The day my Mum died

My niece Michele rang at about half past eleven on Wednesday (14th), to say the hospital were worried about Mum’s condition and thought we should get down there. So I packed, did the things that were vital – my divorce going on all in the middle of this – and drove down to Warwick, arriving about seven in the evening and having realised en route that I’d left behind my eyedrops, without which my incipient glaucoma would get quickly worse. I went to the ward and met my sister Hilary and her daughter who’d rung earlier. Mum was showing no signs of being conscious: she was breathing rather heavily from an oxygen mask. I asked the nurses first about her blood pressure, which was apparently up a little (relief!) and then if there was any way they could help over the eyedrops. They were marvellous: they sent me round to casualty where a helpful doctor wrote a prescription straight away, and the nurses gave us excellent directions to find the only pharmacy still open (Sainsbury’s in Leamington, if you need a late chemist down that way!). Hils, Mich and I decided we could do no good staying with an unconscious Mum, and so went to get the drops and then have a meal in a pleasant riverside pub nearly. They then went back to the Travelodge where they were staying, and I to my parent’s flat in Stratford.

Next morning we met again at the hospital: Mum was still showing few signs of consciousness, though she did appear to open her eyes occasionally, and to make small muscle movements. The other two stayed till lunch, then decided they should go home, Hilary telling me quietly that Michele was getting very upset and as she might be newly pregnant it was doing her no good to be there. I stayed with Mum until late, and went back home at about 7.30, by which time Dad had been put to bed but wasn’t yet asleep, so I could give him a hug and a progress report. This was the pattern on Friday and Saturday too: I stayed with Mum all day, wondering if she was at all aware of my being there and holding her hand, slipping out to the hospital canteen for lunch, reading, snoozing, doing the odd Sudoku and finally going home at around 7.30. As I got up to go on Saturday, one of the other patients said to me ‘You’ve had a long day’: it was good just to have an acknowledgement that what I was doing, sitting with a dying parent, wasn’t easy. The carers all popped in from time to time, and one thought Mum was beginning to recover, but the nurses made it clear to me that recovery wasn’t happening, they had no way of feeding Mum that would allow her to build up any energy: though on Saturday, ironically as it turned out, the dietician asked me to choose some liquid food for the next day in case Mum was well enough to take it.

At 4.45 a.m. on Sunday, the hospital rang to say Mum had deteriorated and they felt I should come in. I threw on some clothes, grabbed a quick plate of cereal so I would not be feeling too weak, and drove though the empty streets. I arrived just as she was taking her last breath. The nurse with me said ‘she’s gone’, and she turned off the oxygen and removed the mask, and I could see my mum’s familiar face properly. Then, tactfully, she left us alone together as Mum began on that last journey. It takes a time to die: there are plenty of cases of people who stop breathing and are resuscitated a few minutes later. Brain activity slows and stops, and the soul takes a careful leave of the body that it has inhabited, particularly if like my Mum it has been there a long, long time. Mum had had her 94th birthday ten days earlier.

I stayed an hour. When I first thought it might be time to go, I kissed Mum and pulled the sheet gently over her head: but I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t leave this lovely, amazing woman who had been so important to me all the years of my life. Maybe Mum hadn’t quite gone at that point, and was holding me back until she had truly finished her time on earth, this time round. After another quarter hour or so, I tried again. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, leaving her there, even though in fact she had left me and there was only the empty husk.

The charge nurse was, as ever, very helpful. She explained the procedure: Mum’s death had to be referred to the coroner because it had been following an operation from which she had not recovered. She gave me a booklet that described what I had to do: it looked very complicated but in fact this was only because it tried to cover all eventualities. She gave me a hug, and she too had tears in her eyes. She asked if I was OK to drive home, and I said yes: it was still only about 7 am on Sunday morning and I knew there would be little traffic. So I walked, finally, out of the hospital, back to the car, and drove home. It was hard, but by concentrating on driving very precisely I found I could postpone the overwhelming emptiness for long enough to get home safely. Dad was still asleep: I had to come the task of telling him that his wife of 67 years was no more.

I made a cup of coffee, and waited in total aloneness until just before the carers were due to get Dad up, at 9 a.m. Then I slipped into his bedroom, hugged him, and told him I’d been to the hospital because Mum had been worse, and that she had died early that morning. He said ‘Oh, dear’: he sounded half asleep at the time, and when the carers arrived I told them too. As they got him up, I heard him asking ‘how’s Audrey?’: they avoided replying. When he was in his chair, dressed and waiting for breakfast, I told him again, putting my arms round him and saying very clearly that Mum had died. This time he said ‘Oh, no…’, and I think he began to realise what I’d said, because in a little he asked when the funeral would be. I explained that we had to wait for the coroner and there might have to be a post mortem, which would affect whether her body could be used by Birmingham University Medical school, which she’d wanted. He didn’t cry, not then, and simply sat, eating his weetabix as normal and saying nothing. Meanwhile I started to make lists of people to tell, and then ringing my sister and then my children. It being Sunday, I couldn’t do anything about banks and officials.

I don’t know how I got through the rest of the day. Nobody else came: there was just me and Dad, and the carers when they arrived. I have to confess I was relieved when they finally put Dad to bed with a sleeping pill, and I could weep and then get some supper and go to bed myself. Bless the World Cup: it was a welcome distraction. And I knew there were more difficult days to come: but that this one had been, perhaps, the most difficult of all.