Watching My Mum Live 

It has now been almost two weeks since I saw mum. I have never felt closer, I feel her presence and her influence around me all the time. I hum the music and the hymns that she likes, I watch and listen to the programmes that she enjoys, I cook the food that she cooks. I talk endlessly about her to friends, family and the children. I can’t bear to be distracted so I can’t think about her, hear her cheerful voice, see her beautiful smile, imagine her laugh. Yet she is further than she’s every been in all my 38 years and I will never ever see her again other than in my dreams. 

 

On February 11th mum was admitted to hospital with breathing difficulties. She had just completed an intense course of radiotherapy after being diagnosed with thyroid cancer in October. By the next day we knew that her particularly aggressive cancer had spread. She asked the consultant brightly if they would operate but I already knew what his response would be. I’d been told that if it came back nothing further could be done. The next day when we were told that there were tumours in her chest and lungs we knew how little time we had left.  

 

Mum stayed in the hospital until we discharged her the following Saturday. Those few days were one of the most special, beautiful times I‘ve had in my life. My mum said she would be watching the clock from the time she woke up waiting for me to arrive. I would spend up to 14 hours a day there. With no telephone or television to distract we spent the time reading the newspaper It broke my heart more than anything just reading her the news when she could barely look more than a few weeks ahead yet that didn’t lessen her appetite for news and information. Most of the time we just talked, occasionally about her dying but mostly about other more cheerful things including the many holidays we had shared together that we both remembered so well. I filed her nails, massaged her hands, helped her shower, gave her a foot spa. It was easy to be cheerful when I was with her. It always was. Only when I left her to get a sandwich did the enormity of what I was facing only just start to hit me but I tried painstakingly hard not to let her see it. The day she received the devastating news she never looked more beautiful. She sparkled. It was as if some cloud had been lifted. She told me that she felt better now she knew; it was the not knowing that was so awful. How could you fail not to feel lifted by that spirit. The only time mum cried in the hospital was when she was telling me the story of Shrek, which she had watched on television the afternoon before she was admitted; the romance between the donkey and the dragon moved her to tears! Typical of my mother! 

 

By the time Saturday came she decided she wanted to go home even though they kept her bed open until the Monday. One of my brothers, Ben met us and we went to Cockington Village. We had been talking about going there for weeks as I had such fond memories of it as a child and was curious to go back there. Of course it was a miserable wet day so we couldn’t go for a walk. I managed to park my car in the middle of a junction (somehow!), dash in and get a take-away cream tea and return to the car laughing. For a few moments it could have been any day in our lives. After the euphoria of coming home, however, I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of administering all my mum’s medicine and the fear of getting it wrong or not being able to cope, particularly after oversleeping on my first morning in charge.  

 

The week ahead we had many visitors. Unlike many terminally ill people my mum was eager to see as many of her friends as possible. On Wednesday I took mum to Exeter to have her hair done by her hairdresser of 15 years, Sam. Again it could have been any one of many trips into Exeter. Running late, Mum telling me off for driving wildly. The weather was sunny showing off the beautiful Teign Valley at its best. Sitting in the hairdressers while mum was having her haircut, usual jokes with Sam about adding some colour or shaving the letters PAM at the back! Sam didn’t want to charge but I told her that seemed too final even though I didn’t think we’d be back. She told my mum she’d see her again next time. 

 

Bringing us back to earth, I had also visited Rowcroft Hospice during the week. A beautiful place overlooking the sea. Worthy of my mother! During the week her right shoulder which had given her so much pain in the hospital had become increasingly numb. It meant the pain had gone but more worryingly had lead to paralysis in her arm. The Rowcroft community nurse made an appointment to see one of the hospice doctors on the Thursday. He was so lovely, gentle and caring; a taste of things to come. Mum asked whether the discomfort in her shoulder could have anything to do with how she slept. It broke my heart how she tried so hard to find simple explanations for obviously the most sinister of symptoms.  

 

Ray and the children arrived on Friday. It was so nice to see them. I had missed them so much. I will never forget little John’s legs moving so fast as he ran to give me a hug. The next day my mum came for a walk with us in the Pavilion gardens. All the spring and early summer flowers were clamouring to see her that February. Even the daisies were out. The children picked them and gave them to her. I will always remember my frail mum reading the inscription on the war memorial. Always interested. 

