I’ve not managed to write a blog for a while. Life has a way of shifting your priorities, often without warning. And over the last three and a bit months, I’ve been immersed in something that changed me forever. It has been the hardest, most emotional, most rewarding and most loving experience of my life. This blog is very personal, and I write it straight from the heart.

I had the honour and I do mean honour of caring for my dear mum during the final stage of her life. She had lived with a number of health issues for some time, each one slowly taking a toll on her body. But in true Mum style, she kept going with determination, grace and humour. Much to her own surprise, she reached her 85th birthday. It was a moment of celebration, tinged with the reality that we were approaching the end.

Mum made it clear that when her time came, she wanted to die at home in her own bed, in her own space. She didn’t want a hospital ward, machines, or the noise and bustle of strangers. She wanted peace, comfort, and familiarity. And I promised her I would be there, holding her hand, making sure she kept her dignity right until the end.

That promise shaped everything that followed. It was a way to show her how much I loved her. A way to give something back for everything she’d done for me and my brothers over the years. What a gift it was to spend those final weeks together, not rushing, not distracted, but fully present.

We had time to talk. Really talk. Our conversations were deep, honest and often emotional. There were no more secrets between us. We laughed about the good times, and cried about the inevitability of what was coming. We remembered things from decades ago, things that made us howl with laughter and shake our heads in disbelief. We sat quietly together in the more reflective moments. And we said goodbye more than once, each time a little more tender and a little more real.

As Mum’s health declined, I often found myself moving between two roles: her caring son and the nurse I had trained to be. I relied heavily on my years of experience to make sure she was as comfortable and pain-free as possible. Some days, the medical side of things was hard to navigate emotionally. Other days, I was grateful for the knowledge it gave me tools to help her, to advocate for her, and to maintain her dignity when things became physically difficult.

Unfortunately, not every healthcare professional who came into our home shared that same dedication. Occasionally, I had to step in and challenge care that I felt wasn’t up to standard. One question I always asked was, “Would you be happy with that for your own mother?” It never failed to land. Silence would follow, along with a guilty expression and often a quiet nod of agreement. That question mattered. Because my mum deserved the best and I was there to make sure she got it.

In between the hard days, there were lighter moments that I’ll always treasure. Mum and I decided to sort through her things. It became a kind of ritual. I’d bring out drawers full of odds and ends and lay them on her bed. “How long have you had this?” I’d ask. She’d laugh and say, “Oh, I forgot I even had that!” The nostalgia was lovely. Some of her friends went home with bags of raffle prizes and old treasures that brought smiles all around. It became part of our farewell a way of passing things on, of letting go, and of remembering.

One of the most emotionally demanding parts of this time was arranging visits from friends and relatives so Mum could say goodbye. Not everyone knew what to say or how to handle it. But she did. She used the time to tell people she loved them, to thank them. And I was there, gently guiding those moments, supporting others in their own grief, even while processing my own.

I tried to bring her little comforts every day. I cooked her favourite meals when she was well enough to eat. When I had to give her a particularly nasty-tasting medicine, I followed it with Flying Saucers, those sherbet-filled sweets from her childhood. They always brought a cheeky grin to her face. It was such a small thing, but in those final weeks, small gestures meant everything.

I couldn’t have done any of it without the incredible support from the Home Hospice Service provided by Pilgrims Hospice and our local district nursing team. They were angels in every sense of the word. Compassionate, skilled, and genuinely caring. Mum enjoyed seeing them, and their presence helped us both feel safe and supported.

Even in her final days, Mum’s spirit never left her. A few days before she died, I asked if she wanted a cuddle. “Yes,” she said softly. So I climbed onto bed with her and we lay there, holding her close. After about 20 minutes, when my arm had gone completely numb, I gently said, “I’m going to pop downstairs and get a drink.” She looked at me with her cheeky smile and said, “Did I say you could stop?” We both laughed. “I’m in my sixties,” I told her, “and you’re still telling me off.” She looked at me, beaming, and said, “Yes, but you’ll always be my baby.”

That moment sums up everything about our relationship. She was my mum. Always protective, always loving, always herself.

And when the time came, just a few days later, she passed away peacefully. She was comfortable. She was pain-free. And I was there, holding her hand, just as I’d promised.

Now that she’s gone, the grief has taken hold. It comes in waves, sometimes a gentle ache, sometimes an overwhelming crash. But even in the sadness, I feel something else: pride. deep, unshakable pride that I could care for my mum in the way she deserved. That I could walk with her to the very end, showing her love and respect with every step.

I know not everyone gets that chance. I know how lucky I am, even through the heartbreak. And I hope, in sharing this story, it helps others to reflect on their own relationships, to say the things that matter while there’s still time, and to hold their loved ones a little tighter.

Mum gave me life, love, and laughter. In her final days, I gave her my time, my heart, and my hand to hold. That’s the circle of love, and I will carry it with me always.

With all my love,
Tony