Becoming a mother without my own

Photographer Oonagh Bush was 21-years-old when her beloved mother passed away. In this deeply moving and personal account, Oonagh describes the 'heart-achingly bittersweet' process of becoming a mother herself, without her own.

Photos and words: Oonagh Bush

From the moment my mother died, even as she took her last rattling breath, I knew that, one day, I would be a mother without her.

Watching the person you love the most die right in front of you changes you. It changes everything. After my mother died, I felt this instant longing to be a mother myself. My heart ached – it was as if it was a survival need for the love to transfer. At twenty one years old, I knew I wasn’t ready yet and, rationally, I didn’t actually know if I even wanted children. But, deep inside, I knew that someday a child was out there waiting for me. It’s like I knew that having a child of my own would heal me, but I also knew it would be the hardest thing to do without her. I felt that so deeply. I just wasn’t ready, I had stuff to do.

Navigating a life without my mother in it has been a whirlwind of experiences: grief, depression, hopelessness, sorrow, beauty, healing, adventures, searching, yearning – it’s been a concoction of it all. I have looked for her in so many different places and faces, old and new, whilst scattering her ashes amongst my travels. The contradictory truth is that I never found her, but, at the same time, I also found her in everything. She was there with me the whole time, especially during my transition into motherhood.

Oonagh’s mother, Vivienne

It is worth mentioning that my initiation to becoming a parent was a little bit different to most, and started before I was even pregnant. You see, I did not give birth to my first two children. When I met my partner, he already had two small children. Their biological mother had died when they were very young. This love took me completely off guard, it was totally unexpected: they had lost their mother too. My heart ached for them, but I was also falling in love with their father. With enormous consideration, we united as a family. This was it, there was no going back.

When I became pregnant, we decided to wait until the three month mark to tell the children because I didn’t want them to suffer any more loss. Ever since I met them, they had always called me by my name, but a few weeks into my pregnancy (unknown to them) they asked if they could call me ‘Mummy’. Becoming their mother has not been easy: we have had to learn to love each other and we have had to face many obstacles to be the family we are today. Survivor’s guilt ebbs and flows throughout my life with them. I had no intention of becoming their mother when I first met them, I definitely had no intention of ‘saving them’, nor was that what was asked of me. They were fine, all three of them. I realise now, in many ways, that they have saved me.

When I found out I was pregnant, I cried what felt like for days, weeks, it brought everything back into light. This felt so big and I was terrified. I wanted to call my mother so desperately. ‘I’m pregnant now what do I do?’ is what I typed in Google instead. I wanted my own Mummy, but she wasn’t there, instead just ridiculous and very matter-of-fact answers on my browser.

After every midwife appointment, scan, flutter, kick and symptom, I missed my Mum more than ever. My metamorphosing body blew my mind and each kick made me want to cry with love yet also scream with fear. My mother felt so unbelievably far away, her voice, her words of reassurance, advice, support, her touch. However, I also felt so close to her. The continual contradiction. It was like this baby inside of me was a piece of her too.

As the birth was approaching, I started to feel more concerned. I started worrying about the baby, the bigger my belly grew, the more real this all had become. I dug deep inside of my feelings again and realised that I was terrified of losing someone else.

The birth was long, therefore, it was incredibly challenging. It was spiritually and physically more demanding than I could have ever imagined. It was one of the hardest thing I have ever done but by far the most amazing. The full story of the birth is a whole different one and I will save that for another time but, what I will say, is that despite not having the birth I had imagined or had dreamed of, I felt my Mum all around me. I know that she was there. Life, birth and death are all intertwined, the veil felt so thin. My birth experience reminded me of when I watched my mother die and moments of it transported me right back. Somehow, her last breath and my son's first, were completely connected.

I did so much mental and physical preparation for the birth that I hadn’t quite anticipated how the postpartum period would be. How much I would bleed, how much I would hurt, how much I would grieve. My milk spread through my breasts like wildfire. Mastitis. Tears flooded through me. Troubles with feeding, poor latch, too much milk, glug glug, possible tongue-tie, emergency appointments, cabbage leaves, cold compresses, warm compresses and remnants of my stitches. I had been completely stripped bare and I had never felt so physically vulnerable. Whilst the birth reminded me in many ways of my mother’s death, I didn’t feel like I had run five marathons after my Mum died. This was different and I missed my mother more than ever. My heart ached and I started to imagine her everywhere, all of the time; it became a bit of a sick game to play.

I imagined her in the spare room, getting up early to look after the baby whilst I got to catch up on some sleep. Making a cup of Earl Grey tea in the kitchen with my partner, chatting, laughing, doing the washing up, putting a clothes-wash on, taking the other two kids to school. I could hear her faintly, but in reality, she wasn’t there.

Now, my baby is one year old and I have realised that being a mother without my own mother has been, and will be forever, heart-achingly bittersweet. I miss her more than ever, yet the sad and undeniable truth is that her death has led me here to where I am today. I am on this path and mothering these three beautiful children because of the life experiences and grief I have been through myself. Her death has made me resilient, gracious and courageous. She modeled what being a strong, beautiful, wild, hilarious woman was. She was flawed, like us all, however she made me feel extremely loved and she was truly a wonderful mother. When she was dying, I kept saying to her, ‘I will make you proud, Mum’ whilst kissing her frail, dry, almost see-through hand. That, I know deep in my bones, I have done, and will try and continue to do so.

Through writing this piece, I’ve seen how, in fact, I became a mother a long time ago. It wasn’t a year ago, when I gave birth to my son. It wasn’t when my other two children asked if they could call me ‘Mummy’. It was when my mother was sick, when she was dying, when the roles reversed and I started to mother her back.

Another thing I have come to understand is that the trade-off to losing my mother so young, for her not being here, is that I get to live in an imaginary world of ‘what ifs’. I don’t know for a fact that she would be here, beside me, in the spare room or even what our relationship would be like. It is all hypothetical and dreamlike. It’s painful and it's beautiful. I would like to think we would still be just as close, just as connected, but the truth is I will never know. Instead, she gets to live on in my heart, and dance amongst my memories. Through me and my children, all three of them, she continues to live on – forever.