“Have you made peace with it, you know, with the fact that you’re dying?”
It's not the easiest question to ask someone you barely know, then again, I was here to write her memoirs. If she wasn't dying I wouldn't be sitting in her room at the rest home, where the walls had the personality of a non-existent Summer, which perfectly complimented the passive mood lighting overhead.
She is a friend’s Mum, someone I knew of only by name until three weeks ago. How do you earn the trust of a stranger to allow you insight into their life, maybe into memories their loved ones didn't even know about? The answer is to have compassion without pity, to listen with curiosity and to write with the intention of giving them a genuine voice.
They say that no parent should have to bury their child, yet as an adult and seeing your parent in pain is just as hard. Nothing prepares you, and you have to find your own way through it. My friend knows this too well.