Mummy was a fighter, but this was a battle she couldn’t win

T

his time, it is real.

I feel it somewhere deep inside me. I hear it in my sister’s fear-filled breathing, during the quiet spaces of our phone conversation.

My younger sister Baila, who is calling me from England, sounds more defeated than I have ever heard her. Her voice has not rung this hollow throughout the five years since our mother’s diagnosis. There may have been frightened undertones back then, but none of us thought — could possibly contemplate — that this would be the thing that would take our mother from us.

This?

Really?

Our mother?

Surely, she would fight and overcome! Has that not been her modus operandi forever? She is the strongest women any of us have ever known. There is no way that this — this stupid, horrid illness — could possibly trip her up and spell her end. Not our mother, who had single-handedly taken on British society in the 80s and turned it on its heels; our mother, who had raised us with a steadfast faith and an uncompromising level of menschlichkeit, not to mention her ever-ready chuckle; our mother, who stood for no nonsense, but whose heart had melted when her grandchildren first broke the dishwasher, then poured out all her shampoos and conditioners into the bathtub to make rainbows, and finally, quietly rearranged all the beautiful works of art she had collected over the year.  All within the first few hours of our visit to London from Toronto, back in the day.

Not Mummy!

She would fight. And she would win. For that is — has always been — the story of her life.

But this phone call sounds different. There is no backdrop of laughter, no casual quality to the words. This is the real thing. Dread replaces optimism and something heavy — a slick, oily substance — infiltrates my body. I move in slow motion as I replace the receiver and walk over to my husband’s office to fill him in on the latest. He does not say a word, but turns on his computer and searches for flights.

Our youngest daughter, Aidela, is only two years old. It occurs to me then, in spite of all we have done, that she and the rest of our children may never know my mother properly. Yes, Mummy has seen them all, spent summers with them, bought them things and loved them to bits, but she may never actually see them to the chuppah, and they may never get the chance to value her properly. This thought brands a hole in my heart. I never thought this possible. I cannot accept it.