No Words
written by: Andrea Walker
I don’t recall how I sat down when they rang to tell me you’d shuffled off this mortal coil. Did I flop down? Did my knees buckle? I was near the bed, with a coffee awaiting my return (it never got finished). That I do remember. I was full of toast crumbs, I recall absentmindedly flicking them off my clothes, as the flat, emotionless voice of the inexperienced young doctor told me the news I’d been dreading. I thought we had more time. Typical of you, the one time you were early in a lifetime of late arrivals. “Sorry love, I forgot the time…” yet here you were, creeping off, all alone, no fanfare, no goodbyes. It still bothers me now. Did anyone notice? Or did it take, in that busy bustling hospital ward full of over-worked staff, an age to realise your eye (I can’t say eyes, for that great hulking tumour covered the other one) was now permanently closed, your skin the colour of marble? So many questions I have and no answers, although I’ve complained, it’s not right how they treated you in your final days. Lack of pain relief, lack of care. It destroyed us to see you, dementia ridden, unable to communicate your pain. You bit my hand that final day. I blew up like a bottle of pop left in the sun too long, demanded they review your chart. It worked; you finally, were pain-free. But why did you wait, to leave all alone, mum? I didn’t get to say goodbye. You’d stopped being able to talk five days before the end. No more words, and by God, you’d never been silenced before. My dad used to say they’d have to nail the coffin down to shut you up, then he’d laugh and hug you. He’s been gone even longer, again, he left without a word in the middle of the night. He bled from the inside, nobody knew, least of all me. No goodbye there, too, just a lukewarm body in the emergency room. Such stillness, surrounded by such chaos. We were on a desert island, our ocean of grief, separated us from the rest, till we had to leave. You never got over it. I like to think you’re reunited, talking his hind leg off as you did. I’m an adult orphan now. It’s weird and scary. I’m top of the tree. I’m the wisdom giver, the elder, it’s a lot. I’m not ready. I don’t have the words, but I’m hopeful one day I will.
- No Words - February 1, 2026
- Hubble Bubble - October 24, 2025
- Swan Song - October 2, 2025
