My Mother was born in 1944, a time of upheaval and resilience. That unwavering strength would come to define her life, shaping the way she loved, cared, and sacrificed for our family. She was not just a mother but the pillar that held us all up, especially when life tested our foundations.

My Mother was the main breadwinner in our family. My Father had a sporadic income, and it fell to my Mother to consistently ensure that we never went without. Her days were long, filled with hard work, yet she somehow managed to do the laundry, prepare supper, and still find the time to sit down and play board games with me. Despite the demands of work and home, she was always present for each of her children. Not one of her four children ever felt neglected, never questioned her love. It was as if her heart had infinite space, each of us secure in our own place within it.

Needless to say, I think I was the child that gave her the most problems. But she loved me anyway. She often told me that, in childhood moments of worry and fear, that it was me and her against the world. I believed that she would never desert me. And she never did.

Her dedication did not waver, even as her life brought its own challenges. Looking back, she must have possessed an enormous strength, deep inside her, to not give up, even when every odd was stacked against her. From what I have heard about my maternal Granny, she was the same. Granny passed her strength to my Mother, and in turn, my Mother passed it to her children.

When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was hit hard with hyperemesis gravidarum (HG), an ordeal that left me weak and struggling. My mother spent as much time with me as she could, easing my burden with her steady presence.

Her love stretched even further with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They were the light of her life, and she delighted in spoiling them, showering them with affection and treats. When we, their parents, tried to discipline them, their Ouma would often take their side, a playful betrayal that only deepened their love for her. She was the grandmother who would slip them extra sweets or defend their antics, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

My mother was soft and kind, loved by all who knew her. But beneath that gentle exterior was a core of steel. She was stubborn, a trait that served her well, especially when standing up for her children. Any teacher or principal who dared to mistreat one of us heard from her directly. Her voice, though never raised in anger, left no room for doubt about her fierce protectiveness.

My mother was more than her final days. She was strong, a force who faced life with bravery, fearlessness, and an unwavering stubborn streak. She was an excellent wife and mother, supporting us with a fierce loyalty. During my childhood struggles, she was always my fiercest advocate. As an adult, she became my best friend.

My sister and I shared so many wonderful years with her, full of laughter, stories, and gossip. She would stay at my house when my husband was away, and those days were full of a lightness that I will always cherish. After dropping her at home and on our way home, we would start to say “What would we do when…” But she or I would stop the other mid-sentence. We couldn’t bear to imagine our lives without her.

Her strength was both a gift and a lesson, teaching me the true meaning of resilience and unconditional love. Even in the final years of her life, she remained at the centre of our world. The days were hard, the choices harder, but not a moment went by that we didn’t feel her love. And in turn, we loved her back with a devotion that matched hers.

In 2016, our world shifted when she began showing signs of Vascular Dementia, triggered by a series of strokes. Dementia was a cruel thief that gradually took pieces of her away. She was plagued by horrific nightmares and terrifying hallucinations, even during her waking hours. She became a shadow of herself, more and more wrapped up in her own thoughts.

By 2020, as the Covid pandemic swept through, lockdown measures accelerated the decline in her mental and physical health. My brother and his children bore the weight of her care, a responsibility that no one should carry alone but one he managed with love and a strength that was nothing short of heroic. My sister and I drove down as often as we could to bathe her, juggling work, job losses, and schooling in an effort that strained us all and frayed the bonds between us and our brothers as well as their families. Arguments and raw emotions flared up; the strain felt unbearable at times.

Still, when faced with the reality of my mother’s condition, her four children came together. We met with her psychiatrist, who, with compassionate honesty, told us what we dreaded to hear: she needed more care than we could provide. My brother was exhausted, the stress evident in every weary look and unspoken word. Despite knowing it was what needed to be done, the decision to place her in a care home tore through us like a storm. It was against her wishes; she never wanted to be placed in a home. But it was also her wish not to be a “burden” to us, and reconciling those two truths was an agony we could barely stand.

