24
Dry and sunny, light north-westerly winds mid-morning onwards, cloudier later
A CLEAR, STILL day, greenery bursting, sunlight opening the early buds. The ground damp from the night’s rain, a smell of fungus, woodsmoke. Quiet as. Just the clock going tick tock.
She doesn’t die in my arms, as I’d imagined. She is restless for a while, then goes still. This is new. The lady who comes from the cancer charity has a word for it: Acceptance. She has a word for everything, or a pamphlet, or a list. We don’t argue with her, we nod. We speak fluent pamphlet and leaflet. We take them politely, as if it will help. We listen, nod, agree, accept. We plod on, reading leaflets, boiling the kettle, waiting.
There are words and phrases that go with dying of cancer. According to the cancer charity lady there are five processes to complete during your dying: Forgiveness, Heartfelt Thanks, Sentiments of Love, Goodbye. None of us point out that’s only four, because our mother doesn’t bother with any of it, she hasn’t read this pamphlet. Cancer charity lady encourages us to prompt Mum, but none of us can find the right cancer charity words. When her breathing gets loud, when I reach for her hand and she pulls away, cancer charity lady is on hand to explain that there is a word for this too: Separation. When her head tips back and she opens her mouth wide, I lean in because maybe she wants to speak. She doesn’t. She wants to scream but has no sound. She screams anyway, soundless, a silent movie. Only Ned hears it. The last thing to go is hearing, we are told. She can hear you right up to the end. Is it the end? We don’t know. Is she dying? Cancer charity lady says she is. There is a word for it: Departure.
Ned kneels at her side like a person from a long time ago. I wonder if he can hear other things I cannot hear, silent things, just for him. She breathes in, stops. I breathe the out breath for her. Pick up where she left off. End of. Ned waits but I knew she was gone.