friends and family will tell me stories of their own encounters with her. And I can build up an album of pictures and stories that make more sense than the tale she told me of living on a yacht on the French Riviera, dropping in for lunch with Prince Rainier and learning how to ride a horse on the golden beaches. Do you know what? I’m going to believe that’s true. It’s the sort of thing my mumfomgettable mum could have done. I’m also really looking forward to people sharing their own mum stories, so if you feel inclined please drop me a line and we can chat.
To quote the great Nate King Cole, one of Mum’s favourite singers … “Like a song of love that clings to me How the thought of you does things to me, Never before has someone been more…”
“Freddie who?” asked the young consultant when I commented on the brilliance of Mercury’s voice. He’d never heard of Queen which made my joke about Fat Bottom Girls fall flat on its … well, bottom! My mum loved the radio and recorded almost every show I produced whilst at Radio 2. She only ever recorded random snippets and always deleted my credit at the end in case they somehow tracked me down at home and burgled my house. She adored Brian Hayes when he was on LBC, Gloria Hunniford on Radio 2 and The Archers on Radio 4 – apart from Linda Snell who she called a “snoot”.
”Don’t ever get a job as a presenter will you, Sonia darling?” Why, Mum? “Because people will know who you are and will bother you for autographs.” Considering her mantelpiece was full of signed photos from radio presenters, I found her logic flawed somewhat.
I wonder what she’d have made of my new project? A major content production company has invited me to make a podcast based on this blog – all about our mums from maddening and meddlesome to miraculous and marvellous. We recorded the pilot yesterday which went really well with a terrific guest who I’m keeping secret for now. Years of producing shows and training people in public speaking has paid off and it felt fantastic to be on the other side of the microphone again.
I can’t tell you the name of the podcast yet, but as soon as we’re up and running with a few more episodes you’ll know ALL about it. Oh yes ! I was going to call it Radio Ma-Ma but we’ve got a much better title. Thunderbolt and lightening … very very exciting … and yes, I know, I know … frightening ! But only a little bit.
Mum passed five years ago and it seems like the day before yesterday. I stayed and talked to her for hours after she died and even though I know she’s gone, I always feel her mischievous presence everywhere.
I’m sitting in the chemo clinic waiting for treatment and Maura has just taken my lunch order. When mum worked as a a cleaner and domestic in Edgware General she used to bring me home whole meals on china plates, covered in clingfilm. Sometimes the food was a bit mushed together. That’s because she traveled everywhere on her bike, swearing at careless drivers and flirting with police or traffic wardens when she was told off for taking liberties.
She was terrified of being a hospital patient, but loved working in them, Sometimes, if I didn’t find a wrapped meal in the fridge there might be a handful of chocolates and even a get well card once. She’d tell me tales of getting patients out of bed and taking them for walks, despite protestations from nursing staff. And a midwife once confided in me that Mum had a magical effect on scared new mothers. She had suffered severe post natal depression, so she would have seen someone suffering and felt it was her mission to cheer them up, probably by bringing them chocolates that she’d nicked from another patient.
I remember going into her room at the care home and seeing her windowsill covered in model boats. She was never that keen on boating and I asked her about them. “I know you love the water and and Frank didn’t need so many, so I’ve borrowed them.” Did he mind? I asked. “He was furious, but it’s all part of the fun of living here.” she laughed. A little later in the day she produced a ‘going home bag’ containing thawed garlic bread, three sandwiches wrapped in foil, a can of Pepsi and three incontinence pads.
She’s with me today in spirit and there are chocolates on reception … I sense mischief.
Sonia’s Mum is a transformational love story between a mentally complex mother and the daughter who adored her. I want to share these deeply personal and funny stories so that we can raise awareness for how challenging it is for many people who’ve had mentally ill parents and have struggled to come to terms with their own issues.
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