At the beginning of March mum was given a big gold star, she was the Peter MacCallum Cancer Institute’s pin up girl and she told them she’d never felt better in her life and, she went on, I’ve never looked better either. They did warn us – slight chance of infection. And 3 months later. We’re all here. This is all about Shirley. Yes mum. You’ve got prime position. Spotlight on you. And let’s face it. Really, it always was. This amazing woman, in all our lives, who sat back and watched us do right, do wrong, be happy, be sad, succeed and fail – and never once did she falter in her love for us – or her belief in us. I know you loved her, that’s why you’re here, but do you have any idea what it’s been like to have someone in your life who loves you like she loved us. Sure – we’re her kids – and that’s what mums do best – unconditional love. But she did more than love us just as her children. She loved and admired us as people. Her love was about believing in us, listening to us, understanding us – even if what we were thinking and saying was complete bullshit. All of you know us well enough to know that is something of which we are indeed capable! But we’re her kids. We got to fuck up = monumentally and you know what she did? She stood by us. Waited for us to work through it and get over it. Of course we would then realise that it was what she hadn’t said, her wise silence, her incredible strength – that had once again, pulled us through. A love like that is rare and can only come from someone like Shirley. This last month mum spent in hospital with machines supporting her breathing which meant – she couldn’t talk. Never fear, we still got the message. She had always said about Andy and me “when those two get together they never stop talking. I have never heard two people talk so much.” I told her that Andy and I had not stopped talking from the airport to the hospital. She rolled her eyes and smiled. Not being able to speak would drive anyone mad – but just consider this and picture it. Shirley couldn’t speak. But we could. And we did. For a while there she would write TALK TO ME. Oh mum, no problem. She got the political news, and our opinions on that, our work news, and opinions on that, our life news, and opinions on that, the staff at the hospital – and our opinions on them, the world and people in general – and our opinions on it all! And you know what she did? She took it all in, like she always did. Didn’t miss any of it; never did. She would write her comments on a note pad. And so the conversations would flow. She did her usual stopping the conversation cold with her mighty words of wisdom. The one that threw us all was “nobody is a shit.” You can imagine our reaction. The previous Prime Minister was someone who immediately sprang to mind. No, she wrote. Nobody. Not 100%. And you know, I’ve thought a lot about that. We thought she was just thinking that because she was perhaps a little delirious, suffering one of her many infection and drug induced hallucinations. Not at all. That’s what she always thought. Always. She gave everybody something. Something that made them feel so damn good about themselves. You know that’s what she did. She did it for you too. When there were 2 or more of us at her bedside, we’d really get into top gear. We’d sit around and talk and laugh, and talk and cry and shout and swear – you know how much I love to do that. But after her decision to stop all treatment – then all she wanted was peace. We had a big party around her bed in ICU; Harry and Greg turned up and were shocked not to find nibbles and champagne. She just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. We laughed, and I mean roared with laughter, we cried and then we laughed some more. We all talked over the top of each other. And she wrote her notes and rolled her eyes and waved her hands and smiled and smiled that beautiful smile. She was so happy, so relieved. Peace at last she thought. But no. Still we talked, about her, about us, about her wanting peace, but we just wouldn’t give it to her. Too much to say. So she did what she always did, took matters into her own hands and just waited – like she always did. She waited for the quiet visit. There was only one. It was dad’s. Every day he’d get up at 5 o’clock in the morning and make his way down to Penrith. He’d talk a little, kiss and cuddle, and draw – a lot. Around midday on Sunday, mum waited until there was just dad and Jan in the room. Look I know, Jan’s one of us, she’s a talker, but not on Sunday morning, believe me, she was all talked out. At last thinks mum. Peace. I can rest. In. peace. She waited a little while, I’m sure just to check that the whirlwind of talking and laughing and crying and general noise of us was not around (we were on our way) and then, with her one true love and very best friend by her side, she died. Shirley loved life but she had no sorrow about dying. The sorrow is all ours. We have loved our lives, so much, and that’s because of what Shirley gave, unconditionally, to each and every one of us. Oh yes indeed Mr Auden, I wanted to stop the stars from sparkling, and I wanted to do away with the moon and the sun. But then I thought, that’s not what Shirley would think, not what she would do, and certainly not what she would say. She would be living her life – counting on the sun, the moon and those stars to just bloody well get on with what they’re meant to do. She’s counting on us to get on with it too. She’d give us a sideways glance with those sparkling blue eyes, and say in that matter of fact voice hers “look on the bright side”, then she’d raise her eyebrows, give us a nod and a wry smile, and add – “there is one you know.” 25th June 2008