Toni Lodge's mum couldn't speak in the weeks before she died. But her last moments spoke a million words.

My mum died very early on the morning of September 9,  2013.

The night before, we had driven to the hospital twice, with the nurses telling us they thought this was it. 

Her large, bland hospital rooms were filled with colour and love whenever she was in there. Fake flowers, millions of photos, a canvas covered in multicoloured permanent marker with words of strength from every loved one who entered the room. Everyone knows that hospital smell... the pressed linen and weird hot food, the sanitiser and the smells of hope, but also devastation. Every time I set foot in the Hollywood Hospital, I smelled all of that, until I crossed the threshold of my mum’s room, where it smelled like Mum.

Watch: What Is Complicated Grief. Story continues below.

The smell association in our brain is incredibly powerful. It’s like how we can study while smelling eucalyptus and then sniff a eucalyptus-drenched tissue in an exam and the answers will come flooding back, or smell the air before rain and feel like we’re falling in love. Mum’s signature scent was J’adore by Dior. Every snuggle, every smooch, every time I hopped into her car after school, every tear-filled breakdown, was accompanied by that perfume. It’s something that, when I smell it now, can bring me comfort but also send me to my knees, depending on the day.

For the final two weeks of my mum’s life, even though she was unconscious, she wasn’t left alone for even a moment. Someone was always there, making sure she felt loved, and that she knew we were there with her. 

Even lunches were taken in shifts, and nurses would come and spend time painting my mum’s nails so she looked as chic in those final days as she always had. 

That final night of her life was the first she had been alone, not just since she got sick, but in her whole life, at least in the years I’d been a part of it. She had spent her time teaching me, looking after all of us, going to work, talking to me about my day while she was in the shower, or taking calls while she was at work, from one of us wanting to find out when she’d be home or to ask if we were allowed to boil the kettle by ourselves to make two-minute noodles during school holidays. 

She wasn’t able to speak, but she communicated a million words by waiting until we were all out of the room. She didn’t want us to see that. 

This sounds like a very sad story, and while it obviously is, can we all take a moment to appreciate my mum? Sorry, but who on Earth is that selfless that she waits until we’re all tucked into our beds having a rest to have a moment to herself before taking off?

Listen to Toni Lodge's interview on Mamamia's podcast But Are You Happy?, where host Clare Stephens speaks to high profile Australians and asks them the questions you're not allowed to ask. Post continues below. 

Like, it’s a sad fucking story, but I like to imagine her waiting to have that quiet moment where there was no noise, just her final smile, her final smell, her final sigh and then that being it. 

After all the pain, medicine, needles, operations. 

After a life full of laughs, tears, childbirth, full-time work, grocery shopping, yelling, whispers, movies, hand-squeezing, music, traffic, singing, phone calls and kids—it was all over. The one moment of silence she’d been waiting a lifetime for, and it was done. 

At the end, is it just quiet and calm? And do we regret asking people to keep it down or to be quiet? Or do we think back on the times it was too noisy and laugh at the insignificance of trying to hear the weather on TV over someone singing in the shower (me) or trying to concentrate on Candy Crush while someone incessantly talks to you about their day (also me)? 

There’s not a single part of my heart that thinks my mum felt lonely in that moment. I like to think she thought of each of us, and even in that moment of quiet, a quiet she had probably longed for through the noise of life, she filled her brain with the noise of us, one last time.

We all drive back into the hospital and see her lying there, peaceful and quiet. 

We pull all of the colour out of the room one final time and enjoy the last of her love. Enjoy the last time we’ll all be in a room together with her, and walk out of the hospital into a world where her scent is in a bottle from Myer for $104, but her smell doesn’t exist anymore. 

And the noise takes over again.  

You can listen to But Are You Happy on Apple or Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.

This is an edited extract from I Don't Need Therapy by Toni Lodge, RRP $32.99

Image: Supplied

Feature Image: Supplied