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She continued: “Roll on a few years and my eldest daughter Hannah is 20 and diagnosed with malignant melanoma stage 4. Hannah died within 12 months of diagnosis. Something that has never left me is to this day now 15 years since Hannah left earth, is when I see a random hair, I stop and pay attention. I think of Hannah and what I’d give to have her here, to leave an earthly hair trail for me again. I never imagined as a Mum there’d be a last time for random hairs. What I then cursed is now a portal to a love that never dies. I’m eternally grateful to random hairs and not knowing when our last one will fall.”
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Random hairs as a portal to an unending love. The beauty of that.
Susan told us about the day she was distracted, putting away groceries when her 24-year-old daughter rang. Susan told her she would call her the next day. But the following night, Scarlett had a massive pulmonary embolism; four days later she was declared brain-dead. “That was March 2021. I will be forever heartbroken. I now savour every single conversation with my son and I’m never too busy to talk to him.”
So much love, longing, heartache, wrapped up in last moments.
One shrewd thing my mother said to me when I was a kid was: “Just in case, if anything ever happens to me – or your dad – after we’ve had an argument, or you’ve said something you regret, I want you to know that I forgive you, and I love you.” (I think a relative had just died after saying something mean to a sibling.)
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It was such a kind thing to say, and I knew even then, as a young teen, that she was recognising that last moments don’t always go the way you would hope.
If we knew it was the last moment that we were seeing someone, talking to someone, making love to someone, dancing or crying with laughter with someone, surely, we would say something expansive and beautiful and meaningful instead of being our usual flippant or grumpy or ordinary selves. But there was grace in this comment because it also freed me from any possible regret. It meant that if anything had suddenly happened to my mother, we’d be able to focus on big love, not small words.
I’ve said the same thing to my own kids.
This week, while grieving beloved former Herald editor and ABC executive Judith Whelan, a woman I loved and admired as a friend and mentor, it became clear, again, that all days, in some way, have last moments. When we texted just a few days ago, making a date to meet again, she said: “SO keen to see you. I’m not going anywhere in a hurry, day or night”.
But she was; she did go.
Even before I became a mother, listening to the stunning Sunrise Sunset in Fiddler on the Roof would pluck that banjo in my chest. In the musical, these words are sung by parents at a wedding:
Is this the little girl I carried?/ Is this the little boy at play?/ I don’t remember growing older/ When did they?
When did she get to be a beauty?/ When did he grow to be so tall?/ Wasn’t it yesterday/ When they were small?
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze …
Swiftly fly the years.
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This week, I told my 15-year-old son about these “last time” conversations and we laughed. He was a hug-mad toddler, and I used to carry him all around the house, while doing chores, as he clung on like a koala, wrapping his arms around my neck.
Now, he is just – just – a fraction of an inch taller than me. Now, he is strong enough to pick me up and throw me over his shoulder. Now, his sister is in the final months of school, blossoming even as I gaze.
Julia Baird is a regular columnist. She is co-host with Jeremy Fernandez of the ABC’s Not Stupid podcasts.
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