2010-06-22 / 9:05 p.m.

Two funerals in three days. Leaving one funeral early because the nurse calls and says it's time. Racing home and thinking it's nothing, it's always nothing but when we got there, everybody was crying and I didn't cry because I didn't get it. Sure, she has cancer and she's dying, but those are just words that used to make me cry. I feel like I've accepted them now but in reality, I've just chosen to forget. Even when her feet don't move one in front or the other or she can't pull herself out of her own bed and can't stand back up after she falls onto the floor.

I collected her from the hospital almost a year ago after she got that really bad infection and all that time she made me play Coconut Skins on repeat. Over and over and over and we were stuck in traffic and that half hour journey took something more like two hours and she sang that same song over and over and really loud too like that song's all she was.

I think she was worried about her hair more than most of anything. She'd sit at that mirror and she'd brush her hair and she'd wonder if there was more hair on that brush than there used to be before. Stubborn. I thought about it and the only conclusion I can come to is that she was so fucking stubborn that she didn't let all of her hair fall out. Everybody else's hair fell out. Everybody but her.

The priest comes fast and he recites those ancient words over and over and there are tears everywhere and now I'm crying in the background and not joining in with the rosary. Eventually the nurse leaves and she stabilises.

That morning, we'd woken up and her breath was heavy and fast. Crackly. Suzanne said it sounded like she was cooking breakfast. It was funny at the time. My mother called it the death rattles. I didn't understand. And then she died that night. I understand now.

Cancer brought so many more questions than answers and still I find myself wondering. I'd been to two funerals in my life and now that number's doubled to four and I'm none the wiser. I told myself a whole year ago that I'd spend as much time with her as I could, and I tried for a while, but when she got that bad infection all I could think was that I wanted to run, but I couldn't run so I took what was next best and I tried my best to stay away. I didn't know what I should do or how I should react or if I was crying too much or not enough. I didn't know if I should ask questions or keep quiet. I didn't know if I should sit back or push. There are so many other questions and retrospect is generally a wonderful thing, but now that it's over, I still don't know a thing.

I don't know what I could have done to have avoided this sick, guilty emptiness. There is no handbook for this sort of thing and we could not have known. For that, I refuse to have regrets. I will miss her and I love her and I want her to be here, healthy and well. But it is not my fault. There's no control. Only love.