One week ago today, the nurse stopped me from entering my Mum’s hospital room, took me to the side and looked truly awful.

My gut dropped. She obviously sensed this and hastened to assure me Mum was still OK. But then she asked, were there any family members who would like to see Mum before, she, you know, passed away. I was in a kind of haze. I had been in not one day before and although Mum had been in a mountain of pain, she’d still be semi-Ok.

She then went on to tell me that she would recommend I contact any relatives within the next 24 hours. Holy Shit. My brother was working up in Townsville for the week. I called him to come home immediately.

I walked in and it shook me up. She was basically unconscious, with no dentures in, leaving her face morphed, gaunt and making it almost unrecognizable. She was on heavy duty morphine to stop the pain in her arm. Google morphine to treat terminal cancer and you’ll get my gist.

So I basically prepared myself for the worst. She could barely moan when we talked to her. Her hand was unresponsive and she wasn’t eating or drinking. The doctor told me to basically discontinue looking for an aged care facility. The cards were on the table.

My brother got back in time to see her, although she barely recognised him and if she did rouse, she often got most cranky with him. In fact, he got there the next morning and the nurses passed on the message that Mum was apparently adamant she wanted relayed to him “I forgive you”. Of course this sent my brother into a spin and wondering what in the fuck he could have possibly done that would possess her to say this. I assured him, nothing, probably something he did when he was 15 and like all teenagers, he was being an insolent little a-hole.

So to walk in to her room on Sunday and for her to wake up and basically act normal was both lovely and bizarre.

I did the normal kiss on the head, “Hi Mum” and she opened her eyes and looked directly at me and said “Who’s dead?” and then she started to cry. Apparently she had been having dreams under the veil of Morphine, that she had killed someone or someone was trying to kill her. To be exact, my best friend was trying to kill her. Sure, fits the profile. (Kidding Bon)

So once we assured her a) no one is trying to kill her, b) no one was dead and c) she hadn’t killed anyone, she settled down.

She wanted to know where she was, why she was here. I told her she had a sore arm. No need to revisit the whole aggressive cancer issue. She then went on to tell me she was going to take us all on a big holiday, her shout, as soon as she, and I quote “stopped fiddle farting” around and got out of the hospital. She was positive, lovely and the best I have seen her since this whole horrible sickness started. It lasted 4 hours. And to my brother and I, it was life changing. And I don’t say that to be naff. It truly was wonderful.

She told us stories about the rumours back in the day about the lady she owned a shop with and how the town thought they were lesbians. She laughed, we laughed and we learned her favourite’s singer is Johnny Farnham. Note the Johnny. Old school Johnny. She told me she never wants to see custard or yogurt for another 12 months after having it forced into her so much. I hope I’m there to see her get reacquainted.

Since Sunday, she’s been up and about more, but not quite as with it mentally. One of her nurses who hasn’t seen her since Friday was amazed at the change. Obviously she thought she was going to be greeted with an empty bed, not a giggly 76 year old with tales of homicide.

So that’s what’s happening with Mum at the moment. It could all change tomorrow but we’ve had this weekend. We’ve had this time.