We didn’t quite make it to the hospital in time for one last hug, one last kiss.
One last conversation, one last run down on who she’d been talking to that day, one last dose of gossip about people I barely know.
I have to focus to recall the last time we did this. It was on Easter weekend, our last proper conversation. That was our one last visit to her house when she was there.
One last jug boil and latte sachet, no milk (but don’t forget the sugar tablet).
One last lemon treat biscuit from the click-clack container in the fridge.
One last sit on the couch opposite her recliner chair with her still in it.
One last look at the village newsletter as she excitedly tells us what coach trips she’s going on this month with her friends.
One last gentle telling off for not using her walker to get around the house.
One last folding of the towels, cardigans and hankies on the airing rack, in between home help visits.
We didn’t know that would be the last time. We would have spent more time, we would have said more things, hugged a bit longer, had we known.
…
It’s our last actual time together, in this hospital cubicle and she has gone. She seems so little, and quiet. I don’t recall being in a room with her and there being such audible silence. She loved to talk, sometimes so much and with no spaces between thoughts, I would get cross. Now I would love to hear her voice one last time.
Her hands are cold to the touch, but she always had cold hands. When I brush my hand over her forehead and over her hair, I’m sure I feel a bit of warmness there still. I rush to tell my husband to do the same, but it’s too much for him right now. I can see in his eyes he wants to run far away from this moment. The sorrow and grief is beginning to form like storm clouds in his eyes. He has lost his mum, and the mum in me wants to scoop him up and save him from this sadness.
Yet somehow there is beauty in this moment. The peace, the stillness, it doesn’t scare me. I keep picturing beautiful pink flowers in my mind, and it all feels like freedom.
Fast forward a few days and we are in the throes of planning a funeral, creating a place of peace in the eye of a hurricane. We are packing boxes, while we are unpacking big emotions. Lying in bed at night is like torture. It’s supposed to be a time of rest, but it’s the quiet times alone with our thoughts that are the worst.
It’s my job to fill in the gaps in the eulogy that my husband and his siblings weren’t sure on the details. She was their mother, their confidante, their carer and constant. They didn’t know a lot about her childhood, or the years before she met their father. Thats not from a lack of interest, it’s a reflection of the complete dedication she gave to her role as mother, and wife.
As I flip through photo albums and newspaper clippings like David Lomas looking for ‘missing pieces’ I’m struck by her elegance as a young woman in the 1960s. Beautiful gowns, attending balls and events while living overseas like a young royal. For a woman who loved to talk so much, I also knew little of these years of her life.
I find some dates, interesting facts and witty anecdotes for the celebrant to weave into the eulogy, and realise that the life of a woman changes like the seasons. Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter - Daughter, Woman, Wife and Mother (to name a few). All so different from each other in essence, but beautiful and precious in their own individual way also. Four seasons in one lifetime
On the day of her funeral, there were flowers everywhere. Delicately scented blooms in pinks, purples and many other colours. On one bouquet a small green caterpillar was wriggling around on one of the leaves, as if it was preparing to weave itself into a cocoon. Another signal to me of the metamorphosis of life.
The eulogy was read, people shared their memories and tributes. They smiled at the photo slideshow. They signed the register. They held the order of service to their hearts. They scattered petals. They all had a cup of tea and something to eat before going on their way, back to their lives. We carried her over uneven lawn, said our final-final goodbye, stood arm in arm and watched her go.
It’s during a dream about losing my own child in a crowd that my unconscious forces my grief to filter through. I wake with a fright, and then the tears descend. Crying in the darkness, I feel myself unravel. My fear passes and then it feels like healing, like it needed to happen.
Our world is emptier without her in it. We fill the void by keeping busy filling boxes. Emptying the house where she lived, stacking the memories like boxes in our minds and hearts. And in the silence we remember her voice, and fill the darkness with bright pink and purple flowers.
I am so sorry for your loss, and thank you for sharing in this intimately relatable piece.
UGH this is so close to home. My Mum dies in January. The ache doesn't stop x