At least she didn’t die alone, we got to be with her, watch cancer suffocate my mum, we got to listen to it, touch it, taste her death. At least there was a nurse, three times in five long days. At least it wasn’t Covid. At least she didn’t die alone. At least you got to be there for her. At least you had a funeral.
At least I kept my job and kept on working all the way, through grief, through my depression, found the strength to keep it up, locked down, burned out. At least I got to help some folk by listening and holding all their fears.
At least I got to have my operation, when
others were ignored. At least I got to be sliced open, but no one saw what’s really going on inside. At least I got to heal without the need to take time off, why bother when you work from home.
At least we don’t have kids to teach ourselves, they’re all locked up inside their own lives, far away. At least my love and I have time to catch up on TV, stop talking to each other, just to be, there’s me, and then there’s him, and educate ourselves on Global Warming, Trump and Brexit. At least we get that wake-up call.
At least I get to draw deep breaths and write about it all.
And, oh, I can knit socks now.
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