Every visit I ask her how she is, and even when she was lying in a hospital bed, tubes down her nose, drips in her arms, she still answered “Fine.” I heard my father only say once in his life that he felt “no bloody good” and that was the week he died. What different people are the old.
I massage lotion into my mother’s hand, our fingers entwine and I feel her fingers gradually relax. The tension eases from her body and she soon slumbers.
Does she know that I love her? Love, the only gift that really means anything. Happy Birthday, Mum.