By Writing assignment

I remember my mother’s phone call

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I remember my mother’s phone call on an ordinary Friday. The phone call that changed everything.

Writing assignment #9

Let’s go back in time

Twice a week my mother and I went to the athletics track together. At the beginning of 2023, she continued to have stomach pains and even had to stop running early a few times. She was on holiday a few times in January, February and March and of course went out for dinner, and because she was lactose intolerant she thought that was where the pain in her stomach came from. When the GP showed, via a finger prick, that her inflammation values ​​were high, a scan was made of her abdomen. I texted: it was exciting, but she texted back that she wasn’t afraid of anything, but of course you never know.

The call

I was on a Teams call with my colleague to sort out some things together, when my mother’s name lit up on the screen of my mobile phone. Turned off the Teams microphone for a moment and recorded my mother. She immediately got straight to the point: “It’s wrong. My whole stomach is full of cancer.” Instead of immediately shooting into emotion, it made me a little quiet. We just chatted for a few minutes. It wasn’t until we hung up and I explained to my colleague what was going on that my emotions came out and I cried like crazy. Shut down the laptop and immediately went to the emergency room, where she sat in a family room. She was very calm herself, which made us all quite calm too. Every now and then the waterlanders came up.

Positive

From the first minute my mother was positive. Not in the way that she thought she would get better, but in the way that she would get the best out of life. And so she did. Every minute she felt good, she went for a walk, did exercises, secretly worked from home and enjoyed the sun. And when she wasn’t feeling well, she stayed positive anyway, because that’s just not who she was. She endured it, she accepted it and tried to make it as pleasant as possible for everyone. I must honestly admit that her illness was a very intense six months, but that I enjoyed her immensely. The little things we did together, like painting her nails. The little conversations we had, also the occasional practical things. But especially from each other’s presence. When she was in pain, I massaged her. When she threw up, I threw away her puke bag and gave her a glass of water. Then really small things become really big. ?

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