It had to happen. Of course it did. I was half expecting it some time.
I’ve been busy with the rare disease stuff. The week ahead will be more busy, and more public.
I’ve had to write about Herself, using the phrase ‘late of Omagh’. I’ve hunted out pictures for the local press. (Why don’t I have more pics? Why did I not decide to enjoy taking photographs until just before she died? I could have hundreds more pictures of her, happy and healthy. I could send those to the paper.) I won’t send the ones of her 2 weeks before she died. She was up, and made up, and singing. She was being amazing- giving us a gift. She was looking well, for somebody who was seriously ill, but she looks like someone who’s seriously ill.
I went to bed in the early evening, warm and cosy with a hot water bottle. The girls had the most fun bath ever. I lay there, smiling and contented as they laughed and chatted and made mischief.
Then. The chill. Nausea. Tears. Crumpling. Loss.
I can’t share that with her. I couldn’t just lift the phone and say “Listen to this, Ma. Your grandchildren giggling and causing chaos. Isn’t it a wonderful sound? … ”
I can’t hold her and gain the strength to face the challenge of presenting to politicians and ‘suits’.
She won’t be here for the confirmation; she’d hoped to see the girls grow up.
I can’t gossip with her, or laugh with her until we’re both crying.
It’s just me crying now. Dammit.