Losing Love

A little autobiographical story.....please feel free to critique.


The day I lost one of the greatest love’s a daughter can ever know is etched in my mind and I have no doubt that although years may pass and fade that day will remain with clarity.
The sun had shone brightly on that day and I, with my 2 children, had spent it at the beach. We played ball games, dug holes -our Alsatian Ricky won the prize for that game, and we buried each other up to our necks in the sand. We cooled off with frequent dips and races in the chilly Atlantic Ocean. I had unwound with a good book and lay back dreamily absorbing the scenery: the beautiful azure blue of the sea as the sky reflected on it. To my right reared the imposing Giant’s Causeway and to my left the picturesque houses along the Portrush to Portstewart coastline rose along the hill and in the distance the rugged coastline of Donegal. It was an idyllic day.

My husband had gone home on the previous Sunday evening after a fraught weekend with us. Relationships were not good. I was to stay in our mobile home with our 2 children and dog for the summer and my husband was to come back next weekend bringing my mother to stay with me.

After dinner on that unspoiled Tuesday my son went into town with his friends and my daughter Kate and I went to the family disco on the caravan site. I left a note on the table to let my son Geoffrey know where we were, knowing he would join us when he returned. The night was going really well and I self-indulgently lounged in the cosy chairs sipping my diet coke with ice and lemon watching kids, full of zest, having a blast with their holiday friends. 

My peace and enjoyment was suddenly shattered when I saw my husband walking towards me. How like him to come all this way to check on me. Anger rose within me.  But before I could argue with him for spoiling such a superb time, what he said to me jolted me and my anger dissipated into fear and panic. Mum had collapsed, she’d had a stroke, was in hospital, all the family were there and Jackie, my oldest sister, was on her way from Scotland. 

 Once packed, although I have no idea what as the following day there was no clean clothes or underwear, we raced away from the caravan park; bombing down the road with sincere urgency. In less than an hour the children and cases had been left at home and I tumbled out of the hospital lift to be met at the door by my aunt Adeline. She tried to prepare me for what to expect but I doubt that there was anything she could have said or done to lessen my shock.

In the lonely yet crowded side ward mum lay in the bed so frail and gaunt, looking as if she had shrunk in only the few days since last I seen her.  Her body heaved, shook and rattled with every laboured, rasping breath. Her hand that so surprisingly gripped mine felt like bone covered only with fine filament of skin. Instinctively I knew her so short life was ebbing to a close, unlike her previous stroke no prayer would restore her to health.

These were to be my final moments with mum, the last chance to say I love you, to say thanks, to say goodbye.