I did not bring my proper camera for this visit to see my mum. I knew it would be a difficult one, unexplored territory. My mum is currently confined to her bed in her sunny little room at Dignity Lifestyle, having fallen as she toddled between sofa and wheelchair on New Year’s Day. New Year; New Start.

She broke her second hip, and the doctor here and Sister Suvarna and I between us decided that the trauma of surgery and its aftermath would probably not be in my mum’s best interests. In the latter part of her life, at full mental capacity, she was consciously and conspicuously frightened of all technology, anything new and alien. How on earth would we explain to her that the flashing scanner lights and machines and masked surgeons would be nothing to fear? To what advantage for someone now too fragile to walk more than a few steps? I simply could not be the one to put this frail old woman through this fear and trauma without her consent.

So here she lies on her back, her right leg in traction being lovingly cared for by the nurses. She is unable to take part in any of the communal activities in the day room next door. Can she hear them all singing and chanting and clapping? Does she wish she were there? What has she thought all day every day for four weeks? Has she studied that crack in her magnolia painted wall in infinite detail? Can she see as far as the old school photos of her grandchildren on her little writing desk in the corner? Does she even recognise them?

When a nurse comes in to stroke her hair or lovingly grasp her hand for a fleeting moment of human interaction she smiles her gratitude if, indeed, it is gratitude. She smiles when I talk to her too, periodically as I sit here trying to learn Bach or Beethoven, guilty at diverting any attention from her, my only reason for being here. But how else to pass the time until I leave, the emotional pull, the duty as always, in all directions.

My mum has a little chest infection and its being treated with antibiotics and a nebuliser. Will she in this stasis be able to fight it off or will it consume her little by little, silently?

How do you document this in a dignified and respectful way? Isn’t it unforgivably intrusive to publish photos of someone in distress, that could well be the last photos of them ever taken, without being able to secure their consent?   My mum’s oldest friend, however, is justifiably impatient at my quirky photo of the reclining Buddha at the hotel spa. She wants to see pictures of her friend. So here they are, Aunty Kumud. I’ve tried to make them jolly ones, at least.