Visiting someone for what may be the last time is a strange and rather complex thing. With my grandfather it was pretty clear this was about it. With mum I really hoped there would be at least one more time. Both visits ended with the same words “I love you”, both times my elder was coherent and knew we were saying goodbye.
I love mum and miss her and would wanted one more visit. Not to say goodbye, but because it’s mum. Over the previous few years I’d got used to seeing her sick, and clearly this was sicker than ever before. I was accustomed to the thin hair, the way her skin was and how quickly she got tired.
The last time with mum there was no jokes, no lectures, and no “Da Vid…” All things that had filled the room in the past, even on the day before.
Granddad said he was ready before he went, never to any of the grandkids, but to mum and she let me know. It’s shocking how much comfort that gives me even today.
I don’t think mum was scared before she died, I know she was not quite ready. She wanted to be at home and never quite made it.
I’ve often thought about one last visit and what it would have been like. I can’t help but wonder. How would I make it through? What piece of denial would fill the room now there are no lectures or jokes.
I’ll never know. The last words were “I love you” and we both knew it to be true.
Now if you will excuse me, I’ve a pile of pills and prescriptions to sort out and work out what needs to be taken when.