There is no delicate way to say this. Mum's got cancer. The bad sort. The kind you can't operate on, or get rid of. In other words, she is dying.
In the space of just two months I have witnessed my mother deteriorate from a vivacious and witty 56 year old woman into a bumbling, shrivelled shell, utterly dependent on morphine. Mum's gone. She's been replaced by a woman I could never have imagined, not even in my most troubling nightmares. The cancer hit her pancreas, and sat there, leaking silently into her liver, we have no idea for how long.
I'm offended by the cruelty of this disease. How dare it take away my beautiful mother's energy, personality and future?
I want to curl up on her bed and weep into her lap, but she barely knows I'm there. Sometimes I sit there, watching her lapsing in and out of consciousness, and I think 'you are dying'. Then I turn around and I say 'oooh, let's get you some clean pyjamas out, shall we?'.