I’m not sure there is a great way or even a good way to die. I know there are some awful ways though. My mum died really quickly, when she was way too young of a cerebral haemorrhage. She was in the doctor’s surgery at the time, having not felt very well earlier that day, she was convinced by a friend to go. The doctor, having completed the check up, was walking back to his desk, about to tell her she was fine, when she fell off the table and died.

He tried to revive her, the ambulance took her to hospital and they hooked her up to machines, then operated on her head and re-hooked her up to machines. My father eventually gave the nod to have the machines turned off. None of the above was easy to write. Because even twenty-six years later I still get choked up about it. Maybe that’s a great way to die. It was certainly quick.

In her fifties, and about to retire, she was way too young and she didn’t ever get the opportunity to do so much stuff she wanted to do and I know there was a whole lot of stuff that went unsaid. So, is that a great way to die?

In my mind’s eye, I see her red lipstick smile and her brightly painted perfect finger nails and her beautiful dark skin. She took great joy in her grand children, though only knew them as babies. She missed out on seeing them become beautiful young men. She missed out on seeing me grow up too, which took some time, to be frank.

And what has this go to do with anything? It is the reason I record people’s stories now. You may never know when it’s too late. It will never be too early.