When my mum was dying, she chose to believe she wasn’t. Decided she’d be the one to beat ludicrous odds and recover. We all went along with it too. I always thought it was because we wanted her to get better, but now I think it was just that none of us knew what to say. We have no language for illness. Or death. After a friend was diagnosed with cancer, she told me that only a couple of people had mentioned it to her, because nobody else knew what to say.

Nine months ago my mum asked me to buy an axe and chop her head off. I joked with her. Told her it would be a messy way to go. She was lying in a palliative care ward, dying of cancer. Chopping her head off might have been messy, but at least it would have been quick.