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When my mother-in-law died a few months ago at the age of 100, she left a huge gap in our lives. She had lived with us for 18 years and she was, to the very end, a vital part of our everyday world.
A close-to-perfect MIL, she kept our household accounts, managed the family grapevine, counseled the staff, and taught every child she could lay her hands on, almost until the very end. About two months before her death, she weakened visibly, slept more, ate less. Her care took up more and more of my time, and we all spent our free hours in her room, chatting quietly when she was awake, doing our work there when she slept.
Through it all, my daughter, Moy Moy, watched in silence. Moy has a profound disability and is completely dependent upon us for everything. She had a special relationship with her grandmother, which grew as Mummy became more dependent on herself. Moy couldn’t speak; Mummy couldn’t hear. They were both fragile and needed a lot of help to bathe, dress and eat. They seemed to understand each other.
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