This might sound terrible, but I'd rather Mum had died whirling around a dancefloor than lose her to the drip, drip decline of dementia
The missed call from the nursing home on my mobile at 1.58am told me what I already knew. Our tiny but mighty mum had died in her sleep just hours after my sister and I had left her bedside. We returned later that morning to a room with an empty bed, this time to pack away her slippers and favourite green cardigan, take down family photographs and remove the cards we'd given to mum exactly two weeks earlier for her 83rd birthday.
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