How do you say goodbye?

I've tried writing this one many times, but I haven't really been able to find the words or have the strength to process everything. There was so much going on at once, and it's all really still going on, to be fair. Life has a way of testing you at times.

The night Mum called to tell my sister and I she had cancer was the same night I had antenatal class. I was in my third trimester and gearing up for the big day. I remember Mum telling me in the long-winded way that she does. I knew where she was headed with what she was saying. I got the gist before she reached that point. Yet, I don't think I fully grasped the extent of what she was saying as I ended the call to get to my class.

I'm glad I attended that antenatal class as it was the class where we made our birth plan and were forced to face some hard decisions. What a rough night. My mind was preoccupied elsewhere thinking about Mum the whole time, while looking at these difficult decisions I was needing to make.

My birth plan started out like any new, first-time, Mum. The perfect birth scenario. No drugs, in a birthing centre and calm environment, with only loved ones around and my midwife. Perfect. We then had to remove choices until only two options were left remaining in front of us and they were the easiest decisions to make: Healthy Mum, Healthy Baby.

At the end of the day, that was what mattered most. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting that would be my eventual decision weeks later. I knew it was a possibility. I was now well prepared for it, but I still didn't expect it. Why should I have? The pregnancy had been pretty standard the whole way through. I was relatively healthy. And yet, with pregnancy and birth, anything can happen at any stage.

The reason Mum finally called us girls to let us know what was happening was she was having tests done the next day in hospital. Anxiously at work awaiting an update, Mum called later that day to advise she wouldn't be leaving hospital yet. They weren't happy with what they saw in the tests and more tests needed to be done. It was then that I decided I needed to get to Hamilton and visit her in hospital. If I didn't see her soon then I would have to wait until after baby had arrived.

I went down at 37 weeks pregnant and, given how close I was to D-day and technically at "full-term", I ensured I packed baby's, and my, hospital bags. Just in case, they say to always be prepared at this point. I quickly installed his car seat, too, just in case. I think I was one of the most un-prepared Mums in my antenatal class in that regard and yet, I was due before most of the class. Needless to say, I didn't really connect with any of those Mums. Didn't really have it in me to make an effort to connect with everything going on, too.

It was in that visit with Mum over that weekend that I started to grasp just how bad she was. She couldn't walk to the bathroom without aid, needed painkiller regularly, and was really scared. I'd never seen her so frail and yet so strong and determined. I remember telling her we would fight this, and we were all there with her every step of the way. I let her feel my stomach and we compared bumps. Mum's belly had become so bloated that she looked as pregnant as me.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting that the next time I would see Mum would be 6 weeks later in person. Or that, the week after that next visit, I would be told she had mere days to live. It all happened way too quick.

I was still recovering from an emergency c-section, not allowed to yet drive independently, and trying to figure things out as a new Mum myself. I was struggling with breastfeeding challenges, trying to maintain a household, and support the business my partner and I had started to keep him employed following a redundancy. Life kept throwing curveballs and I just needed time to pause.

Seeing Mum in the hospice bed, she was in and out of coherency, literally fading before our eyes with each passing day. She was skin and bone the day she finally passed. It was in the early hours of the morning, October 17, 2023, in the company of her mother when she finally said goodbye to this world. Many people came to visit her in that final week, and she was surrounded by love. That has been a comforting thought, knowing she went in the company of love and with the knowledge that she was very much loved and appreciated. She will forever be missed.

She left a voice message for Phillip on my partner, John's, Facebook messenger which he shared with me when I was ready to hear it. It's a message I'll be able to play Phillip over and over throughout the years so he can hear from her and still get to know her a little. She held him in that week and fed him from the bottle. She barely had the strength, yet she tried, and I supported her hands/arms to hold him and the bottle as she drifted in and out of consciousness. I know it meant a lot for her to be able to feel she was helping and present in that time where she could.

In one of our final conversations, she said to me, "you're a great Mum" and I'll never forget it. I wish she were here and able to share in every moment that passes. Every milestone Phillip achieves. Every challenge I face. It's hard not having her here, and yet, I've seen her here. Whether it's been imagined, or ghosts are real, I don't know, nor do I care to argue the specifics. It's just meant a lot to me to see her image with Phillip, watching over him recently when he was sick, in the room keeping an eye when I was exhausted. She's not here, but she absolutely is.

Grief is a challenging thing to go through. Losing one's parent is unexplainably one of the hardest things to adjust to. In a time when Mum should be here, she is not. There are apparently 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I continue to sit in anger, depression, or acceptance. With each passing day, I start to lean more and more into acceptance yet, there will be something happen such as Phillip being unwell and then I'll be met with anger again. "She should be here!", and subsequently sit in a depression for a while before pulling myself back to acceptance and trying to find a way to be strong and be the Mum she believed me to me. To be the strong woman Mum was proud of and remind myself she wouldn't want to see me like that. She would want me to be happy.

For anyone who has lost a parent, I see you. I feel for you. Sending big hugs around the world. For those facing cancer battles, I lend you my strength. Cancer sucks!

Please don't hesitate to reach out for support. Talking and getting support have been what's helped me through all of this. I have some amazing friends who stepped up during those rough weeks. Thank you to those who showed up when I needed it the most. Thank you, as well, to those who attended the funeral. It was amazing to have familiar faces and support there as I officiated Mum's service. Thank you to those who continue to check in on me. I'm grateful for each and every one of you. Life is hard, but together we can make it through.

I'm not OK, but I am OK.