I’m not working anymore and all projects have been put on
pause or I’ve simply removed myself from them for now. The days are becoming a blur
and quite frankly I don’t really care if its Monday or Thursday. It’s just
another day in this waiting room.
My blood sugars are all over the place and any lows or highs
seem to be affecting me sooner or more severely. The long range isn’t going to be inspiring.
Sleep. That’s something that seems to happen a lot but is
all just part of the blur and I wake up only to suddenly realise again, ‘Yes,
this is still real and yes, we are still here’. Here trying to ease mum’s
suffering. Here feeling mum’s pain.
She is now at the stage where words are exhausting or
confused and every time she wakes she cries. Cries for what was and what could
have been. It’s devastating to see her so sad. But through all this, there are
surprisingly still smiles and laughter, hope and movement. There are comings
and goings of doctors and palliative care nurses, of dogs and a cat, of friends
and family. Bron, one of Mum’s closest lifelong friends has been staying here,
up from down south, now in her third week as a carer and life support. I am
here, temporarily moved back in to my family home. Despite the imminent knock
of death, there is so much life in this house. So much support for an
incredible woman who’s spent all her life caring for us.
Most of all there is love. There is love in the sighs, the
smiles, and as eyes meet. Love flows in down the phone line, in emails and on
postcards. There’s love in hot meals dropped around and bunches of flowers on
the mantle. There’s love in her cat that won’t leave the room. Love of a life;
for the memories and what lives on because she was here.
The sort of love that never dies
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