Mum has died and my dog has cancer. I skipped World Happiness Day

My mum died last week. She went to bed as usual on Tuesday, the care home staff helped her to the bathroom in the night, then early in the morning heard she was having difficulty breathing.

- John Crace

Monday

She died not long after. There can't be many 101-year-olds whose deaths are described by doctors as unexpected. To the last, she took us all by surprise.

Rosemary was one of the last of her generation. She served as a Wren in the second world war and was strafed by a German fighter plane during an air raid on Portsmouth. After the war, against her parents' wishes, she took herself off to music college in London to study piano before marrying my dad, a naval officer who also fought in the war. They were ridiculously proud of their three children - Veronica, Sue and me - and stood by me when nearly everyone else had given up.

In the early 60s, Rosemary wasn't wholly delighted to find herself in the role of vicar's wife after my dad switched career, and she went on to become a marriage guidance counsellor and supervisor. She also, along with my dad, became a founder member of the SDP.

Her last eight years were painful as she suffered from Alzheimer's. It was hard to know which was worse, the brief moments of lucidity when she was clearly terrified of the person she had become, or the longer moments of confusion when her memory failed her. It felt as if what made Rosemary Rosemary had already died, and I feel bad that I couldn't have been a better son to her in her final years. The staff at the home and my sisters were nothing short of heroic. My mum couldn't have got better care and she insisted on carrying her Guardian in her bag even though she no longer read the paper. It was her routine. She once mistook me for an MP - something that horrified me as much as it would them.

Now we've lost her again. Her body has caught up with her mind. I thought I was ready for her death but I've been blindsided. I'm glad her suffering is over but I feel guilty about conversations we never had. The conversations we couldn't have. I love you, Mum.

Tuesday