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I’m not spiritual, I’m not religious but…

19 August, 2015

there was one moment that, if I was, would be all I needed to justify my faith.


17th August 1989. My Mum had been in hospital for the last 6 days, rapidly (or infinitely slowly as it seemed to us in that bizarre, surreal timeframe that hospitals exist in) succumbed to the cancers destroying her. We left for the evening, leaving my Dad to sit and sleep in the chair next to her.

I went to bed, exhausted, and was watching a bit of telly to unwind when at a couple of minutes past 11pm, I felt an enormous sense of relief and release. My self sighed, and my inner voice said “it’s alright now”. I knew that my Mum’s suffering was over. And a minute later, the phone rang. It was Dad, confirming what we had all been dreading and hoping for in equal measure, and what I knew had happened.

I’m not spiritual, I don’t believe in a soul. I’m not religious, I don’t believe in a God or that we go anywhere when life ends. But I believe that I felt the exact moment of my Mum’s passing.

From → Blogging, My Head

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