Mum on Good Friday
It’s the odd little things that catch me: some middle-aged woman helping her old mum cross the road, a man sitting drinking coffee with his elderly mother, an elderly gentleman talking quietly with a teenage grandson. Things I will never get to experience. Mum will never be an old woman. Dad was never an old man.
Mum
I have really struggled with understanding what I need to write about this week. It seems much harder, which is probably a great reflection of the rollercoaster week it’s been. It’s not as though there has been anything too dramatic regarding Mum’s health – I think that we’ve all accepted (including Mum) that it is declining whether we like it or not.
Today Mum is still like statue. She’s here but she’s not. Her body isn’t reading any signals to move and her face shows peace.
I dress her in her pretty shirt that she picked out, help her into a chair, put her tiny tub of Bircher muesli and cup of tea next to her and we both sit. Still. Like statues.
This is part of My Mother’s Journey
