My Journey after Mother Loss - Part 1
February 14, 2011—while others celebrated their love for each other, we waited for tests to be done and results to be shared. My mother was rushed to the emergency room after months of being treated for whooping cough. But it wasn’t just a cough.
Days later, the truth surfaced—her lung had collapsed, and fluid had to be drained. She was transferred to the Royal Brisbane and Women's Hospital for further tests. That hospital room became our world. For two and a half weeks, I was by her side, showering her every day. But I wasn’t allowed to shave her legs—my history with shaving often ended in band-aids and scars. Eventually, I was allowed, but only under strict rules—Mum’s rules - don't you cut me.
Then came the family meeting—the moment that shattered everything.
The doctor spoke, but my mind only retained two words: Cancer. Stage 4.
My heart ached in a way I had never known, a pain so deep it felt like lightning striking my very core. I wanted to scream, to demand the universe take it back, to rewind time and have her safe again. But time only moved forward.
Treatment started. Radiation. Mum made an appointment with the hairdresser to prepare for chemo. That same day, we discussed the family shaving their heads. I wasn’t allowed—Mum joked that my chubby cheeks wouldn’t suit it—but I did cut my hair to shoulder length, and my sister shaved hers. The cancer was aggressive. The doctors told us it was eating her from the inside out.
We treasured every moment together as a family.
On February 27, 2011, amidst the hospital stays and treatments, Mum and Dad celebrated their 29th wedding anniversary at the RBWH. It wasn’t the celebration they had envisioned, but love filled the room regardless. Dad brought in a small cake, and we gathered around, trying to bring joy to the moment despite the looming uncertainty. They held hands, exchanged smiles, and shared quiet words that only they could understand. Even in the face of illness, their love remained unwavering, a reminder of the strength they had built together over nearly three decades.
Not long after, Mum was transferred to Bundaberg Hospital, where she would spend her final days surrounded by family and friends. On the night of March 14, 2011, I left her at 9:30 p.m. and told her that when she came home, we’d have a pork roast with veggies.
On the morning of March 15, the home phone rang. It was the hospital staff—Mum had declined overnight. We needed to get there. The rain was pouring as we made the drive from Agnes Water to Bundaberg Hospital. It felt like forever.
We arrived to find a parking spot right out front. We rushed inside, but Mum was no longer in her previous room. A nurse led us to her new room. Her breathing was faint. I pressed the buzzer. Her feet were cold, so I put bed socks on her to keep her warm. The nurse simply told me, "Prepare yourself."
Prepare myself? For what?
Then it made sense.
Mum took her last breath while I held her left hand, and my dad held her right. Silence filled the room. The nurse confirmed what we already knew. Mum’s battle with cancer was over. Four weeks and one day since being taken into hospital, and less than three weeks from being diagnosed.
A friend of Mum’s came to visit and was told she had to contact the family. Soon after, Mum’s phone rang. It was her friend Jan. We had to tell her that Mum had just passed away.
We made calls to the family. We had funeral arrangements to make. We had visitors dropping in. We had condolence cards sent from far and wide. We had love, but we also had loss.
While making funeral arrangements, the director, Keith, called to say he was picking Mum up and bringing her home. We spoke about the funeral, and without hesitation, I said I would dress Mum. We did this as a family.
I told Keith he wasn’t allowed to wear his usual grey and white suit—he had to wear colour. And he did. The first funeral he changed his colours for was my mum’s.
Mum was bright, bold and loud, and her send-off was even brighter, bolder, and louder.
