My beautiful mum has died

I was reluctant to post about my mum's death on LinkedIn. However, given she was – and will continue to be – such an integral part of my story, including the values which inform my professional practice – I have decided to share a tribute here. I also think it's important that we actively reshape the way we incorporate care and communication about significant life events in our professional lives.

The hardest thing I’ve ever experienced was watching her slip away in unimaginable pain over the last six days.

We did end of life care at home.

Prior to entering her deathbed (a hospital bed that arrived from the palliative care nursing team), mum had lived with cancer – metastatic colorectal cancer – for over three years. When she was first diagnosed in late September, 2021, she was given a prognosis of three months (a detail she tried to keep from my sister and me).

I was living in Naarm Melbourne at the time and thankfully, had the flexibility with the nature of my work to be able to pack everything up to be with her. My father and sister were also by her side every step of the way and utterly devoted. We all take great comfort in the fact that she knew this and understood how deeply she was loved right to the end. We also recognise how fortunate we are to have been able to do this at a time of gut-wrenching, state-sanctioned genocide.

As a human, my mother was quite extraordinary and – like everybody who’s ever existed in this life, like, ever – was multifaceted. She was easily the most courteous person I have ever met. Even when she was in liver failure (due to multiple metastases in her liver and unsuccessful treatments for the multiple mets in her liver) and in the process of losing her vision (due to mets we didn’t know about in her brain and the effect of cataract-causing chemo) she always went out of her way to be utterly polite, warm and kind to every nurse, doctor, or random visitor. She’d say things like: “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken much. Thank you for coming.” Or, when she was largely blind: “I’m sorry for not making eye contact with you. Thanks for all your help.” It was inspiring, humbling and occasionally infuriating.

She was a dutiful person to a fault: crossing every ‘T’ and dotting every ‘I’. Ensuring she was always on time with those extremely irritating things one “must” do like taxes. She would never use the ‘good’ crystal or the fluffy bath towels when there were others available – no matter how tatty – that were still functional. But despite this attention to detail and adherence to certain conventions, she also had an inquisitive and expansive mind. She loved participating in a chewy hypothetical and she always loved learning something new about our celestial skies, histories or natural world.

Professionally, she was an audiologist with a background in psychology and she also worked as a diligent practice manager for a long-standing, community-focused surgery. It was the kind of place that doesn’t really exist anymore in this age of corporation-owned medical clinics with multiple doctors and quotas. This surgery had 1000s of patients on the books and over three generations of family members. The staff were invited to weddings, christenings, funerals. No patients were ever rushed during a consultation (which of course, although wonderful in terms of client care, meant that mum got used to working 14-hour days). During climate emergencies like floods, the surgery was often the first place the community would come for shelter, to charge their phones, or for advice. Mum was incredibly proud of this.

Mum never got a chance to enjoy her retirement. She was working right up until the point of diagnosis which incidentally came from a random blood test. Apart from being tired, she was asymptomatic and had received the all-clear on those send-away bowel cancer tests the year before. So, it goes.

She cared deeply about the world and human rights and was disgusted by this colony’s treatment of its First Nations people. After retirement she had wanted to volunteer at a community centre where she could work with asylum seekers and refugees. She had also hoped to visit Scotland – her father's homeland.

Mum had magnificent speaking (and singing) pipes and was always very interested in voices and how we choose to use them. In fact, when my sister and I came into this world, she recorded several cassette tapes worth of conversations as we learnt about sounds, words and communication. We are blessed to have these.

Mum had a knack for puzzles and was extremely competitive. Her eyes would brighten as she would defeat you at Boggle or cards (she especially liked to play 500) and prepare to play again. She was also a classic beauty and although I’m sure she was probably thankful for this blessing, she cared much more about substance and kindness.

She gifted both my sister and I with an incredible passion for music – something that was an endless source of elation and transcendence for her right to the end. Something that we are all tremendously grateful for.

Although as a media worker and documentary filmmaker, I am a risk taker – a characteristic which has always been difficult for my risk-adverse mum – she was immensely proud of my work in Palestine and supported me as best she could.

We are all devastated and exhausted but so pleased she is no longer suffering. She will be a part of us always and continue to inform our stories and approaches.