 

On the Sunday we all drove to London. The purpose of the trip was to seek a second opinion from the Royal Marsden. Sunday evening we went to Carluccios. It was like any other family meal out. It was lively and jolly and the children were very good. Later we sat and watched Bridget Jones Diary together. Just spending normal time together. The most natural thing in the world. Mum ventured into the pool the next morning. She had wanted to go swimming for a few weeks but was unable to once her skin broke during the radiotherapy. It was so typical of my mum’s determination and spirit. Most people would have bottled out but not Mum. It was an effort for her; she was already weak and had lost all mobility in her right arm. I almost ducked her in the process. She couldn’t swim but just floated. She did it, however, and that’s what makes me so proud of her. I would have expected nothing less. 

 

I felt passive during the Royal Marsden appointment. I just remembered my mum apologising, as she always did, for being such a bother and telling Dr Nutting that she wanted to live. He told her that without any further treatment she would have weeks to months. I thought weeks. With chemotherapy she could have a further 6 months but the odds were against her. I couldn’t bear to see her go through any more suffering. Since being admitted to hospital and having her pain managed it was like having my mum back again for the first time since the operation. So full of life and sparkle. I didn’t want to lose that again for however little time we had left. We went for a walk around the Wharf when we got back and then had a cream tea in the hotel. We went to Shepherd’s Market in the evening to a French Restaurant where I’d been before. Mum ate everything. We drove back to Devon the next day stopping off at the Services en route. She had her photo taken in a photo booth for her blue badge (sadly too late). 

 

Her trip to London gave her confidence. The following day we, Mum, Ben and I went for a lunch at the Pavilion in Torquay. I will always remember it. It seemed so long since my mum had been out for lunch. It was so nice doing something normal. She had soup. We then wondered amongst the shops downstairs and then went for a short walk on the beach. She loved the beach. Looking at the stones. Feeling the sand on her shoes. Hearing the waves. We talked about walking along the other side of the road in the gardens. All the trees were in blossom, including an early flowering Magnolia shrouding the way. We decided that we’d save that for another day… 

 

On the Thursday we both went to Rowcroft Hospice for our alternative treatments. Julie, one of the complementary therapists, commented on how Mum jumped out of the car and told her that there was no hurry! The next afternoon it was Ben’s turn to take Mum to the day centre at the Hospice and then afterwards for tea at one of her favourite places, the Palace Hotel. She managed to eat two scones with jam and clotted cream. Quite a feat at the best of times! 

 

I had booked tickets for Mum, Ben and me to go to the ballet at Plymouth during the week. Possibly ambitious but this is my mum we’re talking about! It was a beautiful day on the Saturday. We took the back roads from Torquay through rolling countryside and newborn lambs. I remember actually feeling happy as I sent some text messages in the back of the car savouring and cherishing the present. Always short of time, we had a slightly hurried pub lunch in the quay. My mum’s favourite, Scampi! We were incredibly well looked after at the Theatre Royal. It was so lovely to have the opportunity of going to the ballet together one last time, another gift from my mother. The ballet was “Cyrano” a new production by David Bintley performed by the Birmingham Royal Ballet. It was only at the very end, the first time since Mum had received her final prognosis that I cried in front of her. Ballet was something we had both shared almost as a spiritual experience and I felt so sad that I would never be able to go with her again. 

 

From Plymouth we went back to Trusham. The first time Mum had been home in several weeks. The children were also there to meet us but I could definitely feel a shift in my priorities. Whereas before I was desperate to see them again, this time I was much more focused on my mum. In my subconscious I’m sure I knew that we had so little time left. We had 2 lovely family meals around the old cane glass table, the centre of many children’s birthday parties and Christmases. Mum had said that she wanted to go to her church on Sunday. It was a very unmemorable service but at the sign of peace everyone in the church came over to my mum. She valiantly walked to the crypt, knelt down and took Holy Communion. Her dear friend, Ruth then played “Shalom” and spontaneously started singing to my mum. It was most poignant but very fitting. It left my mum and I in tears. In the evening we had visits from Paul, the Vicar. We instinctively felt that this was my mum’s last visit to the village, it felt like goodbye. Paul said some prayers for Mum and us and we all held hands. I told him of my mum’s strength and bravery and how so proud of her we were. 

 

It was hard being at home. A combination of my parents’ house, the presence of the children and being surrounded by so much of Mum. Unworn shoes, unopened toiletries so recently bought. Hope; no, more like expectation of so much more life. Indicators of a life cut short. 

