A parting gift

Being with my mother at the end.

The framed photo of us that she had in her care home room. It was taken by my stepfather in 2010.

My mother, who was 77, died two days ago, from dementia after another stroke.

I was with her, alone in her room in her care home. I had flown in that morning from Ireland, as the doctor had told us that she was likely close to death. 

A month ago, there was a similar scenario after a previous stroke, but she’d rallied, against the odds, as she so often did; I used to call her the ‘comeback kid’ as throughout my life she’d had so many illnesses, so many medical emergencies. Her mental and physical health had been deeply impacted by childhood neglect and trauma but she never stopped working to create a good life despite it. She was a tiny woman but she had the fierceness of a scrappy Cockney street-fighter, as many discovered who underestimated her.

The stroke a month ago had taken more of her language away, but it had left this once intensely defended woman even more deeply at peace. For the …