Mum went home today, just for a couple of hours whilst we cleaned out her house. It gave her the opportunity to stop pretending she will be returning there.

Mum to date, will have lost at least 12 kilos. Not much left when you only start at 65kgs. She gets exhausted walking from the lounge room to the washing line. Which of course, she insisted on doing while she was back home. Washing all her clothes, hanging them out, making herself a cup of tea (the total amount she ingested all day) and pulling palm fronds off the palm tree out the back.

No amount of “sit down and relax” would subdue her. We were warned about taking her home to her house. About the effect it may have on her.

We knew this but she wanted to go. She wanted to have her last bath in the bathroom that has been her home for the last 20 years. She wanted to make her last cup of tea and look out the window at the same view that has been hers for as long as she could remember.

But even she admitted today, she could not have come home and been independent. And that must have really hurt.

And, as far as I can tell, Mum has given up. I kind of knew this, but after a discussion today with her nurse, one who I see a lot and is very caring, I started to admit to myself that the mind is the ultimate downfall.

After enquiring about the fact that mum is no longer eating, she said to me very matter of factly “Well, you’re mother is giving up”.

I don’t want her to. I want her to be hearty and full of willfulness and just well, enjoy the time she has left.

Our family has had a bit to do with depression in the last couple of years. It’s hit extremely close to home. Too close.

I think I’ve always been the “suck it up” variety of person. I’ve often said I don’t have the luxury of being depressed and not able to “get on with it”.

When you break your finger you go to a doctor and they fix it. When you split your head open, you go get stitches. That sort of illness I can see. That sort I can believe.

What happens when your mind is no longer well? It is so incredibly frustrating not being able to fix something that doesn’t appear, on the outside, to be broken.

My husband, some years ago, totally out of the blue, told me he was incredibly sad. Then he started to cry. And he cried. And cried. And I went inward, motherbear like. I had two children. I had to think of us. He told me he was depressed and nothing much meant anything to him.

I just couldn’t fathom why a strong, lovely man with two healthy children, a wife who loved him, who had a house, a job, friends and no financial struggles (more than any other young family with a modest mortgage) would suddenly feel he could no longer go on.

It made me angry. It made me want to run. It made me turn into a mother bear where all I cared about were my children and what was best for them.

I like most people not touched by mental illness or ignorant to it, just couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.

But I had to. And I had to understand fast. See there appeared to be no catalyst as to this change. We didn’t have any tragedies. We weren’t suddenly faced with a challenge to life as he knew it.

What he did do though was take some pills to stop his untested stomach complaint. Which, upon further investigation, we discovered, wipes out the bad stuff, ie the bad bug in his stomach but also pretty much zapped his serotonin. I was about to realise serotonin was pretty important in life. It ‘s your happiness. And his was gone.

That coupled with saving a complete stranger who was knocked out by his surfboard, whilst being the only guy surfing with him one early morning, culminated in this, what can only be described as a maker or breaker or our marriage.

The surfer survived, was a paraplegic and went back to teaching, but has never once contacted my husband to thank him. My husband didn’t want a ticket tape parade, he didn’t want anything. But I did and I would like to think that if someone saved my life, I’d at least have them over for a BBQ to say thanks.

Long story short (really? It’s been pretty fucking long so far, I hear you saying) we worked through it. It took years. I had to regain my respect for him. I know that’s not right or fair, but that’s the way it was. I still flinch when I hear the word depression. I still associate bad times with depression. We have two more close associations with Depression in the last two years. For one person, it appeared to be from nothing. For one, it was from losing everything. What I was though was more understanding. I hope it appeared so anyway.

So what does this have to do with my mother dying of cancer? Everything.

Your mind is so important. If you don’t have it, you have so very little. Even though her body was failing on her, I guess I thought she as a person would remain the same.

My mother has never been one to dwell on stuff. If shit happens, her motto was “you get over it and stop whining” This is not an ideal way to live life, not by any stretch, but sometimes self-pity and pandering is also a waste of time.

So I guess the happy medium is to have compassion. To try to understand depression and don’t be too hard on yourself if you can’t.

As far as mum goes, all we can do is tell her we love her, we want her around and to keep going. We still need her yet.