 

We returned to Torquay the next day, Ray helping Mum walk up the flight of stairs to Daniel’s flat. We watched some ballet, Romeo and Juliet before they returned to London. I was ready for the children to go. The love and care I was giving my mum was all consuming. I had very little left for them. As they went Mum said to each of them in turn “look after mummy” as if it was the last time. It was terribly distressing and I broke down in the car park while I was putting them in the car. Mum was very tired and I felt that some spark had already left her; this is my mum we’re talking about, however, so there was plenty of spark still there.  

 

I think she started to die that Tuesday. I can’t remember what was different. We’d had a bad night, she was more tired, weaker, her breathing was worse. It was enough for me to tell my dad that I wasn’t sure she’d make it to Mothers Day, it was enough for me to cry when I spoke to the Day Service lady at the hospice and enough for me to phone Tracey, the Rowcroft community nurse. She came to see us and was slightly reassuring saying that she thought she had a chest infection, that it was reversible and asked the doctor to come and see her. He gave her antibiotics but somehow I never felt convinced. Every night since coming out of hospital she would say “that was a good day” or “Thank you for today”. Tuesday night was the first time she didn’t say it. 

 

My mum said that breakfast was her favourite meal during that time. I’m not surprised! Orange juice to start followed by figs in syrup, followed by porridge in full fat milk, Demerara sugar, clotted cream and fresh chopped apricots on the top, followed by tea with toast and marmalade. I think it was her reward for swallowing all those pills every morning. I would sometimes eat mine with her or just drink tea and we’d listen to Radio 4 until Woman’s Hour when she’d normally have a rest. On this morning, I went to get her prescription and took a detour for the Times. It was a beautiful spring morning and it was nice to get some exercise. When I stuck my head round the door on my return she seemed in some distress. I propped her up with some difficulty to give her oxygen (which had fortunately arrived the day before). She was considerably weaker. I felt quite panicked and finally phoned for a doctor. When he came he didn’t have anything else to add. I’m sure he knew. Mum slept all that afternoon while I ironed her clothes. We still managed to watch half of In the name of the Father in the evening and she perked up quite a bit when Newsnight (one of her favourite programmes) came on, even laughing! It was the first night that she felt she didn’t have enough strength for a bath and that we decided I needed more help. 

 

The following day Mum got up in the morning at the Doctor’s recommendation. She was so sleepy to the extent that she couldn’t swallow her breakfast. Tracey, the Rowcroft community nurse called and arrived 10 minutes later. Within minutes of thinking we could cope at home it was very obvious that mum needed to be moved to the hospice and that it needed to be that day. Mum had always made it clear that she wanted to die in the hospice. I was trying so hard to involve Mum in the decision process, I so wanted her to take the lead and to tell me what to do as she always did in life but she couldn’t. As usual she was thinking about me and kept saying how she was worried about me. Despite all this, the first Mum knew about the hospice was when the ambulance pulled up outside. She had no recollection of the discussion with Tracey.  

 

It was very clear after arriving at Rowcroft that it was the right decision. The staff, like the place, were beautiful and serene and they made caring for me as much of a priority as for my mum. I was exhausted in every sense of the word. It had been the hardest, most testing few days of my life and to have had to make the decision to admit my mum was such a responsibility. The doctor soon came and told me what I already sensed, that the infection was only mild, that antibiotics would not make any difference, that her state was irreversible and that she had, as he put it, a few short weeks. Naturally, I felt in some way responsible especially as her downfall had been so rapid but, as I expected, he was very sweet and reassured me to the contrary. He told me that my mum was intelligent and strong so at least I could relay that to Mum when she asked me what he’d said! Julie, the therapist appeared and seemed really shocked how quickly my mum had gone downhill in a week and after treating my mum took me off for a back massage. It released more than just my back tension! Mum perked up later to the extent that when Ben arrived I expected him to think I’d brought him there under false pretences; she was eager to have a television and we even talked about her going out of the hospice for a few hours the next day. At least that night she was able to have a bath, elevated into a fantastic Jacuzzi bath. I went back to my brother’s flat briefly and got my things and moved into a very nice twin room in the Croft which adjoins the hospice. My mum was increasingly dependent on me and I think it was very reassuring to her that I was nearby. 

