Mum.
This is something I had to write, for others as much as myself. I didnât write it for pity or sympathy. I wrote it to be informative, both for those in this situation, as well as others. Maybe by reading this, people may turn a leaf and start being a bit healthier to lessen the risks. Who knows? Now, this is not pretty. But itâs honest.
 It sounds corny, but on the 21st of December 2012, when the world was meant to end in a fiery Apocalypse, my world (as I knew it, at the very least) ended as well. It was the day that I got confirmation that the cancer was terminal. It would be the last Christmas I would get to spend with my Mum. Iâd already gone and researched Pancreatic Cancer. It had a high mortality rate; 90% and above. One of the deadliest cancers, yet also one of the least diagnosed. A brutal, quick bastard of a killer. Quick in the sense that, once it gets diagnosed, it kills within months. Unfortunately, most sufferers wonât know they have it. It could be growing in them for the longest time before any symptoms appear. Itâs not until the cancer has reached the fourth stage, the terminal stage, that most sufferers finally get diagnosed. I cried. I still had hope. Then the scans and doctors reports confirmed it was terminal. Not Mum though. I had to read the medical documents to get my information.
 She came back from a doctorâs appointment in Sydney on Christmas Eve. The first thing she did when she walked in the door was run to the bathroom to be sick. She spent much of Christmas Day in bed, until the pain got bad enough that the ambulance had to be called once again. She told the ambulance drivers that she had been given four months, at the most. The first Iâd heard of things, yet again. She came back home that night. She went back in to hospital two days later. She didnât come back out.
 The first couple of weeks were OK. She was tired, and she was in pain. But she was still alert, still within her right mind. She still ate. She still talked. She had some hallucinations; swore she could see things that werenât there, like our dog running across the floor of her room, or spiders falling from the ceiling. I still donât know whether it was a result of the natural progression of her disease, the cocktail of drugs she was on, or both. She got all of her affairs in order. There was talk of chemotherapy. She decided against it. Realistically, we all knew it would only make her worse, and only afford her the smallest bit of extra time. Then, in the last weeks of January, she went downhill. It was a quick descent. She couldnât, or wouldnât eat. She needed oxygen wherever she went. Sheâd constantly slip into sleep.
 The last day I saw her before the call, she only sat hunched over, half asleep, nightgown hanging off her now too thin figure that used to be so much fuller and happy. That was the Friday. I couldnât visit her on Saturday because of work. Saturday night, there was a great thunderstorm. The city was blacked- out. I couldnât get to sleep that night. I stood at the open window, watching the pouring rain, and the lightning streaking the sky with a smile on my face. Iâve always loved storms. The bigger, the better. When all the little girls were squealing at the sound of the thunder and the sight of the lightning when we were younger, I wanted nothing more than to listen and watch. To go out and run around in the pelting rain, and to reach up and catch the lightning. Today, Sunday, I thought would be just another normal visit. Mum still had four months, didnât she?
 The call from my uncle on Sunday came when I was at work. I went to the hospital immediately. I didnât go in though. I sat out the front crying. If I didnât go in and see her, it wouldnât be made real. I just didnât want to see. Seeing is believing, as they say. It took over half an hour I gathered the courage to finally go in. I was greeted by my sister grabbing me for a hug. She led me over to Mum, telling me to hug her and talk to her. She could hear me. Mumâs eyes were half open. It still felt like she was staring at me, even though I knew those eyes were unfocused. I still couldnât look into them though. I sat down with the rest of the family to begin the vigil. The long, tiring vigil. Occasionally, when the drugs and morphine wore off, Mum would fight and try to get out of her bed, stuttering pleas of âHelp me.â I still maintain that, in those moments, my sister was one of the bravest people I have ever known in this world. Despite the obvious pain you could see it was causing her that was etched on her face, my sister stoically comforted Mum, but forcibly restrained her to make her stay in bed, no matter how hard Mum fought. I couldnât do it. I couldnât even hold Mumâs hand more than once. If I held on, I wouldnât ever have let go.
 She did fight, though. She fought for three days before she gave in. The last day was when the death rattle began. A horrible, crackling gargle of a sound by trying to breathe through the liquid trapped in the back of her throat. I distracted myself by reading The Hobbit. Iâd come to realise that death is nothing like it is in the movies. Of course, I wasnât naĂŻve enough to believe it isnât messy, it isnât long, and it isnât ugly. I just didnât realise how messy, how long, and how ugly it would truly be. Thereâs no lucid and happy patient giving a heart-warming speech and kisses all round before they finally slip into peaceful, eternal âsleep.â But I suppose we donât want the realistic, not when we see it enough in life. We want the ideal. Or maybe itâs a âthink of the children and their poor little fragility and innocenceâ type of thing. Who really knows?
  When she finally gave in, I donât think anyone really knew it was happening. I knew it from the moment the rattle stopped to be replaced by the shallow, hard- fought- for, little sighs that were escaping her lips. Then she was gone. There was much crying. I just looked up at the ceiling and said âThank youâ to whatever Deity who had decided to finally fucking take her and end the suffering. For all of us. The first thing that finally got me was my Dad crying. Iâd never seen him cry before. It was strange. I didnât really know how to deal with it. Then again, I usually donât know how to deal with emotion. Not mine and not the emotions of others. The next thing that got me was my sister running back into the room and throwing herself over Mum, crying and asking her why she couldnât have waited just that little bit longer until she got back. The thing that finally broke me and opened the floodgates was my Nan. She said I should come over and give Mum a kiss and say goodbye. Thatâs what finally made it real. With my sister holding my hands, I went up though. I gave Mum a kiss and said goodbye. I called her a stubborn fool as well, my making herself linger on so. But, as my Nan said, she had the heart of an ox. She was a stubborn as one too. Why would she be any different in death?
 Then it was over. We packed up her stuff. We gave her one more goodbye, and placed carnations on her chest. I teared up driving home, âLove Never Diesâ playing on the car stereo. I told our dog that Mummy wouldnât be coming home. I buried my face in his fur as his ears drooped. Like he had understood. Then I found the ring. Itâs a little five heart Marcasite band that I thought Iâd lost a few years ago. It was around the central peak of one of Mumâs crystal ring holders on her dressing table. Iâd been moving things on there that morning, cleaning and polishing and stuff. It wasnât there that morning.