Good Grief

The night-nurse gently shook me awake and softly said, ‘It’s time.’ I nodded, slightly groggily, allowing the enormity of those two little words to sink in. I took a deep breath in and sat up, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. The room was a familiar one: it was my mother’s bedroom. The one she had slept in since I was five years old. She had slept alone for the past 15 years, my mum was widowed – she had lost her husband, my darling dad to cancer. I had also been there with him as he passed away, which made me feel like quite the expert at saying good bye to a parent, but in this case, past experience doesn’t seem to be much consolation. I walked over to my mother’s bed on the other side of the room and looked down at her tiny sleeping frame. She was breathing, gently, but very deeply. Her breathing had changed ever so slightly from when I kissed her goodnight several hours before. I felt very contemplative as I thought about letting my mother go. I also thought about myself as a daughter. In a few moments, I would also have to let go of the idea that I am a daughter. My thoughts were gently brought back into the present moment by Comfort, which unbelievably, yet ironically was the name of the Marie Curie nurse who stood by my side. She held my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze and asked if I was ‘ready’. I paused for a moment deliberating this interesting choice of word. I decided it was a good word. If she had asked me if I was ‘fine’ or ‘alright’, this would have been odd, but for me to prepare for what was about to happen, of course I had to be ‘ready’. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and squeezed my tears back into their tear ducts. I looked up and flashed her a brave smile. ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘How much time have we got?’ I managed to whisper. She cocked her head as if to indicate not very much. I asked if I had enough time to light some candles and burn some incense. She understood and urged me to be as quick as I could. I stepped away and kissed my mother’s ever so slightly furrowed forehead. It was very soft and warm and I knew that it wouldn’t be much longer before the warmth subsided. In the next room, I collected the candles and the incense burner and this momentary distance allowed me to compose and prepare myself for what was about to happen. Reality was fast looming and smacking into me like a train on a track. The time had come to finally say goodbye. My mum was actually leaving me. This was the moment I had been dreading, but not quite believing. My mother had been given the diagnosis of terminal liver cancer over 18 months previously. She was a hugely optimistic person, and did not want to hear any talk of her life expectancy, so we did not find out ‘how long she had left’. Because of this uncertainty, I’m not sure I had taken the ‘terminal’ part of the illness seriously until this actual moment, as I lit one scented tea-light after another. I quickly filled the room with candlelight, and as the woody vanilla aroma swirled around the room, it created a calm, relaxing and meditative atmosphere. I put her soft mantras on in the background and came back to hold my mother’s hand. I closed my eyes and for the first time said a ‘real’ prayer, to a ‘real’ god. Unlike my agnostic father, my mother had held traditional Hindu beliefs of god, reincarnation, the soul and karma, and it felt right for me to step into her belief system in this moment to be in the same thought space as her. I silently asked god for her guides, angels and loved ones in spirit to come and get her when she was ready and I informed them that I was ready to facilitate her soul liberate itself from the physical world and her dying body. I wanted the ambience to be just right, just how she would have wanted and expected it. The room was silent, apart from the soft music playing, beautifully peaceful and calm and there was an air of expectancy. I held my face close to my mother’s cheek and could feel her ebbing breath against my own tear-stained cheek. Her breath was still warm and smelt slightly of minty mouthwash. I closed my eyes and knew that it was time to say goodbye. I told her in my mind over and over how much I loved her. I was sorry for everything I needed to be sorry for, and I loved her, and I would miss her; the children loved her, they would miss her; and I hoped her soul’s onward journey would be peaceful; and I loved her, and I really loved her, and I was sorry. After a few minutes of this nonsensical giddy repetition, my instincts dictated that I lift my head to kiss her, and as I did, she took her final breath of air and then exhaled very slowly almost like she had a slow puncture. I watched her brow instantly un-furrow and every muscle in her face relax. Her expression was peaceful, and she appeared to have an ethereal glow about her. Her fingers uncurled out of my grip and it was over, that was it, she had gone. No drama, no bells and whistles, nothing. Just an empty shell left behind. My mother was no longer inside her body.