Departures

Jacqueline Waters

There’s a certain spot at Heathrow airport of particular significance to me. It’s the space before the entrance to the security area in terminal three departures. On one side it’s bordered by shops where one can buy souvenirs, luggage items or last-minute toiletries and treats. On the other side are the roped off walkways attended by uniformed officials that lead into the security area. The space itself is unremarkable, except that it’s the place where I had my last conversation with my mother.

My mother and I lived on opposite sides of the globe for many years. I used to visit as often as I could, and on this occasion, I’d spent the whole of January with her. She lived just a mile outside Birmingham city centre, England, and I was returning from a trip to its famous Bull Ring Market, when I clearly heard,

‘We are looking forward to having your mother in heaven with us.’

I hadn’t long been a Christian, but I’d learned that God speaks to us in many ways: through the Bible, through worship, through signs, and sometimes through an inner voice.

The revelation that I could hear his voice had already led to some exciting discoveries and adventures, but this last unlooked-for piece of information was both re-assuring and worrying.

My mother was a woman of faith and I didn’t doubt that she would graduate to heaven on leaving earth. I knew she would be happy to be there— no more loneliness, no more missing my father, no more pain—but I did not know the timing of this event and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to my mother’s earthly departure. Was she being whisked away even as I crossed the plaza between the subways under the huge Fiveways roundabout? I knew that my mother suffered from angina and hurried home expecting the worst. My fears were confirmed: she had been taken into hospital in my absence. I re-booked my return flight to Australia so I could stay for another two weeks.

To my relief she was discharged just before I was due to leave. She was still unable to exert herself much, so my sister drove us to Heathrow, taking a wheelchair for my mother so she could come into the airport to say goodbye. That was how that space in departures became significant for me— ‘space’ is probably the wrong word to describe it as it was crowded with people farewelling loved ones. They pressed in on all sides as my sister tried to manoeuvre the wheelchair somewhere near the entrance to the security area.

It was such a public place for what might be a last ‘goodbye’.

‘Well, that’s it then,’ my mother said, matter-of-factly. She looked small and vulnerable in the wheelchair. I squeezed her hand.

‘Bye, Mum. Love you,’ I said simply, just as if I’d be seeing her the following week. The clock demanded I let go. I stepped away towards departures, passport, and boarding pass in hand, ready for my journey. I looked back several times and waved, but it was hard to see them in the crush of people that flowed in a never-ending stream around the small island that was the two of them, and in any case, my vision was blurred by tears. I turned away and joined the queue being processed through security screening.

‘Have your passports ready!’ ‘Place your bags on the belt!’ A barrage of impersonal instructions assailed me. I blinked back my tears and forced myself to concentrate on obeying their unfeeling words and on paying attention to my onward journey.

Last words are known to be special: they might be difficult, significant, or heartfelt, but they are always remembered. I did not know for sure that this was to be my last face to face conversation with my mother. It was. Her final departure came suddenly the following August. I flew back to say a last ‘goodbye’ at her funeral. We celebrated her life, remembered her love with gratitude, cried at our loss and committed her to heaven, where I knew they had a party going on!

I flew in through another terminal on that occasion and didn’t visit ‘the space’ until four years later when I was travelling with an American friend to her home country. Just as we were about to go into the security area, she decided she needed something from Boots’ chemist.

‘I’ll wait here,’ I said. She was gone for quite a few minutes. I waited patiently, people-watching and running through my own mental checklist of things I needed for the trip. Then I realised I was standing on the very spot where I had last spoken with my mother. The sudden memory overwhelmed me with its intensity as the pain of that last moment with her flooded back, fresh and undiminished.

‘I want to heal your grief,’ I heard my Father say. I wasn’t aware that I ‘d pushed it into a secret room in my soul and locked the door. It became apparent that being left waiting in that space was a divine set-up to make me aware of my need, but with my busy travel schedule, my grief would have to stay locked away until I was back in Australia.

Some say that time heals, but I don’t believe that. Time had not healed my grief. Time just covers it over, like the scab on a wound; scrape off the scab, and the wound still bleeds. We may pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and carry on, but the wound remains. We cover our pain over with busyness, leaving grief to fester. There is an allotted time to grieve. It is a valley we must walk through to come out into the sunshine at the other end. It was time for me to walk through mine. Time was not going to heal me, but it was what I needed to process my emotions. I was going to need time to release unshed tears and receive God’s comfort and peace.

Back in Australia I went to my personal file where I kept memorabilia. I’d put the funeral service sheet in there. Tucked inside it was the birthday card I’d found on my return from the funeral. My mother died four days before my birthday and had posted my card the previous week. I’d kept it, knowing it would be my last. I reread her loving message and realised that our brief conversation at the airport had not been her last words to me. Her last words were in fact, ‘Lots of love from Mum.’

Sometime later I was back in Heathrow. I paused to extract my boarding pass and passport from my bag and realised that I was there again, in that special space by the security area, but this time I felt no grief, no regrets. I sent a prayer of thanks heavenwards and headed peacefully into departures.