My day started like any other.
I woke up early for work and began my usual morning routine. There was nothing unusual about the day. Nothing to suggest that my life was about to change forever.
As I got ready, I noticed that I had two missed calls from my mum's friend, Sandra. I didn't think too much of it at first. I assumed I would call her back once I got settled at work.
I arrived at work and began the normal opening procedures. Turning on the air conditioning. Writing the doctors names on the board. Getting everything ready for the day ahead.
It was all so ordinary.
Once everything was set up, I sat down at my desk, logged into my computer and returned Sandra's call.
That's when everything changed.
Sandra told me that my mum had been taken to hospital in Greece.
At first, I didn't know what to think. There was very little information. No explanation about what had happened. No indication of how serious the situation was. Just the fact that my mum had been taken to hospital.
I immediately tried to call my mum.
I knew she had her phone with her. My first thought was that there had been some sort of misunderstanding and that she would answer, tell me what had happened, and put my mind at ease.
But the calls went unanswered.
I tried again.
And again.
Nothing.
At first, I told myself there were perfectly reasonable explanations. Maybe she was being examined by a doctor. Maybe her phone battery had died. Maybe she had left it in a bag somewhere and simply couldn't get to it.
But with every unanswered call, the knot in my stomach grew tighter.
The thing about moments like that is that your mind starts searching for answers before you have any facts. You find yourself jumping between hope and fear within seconds. One moment you're convincing yourself everything will be fine. The next, you're imagining the worst.
I kept looking at my phone, willing it to ring.
Waiting for her name to appear on the screen.
Waiting for her to answer.
Instead, there was only silence.
Looking back now, I realize that was probably the moment I knew something was seriously wrong. Not because of what anyone had told me, but because my mum would never have ignored my calls if she was able to answer them.
That was the moment I started to feel genuinely concerned.
Once I finally managed to get hold of my mum's friend, my first questions were simple.
What happened?
How did we even get to this point?
How had my mum ended up in a hospital in Greece?
I was desperately trying to make sense of a situation that, at that point, felt completely unreal.
She explained that they had gone out for dinner that evening and that my mum had started complaining of stomach pain. At first, it didn't seem overly serious. The kind of discomfort that you might put down to something you've eaten or a temporary illness.
Later that evening, my mum went to lie down.
As the night went on, things apparently became worse.
During the early hours of the morning, she began complaining that she was struggling to breathe properly.
Hearing those words now still stops me in my tracks.
My mum's friend realized something wasn't right and contacted the hotel reception. The front desk then called for an ambulance.
From that moment on, everything changed.
As I listened, I found myself trying to picture those final hours. Trying to imagine what my mum was thinking, how frightened she might have been, and wishing more than anything that I could have been there with her.
But all I had were fragments of information.
Small pieces of a story that I was desperately trying to put together.
Every answer seemed to lead to another question.
What happened in the ambulance?
What happened when she arrived at the hospital?
Did she know how serious it was?
Was she scared?
Was she in pain?
Those are the questions that stay with you after someone dies unexpectedly.
Not because you're looking for someone to blame.
But because when someone you love is suddenly gone, your mind searches endlessly for understanding, hoping that if you can somehow reconstruct every moment, it might make the impossible feel a little more real.
The lack of information was terrifying. My mind immediately began filling in the blanks with worst-case scenarios. I kept refreshing my phone, waiting for a message, a call, anything that might tell me what was happening.
In the meantime, I was doing everything I could think of.
While waiting for answers, I started looking at flights to Greece. I checked availability, looked at departure times, and began searching for accommodation. At that point, I still didn't know exactly what was happening, but I knew I needed to get there.
I couldn't sit and wait.
I needed to be closer to my mum.
I needed answers.
As I searched through flight options and tried to make sense of the little information I had, my phone started ringing constantly.
The hospital was calling.
The Greek consulate was calling.
Different people were trying to make contact.
The calls seemed endless.
Each time my phone rang, my heart would sink. I found myself staring at the screen before answering, wondering whether this would be the call that finally explained what was happening.
It felt as though events were moving far quicker than I could process them.
One minute I was checking flights.
The next, I was speaking to hospitals and government officials.
The reality of the situation was beginning to settle in.
People weren't calling me because my mum was unwell.
People were calling me because something serious had happened.
I remember feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information, questions and decisions that suddenly landed on my shoulders.
Everything felt urgent.
Everything felt important.
And yet all I really wanted was a simple answer to one question:
Was my mum going to be okay?
At that point, I was still holding onto hope.
Even as the phone continued to ring.
Even as the conversations became more serious.
Even as a part of me was beginning to fear the worst.
I contacted my aunt and together we began trying to piece together information. We made phone calls, reached out to anyone who might know something and tried to establish which hospital my mum had been taken to.
Every answer seemed to create more questions.
Was she conscious?
What had happened?
How serious was it?
Would she be coming home?
At that point, we didn't know.
All we knew was that she was in a hospital in Greece and we needed to get to her.
Looking back now, that period of uncertainty feels almost harder to describe than the grief itself. It was a strange limbo between normal life and disaster. A period where nothing had been confirmed, but where deep down I knew something wasn't right.
I spent those hours desperately searching for information while trying to hold onto hope.
Hope that she would be okay.
Hope that there was an explanation.
Hope that this would all turn out to be far less serious than it felt.
I didn't know then that this would be the last day of my life before everything changed.
