I didn't realise how important they were until it was almost too late.

Silly birthday cards were always the norm in my family. Sentimental cards with messages of love were viewed with disdain and a faint sense of embarrassment. Looking back now, I don’t ever remember the words “I love you” being spoken.

Then, just before I turned 29, Dad retired and my parents moved from Victoria to Queensland. As an only child, my friends were shocked that my parents could move so far away from me. I just shrugged not feeling at all fazed by the situation – instead seeing it as an opportunity to have somewhere warm to go on holidays.

Six months into their retirement, my mother phoned to say she had some bad news: Dad had cancer. “But don’t worry,” she said. It was lymphoma and the doctors had assured her this was the most treatable kind of cancer. With chemotherapy, he would be “right as rain” in a couple of months.

When I arrived in Queensland for a visit two months later, I was shocked by my father’s appearance. He was frail, underweight and had lost all his hair from the chemo. Although he was only 65, he looked as if he had aged 20 years.

It was a sad sight and I felt my emotions welling up inside. Before I knew what was happening I fell upon my dad with hugs and kisses and for the first time in my life, I said, “I love you, Dad!” He seemed a little taken aback but awkwardly told me that he loved me, too.

But the tidal wave of emotion didn’t stop there as I fell upon my mother in the same fashion, expressing my love for her, too. Then I gently pulled away, expecting some kind of reciprocation, but it never came. Instead, she appeared frozen in horror. Hurt and humiliated, I struggled to understand this rejection. What was wrong with me? What was wrong with her?

The holiday was over all too quickly and, back at work once again, I overheard one of my workmates on a personal phone call to her mother. It was easy, friendly, and at the end of it she said, “I love you, Mum.” As simple as that. Declarations of love were clearly effortless in her family. Why wasn’t it like that in mine? Tears welling up, I ran to the ladies toilets where I cried so hard I thought my heart would break. This wasn’t right! It was then that I decided something had to be done about this love situation once and for all.

My opportunity came the following Sunday during my weekly phone call to my mother. After we had dispensed with our usual pleasantries and updates, I took a deep breath and asked, “Do you love me, Mum?”

After a short hesitation she replied brusquely, “You know I love you. Don’t be silly.”

“Do I? I don’t remember ever hearing it from you.”

“Well, we never said things like that in my family.”

“Well, I want it be said in ours. From now on I want to end our conversations with ‘I love you.’ And that goes for Dad, too.”

My mother reluctantly agreed and for the first time our telephone conversation ended with, “I love you, Mum,” and she replied, “I love you, too.”

Within a short time, “I love you” became easy to say until it was very natural and we couldn’t consider saying goodbye without it. Birthday and Christmas cards went from silly to sentimental and when Mum bought Dad a Christmas card that year with the words “I love you!” spelt out in holly, I almost cried.

Then, 12 months after my father was diagnosed with cancer, thankfully it went in to remission. A year later it flared up again but once more he valiantly fought it off. Unfortunately, the stress and worry of supporting her husband through his battles with cancer had taken its toll on my mother and in May 2000 she too was diagnosed with the dreaded disease: hers was pancreatic cancer. Only five per cent of patients survive.

In October 2000, Mum went into hospital for a few days just before I was due to fly out for another visit. Her condition was serious, but not critical, and I phoned every morning to check on her. One morning when I rang, she sounded in good spirits, however at 8:30pm that evening, my instincts told me I needed to ring again.

My worst fear was confirmed when a nurse answered the phone and regretfully informed me that my mother’s condition had rapidly deteriorated. She wasn’t expected to make it through the night.

Knowing I couldn’t get a flight in time, I asked the nurse to put the phone next to my mother’s ear so I could talk to her. “She’s barely conscious,” the nurse replied. “It’s unlikely she’ll hear you.” But I didn’t care. I wanted to do it anyway.

Once she had placed the phone by my mother’s ear I started sobbing and telling Mum over and over again that I loved her, hoping she could hear me. At first all I could hear from the other end was “Hmmmm” but then, like a miracle, with a deep sigh she said, “Love you…love you, darling…” It was the last thing she said before drifting into unconsciousness. She never spoke again. My mother died at 4am the next morning with my father by her side.

Although I was devastated by her death, the startling part was how well I coped. Of course, losing a parent is excruciatingly painful and I shed many tears but receiving those lovely last words made it much more bearable. I had closure in the best possible way.

Slowly Dad has adapted to living alone for the first time in his life and has even learnt how to cook, clean and do all the things Mum used to do – I’m quite impressed! Now that there’s just the two of us we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

Then last year Dad was diagnosed with cancer again. This time it’s skin cancer and to date he has been through two courses of radiotherapy. My dad is very stubborn and independent, refusing my offers for him to move in with me or me with him so I have a support network of palliative carers in place, visit whenever I can, and keep in constant phone contact.

I don’t know whether Dad will win this latest battle with cancer. At 79, he’s not as strong as he once was, but he’s still as determined as ever to go down fighting. But there is one thing I do know: whatever happens, whatever the future holds – for Dad and for me – our last words to each other will be, “I love you.” Of that I’m certain.