I wrote this post four months ago and put it on ice. It felt too much. It is very personal that is for sure. What is the point in being a writer if you don't write what is important. So for every one of us who loves our mums, here it is. I dedicate it to sons and daughters everywhere.
So much for cunning plans. Life is what hits you from behind and flattens you while you are making plans. I am so glad I was unable to get out to Goa. It has taken me a long time to write this long post. It is a War and Peace, so get yourself a coffee and a couple of chocolate hobnobs. Is this too personal? The thing is I am a writer. It's what I do. So I write this for every one of us who loves our Mums and has to say goodbye.
While I was riding towards Nordkapp Mum plotted my progress. Always excited to get a 'phone call from me on the hoof, she would then rattle the tin for sponsorship from her friends at church. You should have seen her Surprised look when I turned up on her doorstep unannounced upon my return, then the beaming smile and a huge hug. I was thin and tired, bearded and beaten up. Her care for me was obvious. We fly the nest but they still worry about us, and I can give cause to worry. I threw a party and she came along with her brother and sister. An older generation sharing with the rest of the family, my pleasure to be back among my own. When I delivered my first speaking engagement to raise yet more funds for Myton Hospice, she sat proudly in the front row frowning at the thought that I might be about to disclose the raunchier parts of my trip. I could be the wild rover, but not with my dear old mum in the front row.
She had a fall in November and a heart attack. Sis had already raised her concerns about Mum's health. Mum's confusion was hard to bare, and for a while we worried that our much loved mother was to suffer the indignity of dementia. When did she get to be old? 83 is old. It's just a number, until one day it is not, and it's a problem. We had Christmas together before her second fall in the early hours of January 8th. My poor sister. Problem was, there was more to this than met the eye. Cancer. Advanced and agressive. Just too frail for surgery, chemo, or radio. So after weeks of worry my able sister found a paliative care bed in a local care home, and for many heartbreaking weeks this has been our life.
Days rolled into weeks and Mum showed us all that she is far from frail. How does she do it? The end approaches and it is hard to bare for all of us. Cancer is a wicked desease and I hate it with a passion. Know your enemy, and I have gotten to know this one very well indeed. Life without Mum. Inevitable. No choice, so no decisons to make, just accept it. Let her go with love and good grace. Let her go to Dad. It's OK. It has to be. If only I could help the others, but I can't. Each one of us is having to make our own journey.
Live in the here and now has been what I have been learning how to do this past two years. My wonderful Yoga teacher pulling me back to earth as Vatta me floats away. I succeeded, mostly. I can be here but there is a problem. The here and now is dreadful. Too painful to bare.I learned a new trick to get through. I allow myself just a glimpse of the road a few weeks ahead. A few days in the Scottish Borders with a very good friend. No need to talk, but I guess we will. Then later fresh Swedish air, and forests scented with pine. A huge cold lake and a tiny cabin. The company of new friends who hardly know me, but have shown already that they care. What it is to be human. But for a little while more I have to endure the here and now at Mum's bedside. Loving her and my family, and telling her It's OK (when the small boy inside me says it's really NOT OK to lose your Mum).
Joyce Winterburn (Ne Williams) departed 3rd April 2011.
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