The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed…
A Confession from a Sixty-Year-Old Woman
Susan:
This year I turn sixty. Not a single member of my family called to wish me a happy birthday.
I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and a granddaughter, and my ex-husband is still around somewhere.
My daughters forty, my sons thirty-five. They both live in London, both finished quite prestigious universities there. Theyre clever and successful. My daughters married to a high-ranking civil servant, my sons married to the daughter of a well-known London businessman. Both have thriving careers, plenty of property, and besides their public sector work, each has their own business too. Everything is stable.
My ex-husband left when our son graduated. He said he was tired of the pace of life, though his routine was peacefulone job, weekends spent lounging or out with friends, holidays always a full month in Cornwall with his relatives. I, meanwhile, never took a holiday, juggling three jobs at onceengineer at a factory, cleaner in the admin offices, and every weekend I packed goods from 8am to 8pm at the local supermarket, plus cleaning out back and staff rooms.
Every penny I made went on the childrenLondons expensive, and study at premier universities meant decent clothes, good food, and entertainment. I learnt to make old clothes last, altering things here and there, patching up shoes. I stayed clean and tidy; that was enough. My only amusement was dreamingId see myself happy, youthful, laughing in my sleep.
When my husband left, he bought himself a new, fancy car straight away. Apparently, hed managed to save plenty. Back when we were together, everything except the rent was paid by me. He saw to the rent; that was the extent of his contribution. I was the one who educated the children
The flat we lived in, a classic, well-kept two-bedroom with high ceilings, came to me from my grandmother. I converted it into a three-bed. There was a storeroom, eight square metres with a windowI renovated it and fitted a bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves. My daughter had that space; my son and I shared the other room, though I was usually only there to sleep. My husband lived in the living room. When my daughter moved to London, I took the storeroom. My son remained in the shared room.
We separated quietlyno arguments, no fighting over property, no accusations. He wanted a life, as he called it. I was so worn out, I felt relief. I didnt have to cook three-course meals any more, no bed linen or shirts to wash or iron, no chores for him. I could finally use that time to rest.
By then, my health had gone downhillmy spine, joints, diabetes, thyroid issues, and complete nervous exhaustion. For the first time, I took proper leave from my main job and focused on getting better. I kept up my odd jobs, though, as money was always tight.
I hired a fantastic tradesman and his mate, and in two weeks they refurbished my bathroom beautifully. It felt like personal happiness, the first just for me!
All these years, I sent money to my successful children in lieu of birthday, Christmas and holiday presents, including the grandchildren. I couldnt stop working on weekends to make ends meet, never saving for myself. Holiday greetings rarely came my way, and gifts never.
What hurt the mostneither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter said outright: Mum, you wouldnt fit in with the crowd. Itll be all people from the Cabinet Office. I only found out my son’s wedding had happened from my daughter, after the fact.
No one begged for money for their weddings, though, so at least there was that.
Neither child visits; I invite them, but my daughter laughs that theres nothing for her in our backwater town (a county city with over a million people). My son always says, Sorry, Mum, Ive no time! You can fly direct to London seven times a day! It’s only a two hour flight…
How would I describe that chapter of my life? It was a life of suppressed emotion.
I, like Scarlett O’Hara, said to myself, Ill think about it tomorrow
I pushed down tears and pain, suppressed bewilderment and despair. I lived mechanically, programmed only for work.
Later, the factory was bought out by London-based investors, and reorganisation began. Those of us nearing retirement got laid off; I lost two jobs at once, but at least it meant I could retire early. My pension was £800 a monthjust try to live on that.
Luckily, a cleaning job became available in our five-floor blockso I took it, earning an extra £800. I kept on with my weekend packing and cleaning at the supermarket, good pay at £120 a shift, though all-day standing took a toll.
I started to gradually renovate the kitchen myself, ordered new units from a neighbourhe did excellent work at a fair price.
Again, I began saving bit by bithoping to freshen up other rooms, maybe change some furniture. There were plans… only I was never in any of them! What do I spend on myself? Just food, and not much. Medication eats up most of it. Rent climbs steadily each year. My ex says, Sell the flat! Its a good area, youd get a fair price. Buy yourself a one-bed.
But I cant bear to part with it. Its got my grandmothers memory. I dont remember my parents; Gran raised me, and this home means the world to me.
My ex and I have stayed on friendly terms, chat sometimes like old acquaintances. Hes doing well, though he never talks about his personal life. He pops by about once a month, brings suppliespotatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. The heavy stuff. Refuses any money. Tells me not to order groceries online: Theyll bring you rubbish, mouldy food. I dont argue.
Inside, something in me is frozena tensed-up knot. I keep going, working all the time, and Ive stopped dreaming or wanting anything for myself. I see my daughter and the grandkids only through her Instagram. My sons life flashes past in his wifes posts. Im glad theyre well, happy and healthy, taking trips and dining at fancy restaurants.
Perhaps I didnt give enough love, and now theres none returned. My daughter occasionally asks how I am; I always say Im fine. I never complain. My son sends voice notes on WhatsApp: Hi Mum, hope youre well.
Once, my son told me he didnt want to hear about our problems with his dadsaid he cant take negativity, so I stopped, only ever answering, Yes, son, Im fine.
I want to hug my grandchildren desperately, but suspect they dont even know Im alive, just a granny pensioner cleaner. I expect theres a family myth Im no longer on this earth…
I truly cant recall the last time I bought anything for myselfperhaps some underwear, socks, always the cheapest. I dont remember ever going to a salon for a manicure or pedicure. Once a month I go to the hairdresser next door for a trim, dye my hair myself at home. Its a small comfort that at sixty, I still wear the same clothing size as I did in my youthsize 14 or 16. No need for fresh clothes.
Im terrified one day I wont be able to get out of bed, as my spine pain grows worse by the day. I fear being trapped, unable to move.
Maybe I shouldnt have lived always so hard, always working, denying myself simple joys, always putting everything off till later. But where is later? Its gone. Inside is emptiness indifference in my heart and emptiness all around.
I dont blame anyone. Nor can I bring myself to blame me. I worked my whole life and keep working now, trying to set aside a little safety net, just in case. Not much, but something. Though truth be told, I know if I become bedridden, I won’t last, and I dont want to be a burden.
And the saddest thing? No one, ever, has given me flowers. Not once. How strange to think perhaps the first bunch I ever receive will be left at my grave proper laugh, that.
