When the Lily Bloomed

It was 5.23 when I awoke; the morning sun through the skylight was intensely bright, even at this hour.

We had often complained about the position of the skylight, its eastward angle, right above our bed.  It was never going to provide us with a relaxing start to the day, especially in the height of summer.  It did offer a nice breeze at night though, so it had its uses. 

I never really slept that well, but I had been even more restless last night, after seeing Mum the day before. She didn't look well, she seemed to have shrunken and withdrawn. But I didn't confess these worries to Dad.

Dad wanted Mum to live forever – my dad thrived on life, plans, the future.. death was not on his Agenda just yet.

Mum had been unwell for a while, but she always pulled through, we relied on it, we laughed at it, we joked about it.

 "She will live to be a hundred" we all said.

She was an unconventional, mother, wife and grandmother...she was "nanny" to five grandchildren and had devoted so much of her life to their upbringing.  We all took if for granted that she was around; she always recovered from her ills, and our family sort of depended on her ability to survive. It gave us all confidence somehow.

I glanced at my phone to see the time, 5.23.

I noted a few text messages. From my sons more likely, typical as they stay up far later than me, but I worried when I saw three missed calls - things felt immediately unsettling.

Three calls; 5.05, 5.10, and 5.13.   Then a text...

"Mum is dead"

Three missed calls.

I sat upright.

"Mum is dead"

I missed three calls this morning, of all mornings.

I gagged as I sat up, the sunlight blinded me more than usual – making spots in my eyes, they blotted my vision.   Maybe the skylight window was open wider today, so stupid of us to leave it like that, especially in July.

"Mum is dead" ...did it really say that?

Missing three calls, how did that happen?

Following on from a day when I felt Mum had looked different, somehow even more anxious than usual, her expression - altered. It may have been my imagination but she seemed to plead with me - without words, whilst lying in her bed at the Sue Ryder Hospice, cradled in woodland, in Nettlebed.   I didn't know what to do but I didn't respond. Her eyes fixed on mine, saying something but nothing... I just smiled, pathetically.

She hated the beaker with the spout.

The nurses at Sue Ryder were holding it in front of her. "I am not a baby" she would argue . "Take the bloody lid off"

They smiled and agreed with her.

We were assured Sue Ryder was "just temporary care"

We all worried when it became part of our lives, but it all seemed so positive. Mum loved the Day Hospice Care, they played Bob Dylan during exercises, just for her.

"Everyone is so friendly" Mum had said.  She went every Wednesday, she looked forward to it.      I ask now, looking back, like one does, was she preparing herself?

The Sue Ryder house was formidable.  Dad loved the connections with James Bond, he was captivated with Bond - the cars, the gadgets, by its forward thinking – that kind of thing always impressed Dad.