One year since the phone rang at 1am, just as we were going to bed.
One year since a nurse told me, with classic British understatement, that my mother had “taken a bit of a turn for the worse.”
One year since a 3am taxi ride through deserted Liverpool streets.
One year since I held my mother’s hand through latex gloves as she gasped for air.
One year since I told her that I loved her, despite not being entirely sure that she could understand me.
One year since that second phone call, after a couple of hours of dreamless sleep. The phone call that I didn’t want to answer, because I knew what news was waiting for me when I did.
If there is one thing above all else that still pains me, it’s that I never got to say a proper goodbye. I imagined one last heartfelt conversation, a chance to say what needed to be said. It never happened.
Say the things you need to say, to the people you need to say them to, and do it before it’s too late.