This is a first. I’m writing this at Mum’s bedside. She’s comfortable but hasn’t been responsive for 24 hours or so. My sister and I are with her. Neither of us know what day or time it is. Spending so much time here has given me a sense of what it must be like to be a resident. Most of all, though, it has allowed us to see the love and care afforded to all the residents. When Mum’s GP said she couldn’t be in a better place, it wasn’t just designed to make us feel better. It was true and just how true is becoming clear.
Late last night, as I left, I bumped into three carers in the car park. I was puzzled as I’d said goodbye to the trio about ten minutes earlier.
“Would you mind if we went back in to say goodnight to your mum?”
Would we mind? It was one of the many profoundly touching moments of this surreal experience. In turn, they went back into Mum’s bedroom, gave her a kiss, and said goodnight. There’s a lump in my throat just writing about it. These are special people.
My sister and I are talking to Mum, remembering happy times together, sharing her company until the end. It’s impossible to know how aware she is of what’s going on around her but one of the carers said that when she told her I was on my way back this morning, Mum opened her eyes. There’s strength to be found in moments like that.
There’s no way of knowing how long we have. I wasn’t sure we’d have this morning but we do and there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’d like to think that, for Mum, the end is in sight. While I cherish these moments, the thought of her being at peace, true peace, is stronger still.