An Open Letter To My Dying Mother

I am a career hoarder. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. I have files on my work desk from ten years ago. A former housemate and I collected empty beer bottles to signify the countries whose beers we had tried (I kept them after he moved out). I own t-shirts from the 1980s and Phantom comics from the 1970s. I went to a comedy gig all about hoarding, came out of it afterwards with a 12″ single of The Church’s Under The Milky Way which I still own (thanks Corrine Grant!). I even have the ticket stub still, in my collection of comedy gig ticket stubs; which are not to be confused with my music concert/sporting event/movie ticket stub collections… or my beer coasters. I am a career hoarder.

It’s safe to say then that I have trouble letting go of things. This in itself is both a blessing and a curse, and truth be told is deserving of its own post. The reason I bring it up here is borne out of news that I received around six weeks ago from my family back in Western Australia. I’ll spare you the details; it can however be summarised in these four words:

My mother is dying.

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