She had a good night’s sleep and so did I and I was able to be with her when she awoke the next morning. I read to her in the morning, some news and a biography of the Mitford sisters which we’d been slowly working our way through. We had commandeered a television so Mum was able to watch Neighbours and keep up to date with football news on ceefax! Not much changes! 

 

The weather during all the time we were in the hospice was beautiful, like early summer. We took my mum out in the wheelchair in the afternoon. It was obvious by then that the grounds was as far as she was going to go. There was a cacophony of flowers, as if they had all synchronised this moment. Magnolia, daffodils, azaleas, camellias, bluebells, hyacinths all out in splendour glory. It was as if they didn’t want Mum to miss this spring. We were all stunned by the beauty of the day. My dad and other brother, Daniel arrived as we were going back inside. 

 

In all the time she’s been ill and especially in the last few weeks I’ve hated being away from her. The day that she got her prognosis, I had dinner with Ray and the children in the hotel and the song “We’ve got all the time in the world” came on. Never could the words have had so much pathos. When I was waiting to get a drink in the pub before the ballet, one of the other customers said, “Don’t worry I’ve got all the time in the world”. You don’t realise how precious time is when there is so little left. Anyway, once Daniel and Dad had arrived I decided to use that precious time to buy some things for the children from my mum. Not for them or for my mum but for me. They are so young and I so want them to have things that remind them of their Grandma. I ran from shop to shop and bought two books and a pewter money box. It wasn’t enough for the children to have them; I wanted my mum to see them, to approve them as if she had chosen them. My mum was going downhill rapidly and I felt a real sense of urgency.  

 

Saturday was the following day. Mum was increasingly weak but insisted on walking to the toilet. I couldn’t decide whether I should ask Ray to bring the children over the weekend as I was sure my mum wouldn’t make another week. My mum wasn’t able to guide me. Increasingly over the last few weeks, Mum had difficulty making any decisions. She’s say, I don’t know, or whatever. She didn’t want to put Ray out (and it was a long way out!) and I worried that the children would be too much for her. Having had a further conversation with one of the doctors I decided on the spur of the moment that they should come. They left within 45 minutes of the summons! In the meantime, Ben appeared with mum’s friend Ruth and I went to get Daniel. We later watched some of Mayerling, my mum’s favourite ballet and then my dad appeared and we took Mum for another walk around the grounds. She was significantly weaker than the day before, not nearly as upright in the wheelchair but still able to smile, have a laugh and enjoy her surroundings. I took some photographs. She still wanted to know the Southampton score when we got back to the ward.  

 

The children arrived about 5.30. Alice with her falling out French plaits left over from her recent Trisha hairdo, John in his Spiderman outfit. It was obvious they had left in a hurry! The most remarkable thing is that Maria (the most perverse of children) had decided to get off her knees and walk that morning and so she walked into the Ward towards Grandma for the first time and Grandma clapped. I will always be able to remind her of that. The children didn’t stay long. We gave Alice some presents for her imminent 6th birthday and the books and money box to them all. Naturally, being children, they were underwhelmed but we agreed that the box would be called “Grandma‘s box“. We‘d save our pennies and then we‘d go out and have a treat when it was full and think of Grandma. I thought this seemed fitting. There was some uncertainty as to whether they would stay overnight so fortunately there were no big goodbyes. The children aren’t very good at them! Mum walked her fingers along Maria’s hand and Maria blew her a kiss (another rare thing!). She told them all she loved them. I told Alice that I wouldn’t be able to be at her party on Tuesday if Grandma needed me and my mum said, almost to herself, “You’ll be there”. She knew. That was the last time they saw their Grandma. 

 

Ben and I went out for dinner with Ray and the children to give my dad some time with Mum alone. It always takes longer than you think. I was in such a rush to get back to give my mum a bath. In all the time she’s been ill I’ve loved to look after her. It comes easily, partly because I’ve had my own children to look after but mostly because of the love I felt for my mum. Dressing her neck, washing her, massaging her body, drying her hair were all acts of love. They were done with so much love and energy as if I could take away some of her own suffering. My mum had the most beautiful body; it was the body of a much younger woman. A few wrinkles on her arms and legs but otherwise in its prime. She had beautiful skin. No lines on her forehead; only a few around her eyes and mouth. The skin on her neck, which was so damaged by the radiotherapy, so covered in blisters and causing her so much pain had completely healed. The only reminder of the tumour that took away her life was a line the fineness of a thread from the right of her neck to the centre. Barely visible. I got back for the bath. It was her last one. 

