Easter Saturday: the day in between

This time last year (in ecclesiastical terms, because Easter was later last year), I spent the day with mum in hospital, as had become my routine.

We had a sense that she wasn’t going to get better, though little did we know that the oncologist, just a couple of days later, would be telling her that it’d be a matter of days. Not months, not weeks, but days. The precision of that moment, the room we were in, the view of the canal from the window, the texture of mum’s dressing gown. It’s still so vivid in my memory that I can barely believe so much time has passed since then.  

Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve done more. Should I have pushed to get that appointment moved forward? It was such a badly-timed bank holiday and maybe if we’d got the appointment earlier she could have had longer in the hospice which would’ve been so much nicer than that noisy hospital ward. Like Jesus’ disciple, in the face of injustice as they came to lead him away, should I have drawn my sword, so to speak, and tried harder to change things? Or was I right, like the women who stood by the cross watching it happen, to do what I did by just being there. With mum. Physically caring for her weakening body. Brushing her hair every evening, supporting her head as she spat into a cup after brushing her teeth, holding her hand, helping her feel clean and loved and still sacred.

That Easter Saturday, we knew in our hearts what lay ahead but we didn’t know the extent of it. And actually I’m almost glad we didn’t because that time in between was so precious, even, dare I say it, happy.

Mum and I went through the address book together. She had so many friends and I knew that at some point we’d have to write letters and make phone calls to tell them. And because mum cared so much for each of those people I wanted to ensure that I was really clear who each of them was and that they’d hear the news in a way that was appropriate to their relationship with her.

Each name in the address book had a context and a history. Mum shared memories of people whose lives had interwoven with hers and had enriched it. We chatted for ages about people, places, friends and moments. I heard stories I’d not heard before and we retold comfortingly familiar ones that had become part of the fabric of things.

And having talked and laughed and remembered it seemed natural to then move on to think about how mum’s life could be celebrated in a way that honoured the love that she had for each of them and, from my perspective, the mark she had on the world. She wanted a small family cremation, followed – “with enough time to enable people to make plans to come without putting any pressure on them to do so”  – a service of thanksgiving to which everyone would be welcome.

We talked about hymns. I’d found the words ‘Love Divine’ in her handwriting when sorting through some letters for her, and reminded her. Yes, she said, that had come into her mind a while ago. “And there’s that other one we sing at St Francis,” she reflected. “This is when I really wish I could sing and remember words”. After a joint effort, we got there. “And on that day, when my strength is failing, the end draws near and my time has come, still my soul will sing your praise unending…”

I told her that I wanted to speak at her service. “You’re brave,” she said, sparking protest from me that it was my choice and she’d not be there to stop me, followed by, “don’t make me out to be perfect. Remember how irritating you find me”. And then she proceeded to irritate me by trying to micromanage the thanksgiving service. “I think Waitrose do nice platters of sandwiches, but check how long in advance you need to order them. Don’t leave it to the last minute”. “Mum!” I sighed exasperatedly through gritted teeth. “I’m a grown up. I can order sandwiches, you know” (suppressing the niggling sense that mum knew us inside out and that a reminder to not leave it to the last minute was probably apt).

That was Easter Saturday. The deeply in between time. When Joseph, who was waiting for the kingdom of God, asked for Jesus’ body so that they could bury it. When the women prepared spices and perfumes then rested in obedience to the commandment. When, presumably, the disciples were still reeling from the crucifixion and feeling bewildered that it seemed to have ended so badly. When Mum and I looked back and looked forward, and when she was still so preciously, albeit precariously, alive and we could be with each other in person, facing the future together.