'My mum died suddenly in lockdown. Here's what I wish I'd said before she died.'

It was December 2019, and my mum was getting ready to visit me in Melbourne She was flying over from Malaysia with my dad to see me and my son, her grandson, Jordan. 

But she never made it. 

Instead, she was diagnosed with stage 4 kidney cancer that had metastasised to her lungs.

It was a huge shock to us, and I was in complete disbelief. We flew back home to Malaysia to see her.

Watch: Mother's Day can be a difficult time for some people. Post continues after video.

From a lady who was confident, always dressed up and extremely proud of her appearance, my mother became despondent and completely bedridden, tubes running through her nose. Her legs were swollen and painful. She appeared to have given up and lost her will to live in just a few short weeks.

Fighting all odds.

I always had a dynamic relationship with my mum. We didn't always see eye to eye, and argued often. But we also shared a similar sense of humour and a unique way of seeing things, giving us a very special bond.

When we were back to see her in her final weeks, I strongly refused to accept that this would be the end.

My father, aunt (Mum’s sister), and I helped her get in and out of bed and made her food every day. It was exhausting, frustrating and utterly depressing. 

When I saw her suitcase in the bedroom, half-packed for her trip to Melbourne, I completely lost it. 

I felt such deep and immense pain, sadness, and anger.

There were times I'd cry so hard, I'd throw up. I was in denial and trying to work through the shock of it all. 

Mum kept telling me she was done, that she was ready to go, but I dismissed, convincing myself she'd get better. 

I’d tell her: "Stop saying that, you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to recover and come to Melbourne to see us!"

She didn’t react and just remained quiet.

Karina and her mum. Image: Supplied.

We went to see an oncologist for a second opinion and Mum meekly asked him, "How many months do I have?"

He looked at her deadpan and said: "You don't have months, you only have weeks."

Time stopped, and I felt paralysed. The air became cold and dense. That’s what it feels like to have reality hit you hard in the face.

My poor, dear mother sunk into her wheelchair, but she was stoic and silent. I couldn't bear to look at her face, so I just put my hand on her shoulder. 

My dad and aunt were quiet - they probably knew that there wasn’t much hope.But I just didn’t want to believe anything.not even a prognosis from a qualified medical practitioner.

I clung to my hope we'd find a way to eradicate this vicious cancer.

While I was home, I got my family on the bandwagon of hope too. We tried everything from exotic plants, leaves and even cannabis oil, which boldly claimed it could shrink and destroy cancer cells. 

But Mum didn't get better. 

Losing mum in lockdown.

Unfortunately, we couldn't stay for long and had to return to Melbourne. I hugged my mother as tightly as I could.

The last words I said to her were: "I love you, Mum..." 

She seemed to look through me as she simply nodded her head. 

It was the hardest goodbye, but I convinced myself that the doctors were wrong and we'd see her healthy again. She'd take that trip to Melbourne. 

Back home I struggled, as I watched my mum on video calls slowly losing her ability to talk and communicate coherently. I still said to her: "You’re okay, ma, you’ll be okay."

But two weeks after our return to Melbourne, my mum took her last breath. We went into lockdown that very same day. 

Watching her funeral on a Zoom call shattered me; I was inconsolable.

I kept screaming: "Get up from that coffin! You're supposed to be here seeing your grandson! What are you doing?"

I was hysterical with grief. 

Listen to No Filter where Mia talks about 2020 as the year of griefs and how to process them. Post continues below.

Looking back.

It's now been three years and I think of my mother every moment of every do. What she'd be doing, what she'd be saying to me. 

Despite our differences, we had a lot of similarities and my mother was the only one who understood me and my quirks, who knew how to care for me when I was unwell. There's still the massive void in my life; I miss her incredibly. 

It took me a while to discover myself and I believe it has led me to be part of the Australian Carers Guide, a local publication for those caring for their loved ones. I’ve since met many fellow family carers who have sacrificed so much of themselves. We take refuge in this guide, which is a rich community of other carers and other organisations that help us to cope along the way.

I wish there was such a resource for us at the time. My father, aunt, and myself found it incredibly stressful, and that deeply impacted our ability to fully and properly care for Mum.

That remains my biggest regret. 

Sharing my story with Mamamia today has made me think about those who are blessed to still have their mothers, even those with rocky relationships. I just hope that they will find time to somehow reconnect with their mums again, forgive them and just love them. 

I've not yet gone home to visit my mother's grave but I will do so soon.

The very sad reality is that I never appreciated my mother completely until she was truly gone, and I feel like I should have been more patient with her, been kinder to her. 

If there was one thing I'd say to her now and every day of my life, it'd be "I love you, Mum, always. Thank you for everything."

It's a simple message, but I believe Mother's Day shouldn't be just one day of the year.

Let's make Mother’s Day every day by doing simple things like calling our mums, if we are lucky enough to have them, and checking in. It doesn't mean much to us, but it means the world to them.

Karina's mum with her son, Jordan mum. Image: Supplied.

Karina is a former journalist who contributes to the Australian Carers Guide, a quarterly publication with heartwarming stories and practical guides for people who care for their loved ones.

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Feature Image: Supplied.