A life in books
My mum, who posted here as callmemadam, died on Thursday.
She had a fall at home and went to hospital a couple of days later for tests to see if she’d had a heart attack, ending up on a ward, awaiting a stent. On Tuesday night, I got a phone call to say she’d had another fall on the ward, become unresponsive and been rushed to intensive care. Two hours later I got another call to say she’d suffered a bleed on her brain and was unlikely to recover. I'm still shocked by the speed at which things went from mild to medium concerning to Very Serious Business.
At the hospital next morning, I was told that the chance of recovery was so tiny as to be almost zero, but the doctors were legally obliged to wait 24 hours before doing an examination to prove she wasn't coming back. We agreed that they would call me if there was any change either way, otherwise I'd hear from them at the end of that period.
I said goodbye at this point and gathered up the few things she'd taken in with her. Despite the almost-zero chance, I left her glasses behind. Just in case.
(I would like it to go on record that I was incredibly fucking brave at the hospital and I'm sure all the doctors and nurses were thinking what a fine daughter the unconscious woman in the bed had raised.)
From there I asked Howard to take me to Sandbanks, the beach my parents took me to most often when I was small.
The horrible Schrödinger's Cat time ended at a quarter past three on Thursday, when it was made official, and I could begin the ongoing process of ringing up nice old ladies and ruining their day.
It wasn't the dropping stone dead in your own home we all hope for, but it wasn't terrible. The last bit was awful for me, but for her there was at most half an hour between being someone who was unwell, frightened, bruised and pissed off but otherwise fine and hoping to be discharged the next day, and total oblivion. My mum was very afraid of dementia, of being physically unable to look after herself, of cancer, and I feared all those things for her too. I was also terrified that I would predecease her and make her broken. All that's been laid to rest for both of us.
My mum was very ill after giving birth to me and nearly died; something she didn't tell me until I was well into adulthood so I wouldn't feel bad about it. I might not have had a mum at all, and instead I got to have her for almost 47 years.
Mourning my dad, who died in 2007, has always been pretty straightforward. Our dynamic as adults was of old friends, and I was sad because I'd wanted us to have lots more airshow and motorcycling adventures together. Things with my mum were more complex, especially after he died - sometimes because we're so different, sometimes because we are very alike - and the grieving is complicated too, although of course we loved each other and we both did our best.
I've known for a long time, though, that when she died it wouldn’t be all the times she drove me up the wall that I’d remember, but being small enough for her to pick me up and sing:
Bright are the stars that shine
Dark is the sky
I know this love of mine
Will never die
And I love her.
She had a fall at home and went to hospital a couple of days later for tests to see if she’d had a heart attack, ending up on a ward, awaiting a stent. On Tuesday night, I got a phone call to say she’d had another fall on the ward, become unresponsive and been rushed to intensive care. Two hours later I got another call to say she’d suffered a bleed on her brain and was unlikely to recover. I'm still shocked by the speed at which things went from mild to medium concerning to Very Serious Business.
At the hospital next morning, I was told that the chance of recovery was so tiny as to be almost zero, but the doctors were legally obliged to wait 24 hours before doing an examination to prove she wasn't coming back. We agreed that they would call me if there was any change either way, otherwise I'd hear from them at the end of that period.
I said goodbye at this point and gathered up the few things she'd taken in with her. Despite the almost-zero chance, I left her glasses behind. Just in case.
(I would like it to go on record that I was incredibly fucking brave at the hospital and I'm sure all the doctors and nurses were thinking what a fine daughter the unconscious woman in the bed had raised.)
From there I asked Howard to take me to Sandbanks, the beach my parents took me to most often when I was small.
The horrible Schrödinger's Cat time ended at a quarter past three on Thursday, when it was made official, and I could begin the ongoing process of ringing up nice old ladies and ruining their day.
It wasn't the dropping stone dead in your own home we all hope for, but it wasn't terrible. The last bit was awful for me, but for her there was at most half an hour between being someone who was unwell, frightened, bruised and pissed off but otherwise fine and hoping to be discharged the next day, and total oblivion. My mum was very afraid of dementia, of being physically unable to look after herself, of cancer, and I feared all those things for her too. I was also terrified that I would predecease her and make her broken. All that's been laid to rest for both of us.
My mum was very ill after giving birth to me and nearly died; something she didn't tell me until I was well into adulthood so I wouldn't feel bad about it. I might not have had a mum at all, and instead I got to have her for almost 47 years.
Mourning my dad, who died in 2007, has always been pretty straightforward. Our dynamic as adults was of old friends, and I was sad because I'd wanted us to have lots more airshow and motorcycling adventures together. Things with my mum were more complex, especially after he died - sometimes because we're so different, sometimes because we are very alike - and the grieving is complicated too, although of course we loved each other and we both did our best.
I've known for a long time, though, that when she died it wouldn’t be all the times she drove me up the wall that I’d remember, but being small enough for her to pick me up and sing:
Bright are the stars that shine
Dark is the sky
I know this love of mine
Will never die
And I love her.