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Two days ago, my mother passed away.

Last summer in July, when we visited Canada, she was slated to go in for an operation to remove a tumor in her abdomen. It was a large tumor that had grown rapidly, and for that reason the doctors felt it was most likely benign. The day we left for home, 19 July, she went for the operation, and it transpired that the tumor was malignant. Nonetheless, the doctors managed to remove all of the cancerous growth, and were reasonably optimistic that she would have full recovery.

The next weeks and months in my mother’s life were devoted to tackling this new reality. She rose to the challenge with her incomparable energy and gusto. There was, first of all, determining what type of cancer she had. It turned out to be soft-tissue sarcoma and she was told that it was incurable. The doctors said she might have a couple of years left; she herself was much more optimistic. She didn’t feel like she was dying, she said. She was going to do everything she could to live. One of the things that gave her hope was that she was accepted into a testing programme for new medication that was being developed to cure cancer of the type she had.

You could say that my mother experienced a spiritual awakening during this time. Her eyes opened to a whole new world of self-care and the necessity of adopting a new mindset. She was diligent and relentless in seeking solutions and was open to trying everything. She switched to organic food. She went to a naturopath for vitamin injections. She did yoga. She rested. She read books that inspired her. She listened to healing music. And what’s more, she did it with enthusiasm. She looked upon it as a task, a newfound purpose.

The medication testing gave her enormous hope. She went for the first treatment at the beginning of January – the side effects were mild, a little nausea and flu-like symptoms, but not much more. And when that had passed, she felt great, even though – ominously – the tumor had returned and had begun to grow. She went for the second treatment a couple of weeks ago and the side effects were negligible. She was due to go for a CAT scan in a couple of weeks to determine whether the treatments were working. If not, she would have chemotherapy.

I spoke to her regularly on the phone, and she was always tremendously vibrant and optimistic. Two weeks ago, I booked tickets for AAH and me to go and spend time with her this summer. We were all looking forward to it. On the phone, she listed all the things we could do – bask in the sun on the nearby beaches, visit friends and family, go riding, take a sightseeing trip to Ottawa ... she would have lots of free time, she said, and looked forward to spending it with us. Not least, she looked forward to having AAH, who was going to spend a full four weeks with her grandmother.

Last Saturday morning she suddenly became violently ill. She was rushed to hospital and at first it was not entirely clear what was wrong. My aunt – who lives in Canada also, but on the West Coast – called and told me that my sister was with our mother in the hospital and would be spending the night – they wanted to do some tests in the morning. The next day, my aunt called again and said she had spoken to my mother on the phone and she was feeling much better, she was sitting up in bed and had been quite chatty. Told me to let the family here in Iceland know that there was no great cause for concern.

Later that day, the outlook was more serious. By then, the doctors had determined through a scan that the cancer had metastasized much more rapidly than they had presumed and it was shutting down her vital bodily functions. They said it was inoperable, and she might only have a few days. Just four or five hours later she was gone.

My mother was only 62. She lived her life with vibrancy, intensity and remarkable energy. In a way, it was fitting it should end this way rather than through some long, drawn-out dying process. Intensely, yet ultimately with a serene and peaceful acceptance.

May she rest in peace.