 

The day before she died I awoke with a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Ben and I were both at her bedside early. I scraped out the last spoonful of clotted cream to go with her porridge, I chopped up the last apricot to sprinkle on the top. She managed one or two spoonfuls. I remember her saying, as she would, “love you darling“. When I asked if she wanted me to read the football report from yesterday’s match and she said no, I knew things were bad. The essence of my mum in that day and the next was still there. She was still giving, loving, proud. She still managed to find the energy to tell the doctor how well cared for she was by me that morning. She was also determined, headstrong and impatient. She insisted against all reason that she wanted to wash her hair. We had washed it 2 days ago and she was clearly too weak to sit in the shower but she was insistent. As I told the nurse “there’s no messing with my mum!”. So we showered her and washed her hair to everyone’s surprise. 

 

She was so weak at this point that she couldn’t go to the toilet. She insisted on going to the bathroom instead of using the commode. I would always leave the room so she had some dignity to hold on to. She would often say to me over the last few weeks, “Honestly Becca, what’s it come to“. She couldn’t pass urine but insisted on staying there. I went in at that point hoping that I could relax her. She could barely sit up she was so weak. I held her up and sang to her. This wasn’t unusual. There was a moment in hospital when she had so much nerve pain in her shoulder that I started singing to her. What’s so strange about that? She sang to me a lot as a child and not so much a child. I sing to my children when they need comforting or to help them sleep. I then sang to her every night before she went to sleep. I had a limited repertoire. “Jerusalem”, “You’ll never walk alone“, “Favourite things” and a couple of lullabies. On this occasion I sang “Jerusalem”. I’d always get the words wrong, getting confused with the “was” and the “did” in the second and third lines. She’d always correct me. This time was no different. She still shook her head when I got it wrong and nodded when I got it right. I had told her a week or two before that I’d write a celebration of her for her thanksgiving but that I wouldn’t be able to read it. As she sat on that toilet in Rowcroft Hospice at the end of her life, I told her that I would try and stand up and read it, but that she’d need to be with me and to give me strength, she said she would. We then touched foreheads. It was one of the most intimate, most powerful moments in my life. It felt like our souls had touched. In this ghastly moment, with my wonderful mother too weak to go to the toilet, so frail, so dependent there was so much beauty. 

 

She asked for my dad and Daniel a lot during the morning and the previous day. It was as if she needed to be surrounded by all those she loved. Daniel arrived just before lunch and my dad a little later. We so struggled giving her liquids and food that day. Everything made her aspirate. We resorted to giving her appletize from a teaspoon. It was so painful watching. She was so dry and so desperate for liquid but she would then choke on it as it went into her lungs. There was so little we could do. It was a relief when she slept.  

 

Her friend, Margaret was coming to see her on Thursday. She phoned that morning and I told her that if she’d didn’t want to miss her she should come today. My mum still managed to say, “nice to see you” as she went; one of the very few things she said that day. As they fitted her catheter I remember sitting outside feeling that I wanted this to be over. No one should have to go through what she was going through or what I was going through watching her. She slept most of the rest of the day and wasn’t conscious enough to watch the Plymouth FA cup quarter final which she’d been looking forward to. 

 

Looking for a poetry book I returned with a bible and a hymnbook. Mum had told me of a particular hymn “Here I am Lord” that she wanted at her funeral. I flicked through all the hymns and found it. I didn’t know the tune so just read it to her and she nodded confirming that it was the right one. We had a Chinese takeaway in the evening. I kept my dad company while he finished his. As I’ve said, any time away from my mum felt such a waste. When I got back to the ward, Ben was in tears. He had told my mum that he loved her and that she’d always be with him and she said that she would. They were probably her last meaningful words. My dad then left and mum waved to him, their own special wave. 

 

Between Ben and I we stayed by her bedside all night. She slept peacefully for the first half of the night but at 5.30 her breathing changed. She woke up briefly for a short time again because she was so dry. They tried to clear the mucous with suction. When they turned on the machine it sounded like a vacuum cleaner. Fine time to do the hoovering I said and she smiled. Typical of our shared sense of humour. We put a sponge in iced water and let her suck on it. Each time she had some, she said “ok Becca” for more. It was agony. Her grip around the sponge was so strong and so desperate I thought she’d suck off the sponge. Our own fears were confirmed. She was dying. By the time Dad and Daniel arrived at about 9am she had gone into a deep sleep. Sadly, my dad had brought a photo album she had put together in her 20s and Teddy, her Saints mascot. Too late. She never opened her eyes again. 

