Last September I opened Substack and started to write. I signed off work indefinitely and by now had become a frequent flyer at hospital. I was terrified, knowing my days were numbered with mum and there was nothing else we could do. She had been poked and prodded enough. She needed to be soft and cared for at home. We had already experienced our last garden centre trip, good cake and coffee, we both knew it, just didn’t say it. I wish I could go back and feel that moment again.
As someone who had never smoked, walked miles everyday, had worked as a nurse all her life and taken care of her dying mother in recent years, mums steep decline in health was a real shocker. Cancer can come for anyone, there’s no rhyme or reason.
I recall mum crying in big Tesco watching the elderly and recognising that they were much older than she would ever become, whilst she age 57 clung onto a trolley for balance. I told her we could of stayed home, but she was fiercely independent and wanted to feel normal, to relish the limited moments she had left where she could drive her cream coloured Fiat 500 pride and joy. I don’t blame her. She was beyond happy when she purchased that car, and she drove and drove and drove until October when getting down the stairs became an almost impossible task. This was around the same time she was started on oxygen. Her cancer was immense now and she was drowning inside. Soon after she would become confined upstairs.
The memories of mum are trickling back through slowly. Predominantly when I think about her, the hospital appointments, house clearing, death admin, and phone calls to my sister stand out. My brain has shielded me in a lot of ways from remembering the details, but there are some that have recently crept back in to make me smile again: We ate Christmas puddings in September after big cries, watched Real Housewives and Traffic Cops for hours. I made her soup with fancy bread everyday, and the week before she died we completed Midnight Mass on Netflix of all things. Still, when I asked her to watch the new season of Stranger Things because I knew she’d enjoy Eddie Munson she said “I don’t have enough time left” and that was early into her final months. She definitely had time! I adored mums little house too, the garden, pottering about the kitchen I wished was mine, loved walking the dogs Herbie and Coco around her quiet village, the local pub, feeling helpful. January 2020 I remember viewing that house with her and how we made the decision this was the right home for her based on the surrounding wildlife, and how we laughed at ducks following us across the road. I have a video saved somewhere.
For my entire adult life I’d wanted mum to feel wrapped up in cotton wool. It had been a tough few years financially and work wise for her, losing her mum, losing pets, losing our childhood home, fighting breast cancer during COVID, and gaining distance between some relationships where she had prioritised new love. One thing I knew without doubt was that no matter what, my devotion to her would stay untouchable. I wanted to keep her safe at all costs, and show her endless love without bounds. My sister once wrote “it wasn’t always easy to be her daughter, but it was always easy to be her friend” - I think about that often.
Nowadays I don’t like to look forward much because what lies around the corner of each season is wildly unknown. This September though, I’m surprisingly feeling a sense of readiness for Autumn. Mum is holding my hand, and I’m not scared, just sad that this is our story.
while immensely sad, the way you write is like a warm hug. I hope autumn brings you some comfort.