I wrote this yesterday, as the clock ticked around to the time mum had died, almost 24 hours before:

The light is fading, with just a hint of colour in blank grey sky, much like yesterday evening. The gaggle of corvids have clattered and croaked their way back to their night roost in the wood. The robin quietens, silence descends. I always treasure this handover time, sun to moon, this dimpsey stillness, the last flickers of light.

I’ve been mulling over that this time yesterday, I didn’t know what was to come so shortly. Yes, we knew time was short, but of course the end is always unknown.

I have gnawed away at what I would have done differently, had I known the moments when she had say, 2 weeks, 24 hours, 15 minutes, 10 seconds left. Each of those points I passed through unawares. Even a slow expected death comes shockingly fast at the end.

I have come to acknowledge that all that matters is she was held close in love and tenderness. That she knew I was there, she was safe, she was cosy. Everyone I’m sure looks back after a death and sees the bits we handled badly, the times when tiredness and frustration frayed our compassion. They are somehow easier to remember than the times we got it right.

With foresight, of course I would spend each of those moments reminding her and reminding her again of my love and gratitude and offering reassurance, as I’d done so many times over these last weeks. I’d have held her hand just a little longer, given one last hug.

But none of that would have made a difference, not really. She knew she was loved and held. We do our best, with the tools we have. We can’t bestow love continually, except by our very presence.

And the more I think about it, I see I could not have been as fully present if I’d have known. My focus would have just been on the counting down of days, hours, minutes.

Sometimes the unknowing is the greatest gift.