Eight years ago today my mother passed away.
I can still remember a lot about that day. The phone call from my father telling me about the second stroke. Telling Lynda. Sending my lecturer an email to say I wouldn’t be in class that evening. The long drive to Ipswich hospital.
Hugging my father when I arrived. And my sister, her eyes red from tears and lack of sleep. Holding my mother’s hand and talking to her while they both went home to rest. Calling them both back to the hospital after being told my mother wasn’t going to make it.
In the final hours, trying to function as normally as we could, knowing full well things would never be normal again. Sensing our mother in pain, asking for more morphine, all the while watching the numbers on the various displays counting down.
And then that horrible drawn-out tone that tells you the fight is over.
The drive home seemed even longer, despite the roads being practically empty at that time of night. Listening to Ultravox’s “Dancing with tears in my eyes” and fighting back my own.
Weeping for the memory of a life gone by
Dancing with tears in my eyes
Living out a memory of a love that died