mum

i lay quietly next to her all night, curled up like a baby, as though regressing my life to that of a child would somehow turn back the clock for her as well. quietly i lay there all night and listened to her breathe. there was something so very wrong about that moment... so very, tragically wrong. when i was in about grade eight or nine my mum and i read peter pan together. i would go into her room after school and sit in bed with her and she would read out loud to me. i was too old for stuff like that and we both knew it. it felt wrong to be thirteen years old and still having my mum read kids books to me, tragic even, but i don’t remember wanting to be anywhere else. this night felt just the same. it was wrong – tragic even – but i didn’t want to be anywhere else.

i lay quietly next to her all night, willing my eyes to stay open so i could remember every line on her face, every freckle, every wisp of her peach-fuzz hair as it rebelled against the chemicals that had stolen it so many times. fifty-seven is too young to die. thirty-one is too young to be without a mum. who will make the weetbix slice? who will loudly proclaim “darling i just heard your phone ring. i think you just got an email?” who will sit and smile while we all laugh at them for still not knowing the difference between an email, a text message, and a missed call. i lay next to her wishing her skin was transparent so i could see how her heart got so full of love. occasionally she would moan in discomfort, my cue to stand up and get another syringe from the dressing table to ease her pain. dressing tables aren’t for syringes, they are for earrings and beads and chanel no. 5.

i lay quietly next to her all night. sometimes my cheeks were wet with tears. i felt like i should be praying, but i had run out of words for God a long time ago. i had told God i hated it. i hated the pain i saw and i desperately hated the thought of not having her. i had told God this more than once, but it didn’t seem to matter. i think He didn’t like what was happening either though, because tears were falling from heaven and splashing all over the bedroom window. there were no more words between me and God, just tears coming from a deep well. not the same well you get your tears from when you hurt yourself, or when someone is mean to you. these tears were from a new well. i hadn’t cried tears from this well before. it was the one specially made for the tears i would cry when i knew my mum was going to die.

i lay quietly next to her all night and at some point i heard the sound of her breathing change. it was the worst sound i have ever heard. her chest sounded empty and began to rattle with each laboured breath. it was like there was a rattle-snake trapped inside her. it seemed kind of fitting that death would sound like the animal i hate and fear the most. the rattling continued, my cue to begin using a different syringe from the dressing table. dressing tables aren’t for storing syringes to kill rattle snakes, they are for family photos, bibles, and drawings from your grandchildren.

i lay quietly next to her all night desperately trying to remember the last real conversation we had had together. the last few weeks had been a jumble of showering her, helping her on the toilet, and talking about food and medication. i couldn’t remember the last time we had talked about things related to life and not pain and death. conversations with mums should be about boys and which cake to have with your coffee. conversations with mums should be about harrison ford movies and the likelihood of lethal weapon five ever being released. they should be about flowers and the ocean, or french onion soup disasters. conversations with mums should not be about crippling pain and which ring you would like when she is gone.

i lay quietly next to her all night remembering the fun things we had done together. africa. london. new york. coffee shops... oh so many coffee shops. singing... in the car, at the beach, in the living room, at church, in the shower. laughing... in the car, at the beach, in the living room, at church, in the shower. there will be too many moments we won’t share now. maybe i’ll get married one day. who will make my dress? maybe i’ll have a baby. who will make it a dress? maybe someone will publish my book. who will force me to wear a dress to my book launch? mums should be there for those things.

i lay quietly next to her all night knowing that the only thing she wanted was to live. she didn’t want to live so she could own a bigger house or a new car. she didn’t want to live so she could become famous and stay skinny. she wanted to live so she could keep being a mum to me and my sisters... and to thousands of other daughters and sons all over the world. she did not want to die. mums who want to love the whole world should get to live.

i lay quietly next to her all night not knowing that in less than twelve hours she would be gone forever.