My Granddad died in 1996, and I wrote a little story around my feelings. It was only a short piece. Years later, I stumbled across it again. It had held up quite well. I polished it up and sent it out into the big world. I was delighted when it found a home.
Two weeks ago, my mother died. It was a horrible to watch her struggling to live, surrounded by machines that heartlessly showed us how fast she was fading away.
Before she went into her coma, she spoke with my niece. Her last words were “I’m very tired,” and “My children and family were what made my life perfect,” and her very last words were “I love you to the moon and back”.
Her last words to me were “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I had rung her in her hospital room, planning to visit her that day, and asking her what she wanted. She asked me not to come because she was so tired … I didn’t know that was going to be my last chance ever to speak with her. Who knows these things? She had her fatal turn just a few hours after I spoke with her.
Today rolls around. I had forgotten all about my little story. It was published today. In it, the little old woman dies of exhaustion and malnutrition.
This is how a writer breaks her own heart.
That’s my Mother in the suit, beside the bride (my eldest child). This photo was taken in October last year. This is one of last photos of my mother with her husband, children and grandchildren, together one last time.