It's Advent and I'm reminded of losing my mum

A sorrowful anniversary is occurring as I write this, whilst the weeks tumble towards Christmas.
A year ago, on the cusp of returning from a happy weekend spent at the home of my brother and sister-in-law in London, visiting my daughters with my young son in tow, I was concerned to receive a phone call from my husband, who had been holding the fort at home, delivering the news that my mum had been feeling unwell all weekend and was awaiting contact from a medical team.
Typically selfless, she had impressed upon my husband that my brother and I were not to be troubled with this information before it became impossible to ignore; judiciously, he chose to impart it in time for my brother to resolve to hop on the train that would take my son and I back home, and we all set off together, uncertain what awaited us.
When we alighted, my brother escorted my son home in the same taxi that ferried me to the hospital, where my mum had now been taken. Her medical history over the previous 18 months presaged this course of action: ongoing cardiac concerns had put her in a parlous state of health, and we had come close to losing her twice during that period.
Nonetheless, as I entered the hospital and was directed by the helpful staff, I remained sanguine, confident that my mum was a tough old bird and would fight off this latest assault just as she had the others.
As I approached the curtained bay that was my destination, I could detect the reassuring familiarity of my mum’s voice alongside that of my husband. I pulled back the curtain and smiled, relieved to see her sat up and holding forth, looking for all the world as though she were having a good old chinwag with the nurses.
My husband bade us farewell, and my mum and I sat and chatted quite happily as ministrations were undertaken by various personnel, and medics came and went. One doctor gently raised the sensitive question of whether she wished to be resuscitated, should she become acutely unwell.
Thankfully, her response - that she had no desire for intervention - was not news to me; nonetheless, I fervently hoped this resolve would not be tested. Without either of us wishing to be maudlin, we circled quickly back to the conversation once the doctor had taken his leave, and spent a useful if somewhat macabre half hour discussing the content of mum’s funeral, frequently waxing quite merrily about particular music or readings with which she wanted to augment the service - I suspect there may have been a few eyebrows raised amongst any eavesdroppers at our cheerful tones and irrepressible humour.
I made careful notes of her particular wishes, imagining nonetheless that I would not be required to re-apprise myself of them for some time. Her many assessments convinced staff that it was necessary to admit my mum, and she was taken to a ward after a few hours’ wait.
Unexpectedly, a few days after her admission, her health deteriorated to the point that we requested a sacramental visit from our parish priest. He attended, administering the rites with simple grace whilst we looked on, moved by the reflexive responses my mum made in a barely conscious state to prayers which had been such an essential and cherished part of her life.
Following this, staff, sensing that my mum was slipping away, accommodated a move into a more private room, liberating us and other loved ones from visiting limitations. Despite our worst fears, she rallied, and my days took on a soothing cadence, with regular hospital visits alongside the frequent ferrying of my dad and brother and my sons to my mum’s bedside.
My daughters travelled down from London to attend their nanna, and my sister-in-law took the time to visit, too. My mum’s two brothers and their wives journeyed from afar to keep her company, and friends popped in for a chat or spoke to her on the phone.
After an extended period, things began to look more optimistic: staff mooted the possibility of discharge and plans were set in motion for the installation of a hospital bed and the provision of a package of care at home. We were tentatively looking forward to her homecoming when, devastatingly, she was diagnosed with COVID.
That voracious and indiscriminate infection permeated the ward: all access ceased. Daily contact with staff painted an increasingly bleak picture, until the fifth day, when a doctor phoned to say that we should gather at her side. I collected my dad and brother, and we kept vigil until late into the evening.
My brother asked the staff permission to stay, and my dad and I left my mum in his solicitous care. Devastatingly, she did not see the first light of a new day. Almost a year on, I am still adjusting to losing her, as Advent - one of our favourite times of year, which she adored in part for its unparalleled musical beauty - announces its arrival. It’s a bittersweet feeling, my habitual festive joy tempered by the memory of such profound loss, but I am comforted by the belief that the music she listens to now is far more heavenly than anything that can be offered on this mortal plane.