Safe journey, Mum

I am viewing life through a veil of disbelief at the moment. Last Tuesday I had a long chat with mum about what we were both reading, and she was delighted that she'd received some new books in the post, and looking forward to a book that I'd ordered for her, that I knew she would love. It wasn't long before Jac and I were coming up for a week's holiday and were going to take her out for lunch.

But on Thursday morning we were told that she'd gone into hospital with a suspected heart attack that was, in fact, a stroke. A dear friend came with me on Friday to drive up and see her - I am the nearest, and thanks to Covid, hospitals only allow one visitor per patient. Mum was asleep when I got there, hooked up to a monitor that bleeped and winked as it tried to lower her blood pressure. I was frustrated that, having got there, she didn't wake up, but I held her hand, stroked her forehead and kissed her so she knew I was there.

There was a reasonable chance she'd recover, given her medical history, but on Sunday she deteriorated so visiting was relaxed and my youngest brother drove down to see her, with my older brother arriving on Monday morning - his son's birthday was on Sunday and all his family were gathering for that. Darling Mum waited until Jo got there and literally minutes later, while the sun streamed in through the window by her bed, she slipped away.

We are all stunned as you can imagine. How could my vibrant, frail, indomitable, clever, kind and wise Mum just - not be there? None of it makes sense. So I do what I can. Of course, I write to her.

My brain doesn’t want to accept the fact that you’re not here any more, Mum. I roll the words around in my mouth - “my mum is dead” and they won’t make sense. They feel like cold marbles, clunking and clashing against my teeth. They shouldn’t be in my mouth at all and they’re damaging the enamel - and then a huge chunk of tooth breaks off.

By my phone, which is on the table in the window, looking out over Flushing and the docks, is a scrap of paper with “Mum” and your landline number on it. You’re the only person I ever rang from my landline and I keep wanting to pick it up and ring you. Talk to you about "The Dictionary of Lost Words", and the Olive Ketteridge books that I got Ben to send you. You would have loved those, I know. Now the phone sits looking lost and alone, and I can’t bear to throw away that scrap of paper.

But through writing to you, I am keeping you alive. For that is what we do with those we love, isn't it? Keep them alive in our hearts.