 

I had remembered that when someone is dying their hearing is the last sense to leave them. I only had the hymn book and the bible that I had borrowed from the chapel the day before so I started singing my mum’s favourite hymns. Apart from my normal repertoire others were “Make me a Channel of your Peace“, “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind“, “O come o come Emmanuel“, “How Great thou art“. Once I had got over feelings of self consciousness and embarrassment (we were on a ward after all and I‘m not a good singer) It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Ben thought that her eyebrows twitched when I sang and I do believe she could hear me. She also seemed to respond when the Hospice Chaplain came to see her. Ben also read mum’s favourite psalm and the beginning of Genesis! When I’d exhausted my hymn repertoire we talked about family holidays and managed to find things to laugh about. The nurse appeared and asked me to help cleanse Mum’s face and wash her hands. I did the old routine. Cleansing, toning, (not forgetting the lips and eyebrows!), moisturising, talking to her all the time, so much love.  

 

We were holding her hand and stroking her forehead when she took her last breath at 12.45. I could only feel relief that her suffering was over. I feel we did her proud that morning. Her influence and example could never have been more apparent in us. She gave us the strength to let her die with beauty and dignity. My mum never gave up the fight. She wanted so much to live, she so wanted to see her grandchildren grow, she so wanted to see Daniel and Ben settled with families of their own, she so wanted to go to Israel again; but she didn’t fear death. She accepted it when she couldn’t live anymore. In her last hours and days the staff at the hospice described her as serene. She died as she lived. We felt that she was giving until the end. She wanted me to be home for Alice’s birthday and she got her wish. During her illness she never complained, only told us (rarely) when she was in pain. She kept smiling, always positive, always cheerful even when faced with death. She was always true to herself. Having adopted parents who she were nothing like, she created herself. She was happy with herself, never pretending to be other than she was. She was happy with her somewhat difficult life never coveting what others had, never wanting more than she had. They were right, she died as she lived with serenity. 

 

It’s been almost two weeks since Mum died. The only real grief I have experienced was when I realised her chances of surviving the cancer were slim at the end of November. For about a month I felt this huge, uncontrollable force take over me. It would rush through my body and would explode into a hysterical sob. I felt stricken. It was frightening, unmanageable and unsustainable. By the time Christmas arrived and her treatment was well underway, instinct gave way to reason and I allowed myself hope. My feelings now are very different and unexpected. I never expected to feel elation. Elation because I’ve been faced with something so amazing that is my mother. She was so brave, so positive, so cheerful, so strong, so giving. We have all felt so proud of her and so proud that she’s our mother. I have actually wanted to phone people to tell them about Mum’s death because I have wanted to talk about her, cherish her, celebrate her. I have felt like praising her from the rooftops. I have wanted people who have known her to understand how very special she was. 

 

Most of all I have felt paralysed in action and emotion. How can I possibly comprehend the fact that my mum’s huge presence is no longer here. She is part of my essence, she is half of me. How can I still be living if she’s not here with me. Most of all I can’t miss her yet because she’s all around me, in my thoughts and dreams. In all that I do. A force like that takes time to fade. I feel her with me. I talk to her. She finds things that I‘m looking for me. She’s still there for me, looking after me as she always has.  

 

When I do think about my life without her all I can see is a huge hole which no one else can ever come close to filling. No one could love me as she loved me, no one could be as proud of me as she, no one could have a ridiculously inflated perception of my abilities and talents! 

 

If there is such a thing as a positive experience through dying I feel my mum has achieved it. It seems that all my life has been a rehearsal for the last few weeks, Mum has given me so much strength to cope and it hasn‘t been hard, it‘s been a privilege and joy looking after her and being with her. There has been so much courage, beauty and love amongst the sadness. Instinctively, I knew that my mum wouldn’t hang around, that she would die quickly when the time was right for her; it was almost as if she was in control. She was never truer to herself than when she was dying: her positive attitude, her ability to give, to not want to be a burden on others and of course her impatience.  

 

I have entitled these ramblings “Watching my mum live”. I very much feel that throughout these weeks Mum was living, not dying. She swam 2 weeks before she died, she went to the ballet just over a week before she died, she climbed the stairs the week before she died, she smiled the day she died. She lived until she couldn’t live anymore.