Sixteen months ago, my mother – riddled with cancer – was told she had two months to live.
I raced to Sydney at the onset of her illness and have been her carer since. Over these months she’s endured radiotherapy, chemotherapy and now the doctors giving up on therapy at the same time world events have weathered all of us. I reached my mother’s house just in time for us to be confined together for Sydney’s long pandemic lockdown. Mum herself caught coronavirus during a brief stay on a cancer ward. Then my partner and I caught the wretched virus and were cut off from her, trapped with it at home.
