Dear Mum

Do you even know how much you mean to me?

Dreams of losing you were the only ones

From which I woke up crying as a child,

And that still happens from time to time.

There’s a story that beautifully illustrates

Why I’m so proud that you’re my Mum.

When an elderly lady, an ex-neighbour,

Was talking with you on the street one day, she said,

“I often think about you, Maureen, because you’ve had such a terrible life.”

(She was talking about you losing first, your daughter, my little sister,

Then Dad,

Then your own Mum).

And you rounded on her and said, “NO!

I’m actually having a wonderful life, and some terrible things have happened.”

If I could only inherit one thing from you, Mum,

It would be that attitude,

Right there.

I was in my mid-fifties

When I got horribly sick with a mystery illness,

And you took care of me in your home for twenty-three days,

Willingly and selflessly.

I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you.

And sharing your home for all that time

Helped me see things much more clearly.

I saw that your massive and unwavering financial support

Over the last decade or so

Significantly reduced your resources, and your freedom.

It meant that you were living in a house

That was deteriorating around you,

And that’s on me.

I saw that the stress that my precarious financial situation undoubtedly caused you over the years

Must be at least partially responsible for the onset of the breast cancer.

That’s on me, too.

I saw that, in you,

I have a best friend.

I couldn’t ask for more.

I saw that, when you say you’ve “done nothing” some days, that’s not true.

You spread joy, constantly.

As I sat there recovering, I would hear you on the phone

Several times a day

With friends, neighbours, Tricia and Sam,

And there was always laughter.

Always.

I know it embarrasses you when one of your neighbours (a church-goer)

Calls you (a humanist, if anything!) a saint.

It shouldn’t.

Don’t worry – I’ll never offer to polish your halo!

But throughout your huge and selfless financial support over the years

There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands of opportunities

For the occasional dig;

A snide remark here, a snarky comment there;

And yet you’ve never once come anywhere close.

Even when I stayed with you, we didn’t argue about anything!

Your generosity of spirit comes through to me

With overwhelming grace and love,

Entirely unpolluted by any form of negativity

Even as your own living standards,

Your own freedoms,

Were slowly reduced over time.

You never saw that as saintly behaviour

But you must at least admit – it’s pretty bloody unique!

I planned, many times,

To say all this to you in person,

But I shied away from every opportunity, knowing

That I’d not get through more than a couple of sentences

Without crying.

And you know that, when I cry, I lose the power of speech.

At least you got to read it, to this point, anyway.

Now you’re gone, and I am bereft.

Yet, even your death was inspiring.

Your first hospital stay in forty-three years lasted all of six days.

Carers had helped you to get up and dressed that morning,

Before the ambulance came;

It was your first ever experience of being unable to rise unaided.

The plan was to stabilise your tablets,

Assess what you needed in the house –

Railings, a stair lift, a walk-in bath, maybe –

And get you back home in a week or so.

As it turned out, it was me who brought you home again,

Just for one final night,

Looking beautiful in your hand-made wicker coffin.

The doctor said she’d never seen someone deteriorate so quickly.

I know you, and I saw what you did.

You had no interest in being sick and immobile;

“A burden”, as you’d have put it.

You had no intention of having carers in three times a day.

Stair lifts? Walk-in baths? Forget it!!

Mum, I saw you make a powerful decision.

As soon as you reached the hospital, you decided you were going to die there.

I respect that more than I can ever say

And I hope, one day, to have the opportunity, and the strength,

To follow a similar path.

You were barely conscious for your final couple of days.

The last time we talked was on a Sunday

And one of the last things you said to me was,

“I’m having a brilliant day!”

I remember being surprised

And so you listed your delights –

Sips of cold water, friends popping in to see you,

A few small mouthfuls of ice cream,

And me at your bedside, keeping you company.

There wasn’t a hint of fear or regret in your demeanour;

Just a deep appreciation for the joys of the moment

And the strength that comes from knowing

That the moments were rapidly dwindling away.

And you were fine with that.

They moved you into a private room when they knew your death was near.

They offered me a camp bed, so I could be with you to the end.

I declined.

We’d discussed many times, over the years,

How people seem to choose their moments to die alone,

Even when there are a lot of people keeping a vigil over them.

(The palliative care nurses confirmed that this happens

Far too often to be a coincidence.)

I decided to leave you in peace

And you died in the early hours

Of 9/11 – just so I’d never forget the date!

I love you, Mum –

For everything you were,

For everything you did,

For everything you stood for.