This was the first picture in her photo album. It is the only surviving part of her wedding picture – she had cut away the other side, the side that was perhaps the only thing in her life that didn't manage to turn its brightest side to her.

She was a true Sunday's child: even though she had her share of grief and sorrow in her life she was always heartfelt, unpretentious and unfeigned and equally present for everyone around her, having this aura of easiness upon her; as the result people of all ages tended to like her and trust her, everything came up roses for her – except for that one thing. She was born on Sunday, too – and she passed away on Sunday.

Because of her social nature she took to acting on her adult age and performed in various local amateur theatre groups; some of the productions were huge historical ones, some small like the ones she did during her last spring to entertain people in pensionates and alike. She did the latter even when she was already having these weird fits of fatigue in the early spring of 2015, eventually forcing her to sit down on the neighbourhood stairs on her way to the groceries 200 meters away.

Then, in the summer of 2015 they diagnosed the reason for her weariness, acute leukemia. Doctors however said it won't neccessaily mean much these days, not even for the elderly people, so she didn't seem to be too worried about it but faithfully to her habits went confidently to her first treatment. Induction was heavy but went well, but unfortunately they found another blood disease lurking behind leukemia, the myelodysplastic syndrome: whereas leukemia was more or less defeated by the treatment, MDS all but blossomed by it, so that they had to stop the treatment short after the first induction.

She called me, her firstborn, the day at the end of the summer after her doctor had told her she won't be cured. She told me over the phone she'd felt a bit sad at first, but that she hadn't "cried or anything" because she thought she'd already had a long and wonderful life, and she thought it was her time to go.

When she was discharged from hospital at the end of August she was so weak and feeble that I moved in with her and lived with her for four weeks, helping her out, doing the grocery shopping, mending her food, arranging her medicine supply and the like. MDS kept her blood cell production low and she lived almost solely on imported blood, which she got weekly at two local hospitals. She was especially weak and frail prior to the transfusions, so that at home she could walk unaided only a few meters at a time, had these pangs of dizzyness and nausea and all these bruises appearing all over her body, blisters in her mouth and you name it. But she never complained; only twice she mentioned that things were not especially enjoyable any more; but she said it with no bitterness, just stated it.

Luckily the summer came very late this year; after transfusions she always felt better for a few days, and on a couple of those occasions we managed to go out with a rollator to admire the flowers and the butterflies which she loved so much. I especially remember the warm and sunny day when we rolled out to the local garden to see all the azaleas and peonies, the peacock butterflies and the red admirals, stopping at the bench now and then to save her strength for the return trip.

More than butterflies and flowers she loved her friends who visited her frequently, so that even though the doctors had ordered her a strict diet, she was always more concerned about having enough buns and bisquits for her friends.

Her own blood cell production seemed to improve slowly but steadily during the autumn, and her overall condition with it, so eventually I decided to pack my things and head back home. My brother, her relatives and the local service took to helping her, she even managed to do the groceries by herself with her rollator. One week she sounded so bright and happy and full of stamina over the phone that I decided I won't bother her during the weekend at all; I reckoned she had to be quite exasperated to hear the same questions of mine each and every day.

During that weekend her condition suddenly plummeted. Tuesday morning she managed to phone me just before I called her; she sounded dull and weak and said she had laid in her bed all weekend, alone, without eating or taking her medicine. She asked me to come back to her because she couldn't cope alone at home any more. I answered I simply couldn't because if I left, I'd go bankrupt – which was true.

They hospitalized her the same day, pumped some more bags of blood into her and let her go home on Friday because she wanted it so much. The neighbors called the first ambulance for her the same evening; she had tripped over at home and couldn't get onto her feet by herself. She turned the ambulance down. The next morning two more ambulances had to be called to fetch her; the first one she again turned down, the second one she accepted, but she was already so week they had to wheel her out on a stretcher. Her sister called me and asked me to jump the train immediately. Well, I didn't: the doctor who had just examined her called me an hour later and said there was no acute crisis whatsoever, she wasn't hemorrhaging or anything. So I didn't hurry but bought the ticket for the morning train.

I walked onto the platform of the Helsinki railway station at 6.50. The train wasn't there yet, and I thanked god the phone hadn't rung during the night. It rang one minute later with a nurse saying I should come over immediately; she is coughing blood and fails to respond. My train left ten minutes later, but I had 400 kilometers to go. I sat in the packed train with a cellphone in my sweating hand, and was already more than halfway through when it rang and my brother said I was already late. I walked to the solitary hall window on the second floor and stood there for the rest of the trip, staring at the fog that seemed to cover the whole country, and tried not to cry out loud. It was a train trip to remember.

...

It is now 2.30 am on Monday morning. Her funeral was last Friday, she will be cremated today. For the past two weeks I've been living in her gradually emptying apartment, arranging the funerals, shifting through her papers and belongings and clearing things for the probate. Most of all I've been waiting for her to appear, even just for a few seconds so that I could offer her an apology for me not to be there during her last days, not to be there at the side of her deathbed, at the same time knowing I won't see her again, trying to adjust to living with this guilt.

If you asked me I'd say she really would have deserved another kind of ending. I'm not a religious person, but perhaps God – if there indeed is one – thought that here's a person who can stand it all, a female Job if you will, so let her have it, instead of a thousand who'd only succumb to bitterness and curse their God. Despite her hard end she never faltered – and I feel so sorry for her. I feel so sorry for not being there with her, not holding her hand during her last days.

...

Is there a lesson in the story? Yes, I think there is one: we should try to lead our lives so that we and any of our beloved ones could depart this world at any moment with no hard feelings on either side. At any moment.