I never imagined time slowing right down as it did for weeks, and then days.
I watched her come in and out of sleep and consciousness, rejoicing, when on arrival from family she was lucid, bossy—back to her old self.
I felt embarrassed by my panicked calls to family after advice from the medical team…
“Call the people she needs to see,” they said.
So I did, from a small white hospital room with tears streaming down my cheeks, suppressing the sound of hurt.
In those last weeks, I had never said so many times, “I love you Mum.”
I meant it. I hadn’t always felt that way.
The day I left I couldn’t hug her, nor kiss her cheek, nor say the words, “I love you.”
With the look of hurt in her eyes, I walked away. “You’ll be okay,” I motioned, with a half-smile on my face.
Would this be the last goodbye?
A year ago I was caught up in grief—a grief that still comes and goes.