Tuesday 29th July
3:30am. I hear movement and then there’s a knock on my door. I don’t want to open it, I know what it is. I’ve been waiting…
Monday 21st July
Bea took me to Costa today. It was great; I was really glad to see her. Bea was one of my best friends at church; she moved away a few years ago to go to Bible College and she’s now got a job as a youth worker. I don’t see her often, but when we do meet up, it’s like she never left.
I used to be shy and quiet, and she was loud and mischievous; we were a pair to be reckoned with. We used to pull tricks at church all the time. Bea was the most daring, she would drive Donna’s car and park it out of sight, other times she would take the handbrake off and bail just to watch it roll down the hill. Often we worked together, writing ransom notes and hiding out in the church at home-time. We tried to lock Donna in the church once – we forgot about the fire exit side door, Donna came up behind us as we stood giggling at the locked door.
One of the wonderful things about Bea is she goes straight to the point, and she didn’t hold back today. Within 30 seconds of talking about my mum she threw me this curve ball: “You want your mum to die, don’t you?” I was speechless. She added quickly, “I know you love her and you want as much time as you can with her, but you also want her to die. You’ve been grieving for months and now you’re ready to move on, but you can’t whilst she’s alive. You’re waiting.” She was right; waiting for someone to die is emotionally and physically exhausting. You sort of enter a land of limbo; you can’t go back to the way things used to be, but you can’t move forwards either. You wait, and you hope that when it happens you are there. That that last day is a good one, filled with great memories. You try to make every day a good day, in case that is the day. I hesitated; if I admitted that some part of me wanted her to die, and she died today, how would I feel? But she was right. I was waiting.
Tuesday 29th July
My sister was stood outside my bedroom. She held back her tears, “Rose, she’s gone.” I’ve been waiting and yet still I asked, “What do you mean?” “Rose, she’s gone. Mum’s dead.” I pressed on, “How do you know?” “The Marie Curie nurse says she made a noise and then stopped breathing. She’s gone, Rose.” I’m the first one into the living room, where my Mum is lying, mouth agape, except she’s not. Her body is there but she is gone.
The waiting is over.