It was decided that my sister and I would take her to the care home. My brothers, brave and strong as they were, couldn’t bring themselves to do it. The day we brought her was imprinted with anguish. We helped her to dress, but when we got to the home and they were ready to take her away, I involuntarily let out a sob. Her head whipped around, eyes searching, body instinctively moving as if to get up. It was a primal, motherly instinct: her baby girl was hurting, and she needed to comfort me. That moment spoke volumes about who she was, even in the depths of her illness.

After ten days, the care home allowed visits. My sister and I were the first to see her. When they wheeled her out and she saw us, tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t say much, her voice lost in confusion, but her eyes spoke for her. She remembered us, and beneath the fog, she thought we had abandoned her. It was a pain that cut us deep, a reminder of the choice we had made for her, but also a reminder of how fiercely she loved and how much she missed us.

The care home staff told us it was rare for a resident to have so many visitors. We even had to negotiate among ourselves, her children and her grandchildren, to decide who would visit and when. It was a testament to how much we loved her, and how deeply we all felt the pull to be by her side. The time she spent in the care home was brief but seemed like an eternity in its heartache. When she fell seriously ill and was admitted to the hospital, life felt like a cruel twist.

Unbeknownst to us, Covid found its way into her already fragile world while she was a patient of the hospital. When the hospital erred and accidentally sent her back to the care home with Covid, my brothers went and physically had to carry her out, to take her back to hospital.

On December 14th, the hospital restricted visitors, as we were going into a higher lockdown. We rushed to see her that day, an unspoken understanding heavy in the air that it might be the last time. I arrived early, the first one, and as I walked in, she looked up and met my gaze. Her blue eyes, though dulled by illness, still recognized me. It was a moment I will carry forever. I sat with her, spoke the words I needed to say, and wrapped her in my arms. I don’t know if she understood, but I hope she did. Before I left, I took a photograph of us, one last memento that would become priceless to me.

Covid found me, too, in those last visits. But that felt insignificant compared to what was coming. On January 1, 2021, the call from the hospital confirmed what we feared: her oxygen levels were dropping.

The following day, despite the oxygen being at its maximum, she was still fading. My brother, always her strong defender, forced his way into the hospital. From her side, he called us all on video. She had slipped into a coma, but we told her we loved her and that we would be fine. I told her that, even if I didn’t believe it myself.

At 1:30 p.m., my phone rang. I knew. It was my sister. Our mother was gone. I dropped my laptop, made sure she wasn’t alone, and fell to my knees, breaking apart in the sanctuary of my bedroom.

Planning her funeral was another cruel task. Stage 3 lockdown limited us to fifty mourners, a painful impossibility for our large family. I had to make choices that tore at me, knowing some “invitations”, or lack thereof, would never be received or understood. But the service was beautiful, even if devastating. Her casket couldn’t be brought inside, a stark reminder of the times. However, the service was held in her beloved church, the place she found peace and community. I think she would have been content.

When she left us, my world shattered. I still struggle to say “died”; it feels too final, too sharp. After the funeral, for eight long months, a real smile was impossible for me. Every happy facial expression had to be forced.

My Mother was the strongest of the three compasses that has guided me through life’s storms, always pointing me toward my true north. Even now, I have moments where grief comes like a wave, and I let myself cry for what I lost.

Our loss felt insurmountable. It shattered our hearts. I’m ashamed to say that I lost my faith in God for a while. My rage at Him for taking such a pure soul in such a merciless way felt feral and relentless.

My mother was more than the trials she faced; she was laughter over shared stories, the steady hand in hard times, and the unyielding champion for those she loved. Even though she’s no longer with us, her legacy is the enduring love that binds her family together, a love that, even in her absence, is as strong as ever.

Leaving us didn’t erase her presence. She had sown so much love into our lives that it continues to bloom, even in the darkest corners of grief.

Rest gently Mommy.