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We were at our friends’ wedding in Poland.
I remember the reception room, flooded with light. Light reflecting on the bookcase vitrines, light dancing on the crystal glassware on the table.
Pawel’s mobile rang and for some reason he didn’t take the call in the main room. He went upstairs. I remember thinking he was gone for ages and that it was peculiar that he had left the room. Premonition? He came down eventually and he was changed. A few months later, a common friend told me she couldn’t recognise Pawel – that he had gotten old all of a
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sudden.
We went back home – to London. There followed a mad rush of sorting things out – we were in the process of buying our first home and I was pregnant. A week later, Pawel left for Poland. He remained there for the next three months.
This was in October. At Christmas I joined him at his family home, in a town in the North of Poland. I couldn’t recognise Mirek – his dad. He had lost so much weight! His mum, Ania, too was changed, she looked tired, but still managed to be the welcoming and warm host she always was.
By then, we knew
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that Mirek was terminally ill.
That Christmas was different. For me, it was something to get through. For Pawel and the rest of the family, it needed to happen. We all knew it was the last Christmas with Mirek.
Just after Wigilia, the main celebration which in Poland takes place on the 24th of December, Ania told us she wasn’t feeling well. On the 25th in the morning, she couldn’t feel the left half of her body. We took her in for a check-up. By the evening, she had been admitted to hospital, and on the 14th of January, Ania was
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gone.
Mirek passed away 14 days later.
I will always believe the way Mirek and Ania died was a reflection of the way they lived. They loved each other, and what they had built together was most precious: their family – built against all odds, but bringing them so much happiness. I think they did not see the point of living apart.
Dedicated to all who have lost someone at Christmas. It does get better.
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Alexandra Cuncev - 1 Dec 18
We were at our friends’ wedding in Poland.
I remember the reception room, flooded with light. Light reflecting on the bookcase vitrines, light dancing on the crystal glassware on the table.
Pawel’s mobile rang and for some reason he didn’t take the call in the main room. He went upstairs. I remember thinking he was gone for ages and that it was peculiar that he had left the room. Premonition? He came down eventually and he was changed. A few months later, a common friend told me she couldn’t recognise Pawel – that he had gotten old all of a sudden.
We went back home – to London. There followed a mad rush of sorting things out – we were in the process of buying our first home and I was pregnant. A week later, Pawel left for Poland. He remained there for the next three months.
This was in October. At Christmas I joined him at his family home, in a town in the North of Poland. I couldn’t recognise Mirek – his dad. He had lost so much weight! His mum, Ania, too was changed, she looked tired, but still managed to be the welcoming and warm host she always was.
By then, we knew that Mirek was terminally ill.
That Christmas was different. For me, it was something to get through. For Pawel and the rest of the family, it needed to happen. We all knew it was the last Christmas with Mirek.
Just after Wigilia, the main celebration which in Poland takes place on the 24th of December, Ania told us she wasn’t feeling well. On the 25th in the morning, she couldn’t feel the left half of her body. We took her in for a check-up. By the evening, she had been admitted to hospital, and on the 14th of January, Ania was gone.
Mirek passed away 14 days later.
I will always believe the way Mirek and Ania died was a reflection of the way they lived. They loved each other, and what they had built together was most precious: their family – built against all odds, but bringing them so much happiness. I think they did not see the point of living apart.
Dedicated to all who have lost someone at Christmas. It does get better.
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