Memories of Mum...

Just over six years ago, my Mum passed away. On this Mothers Day here are my diary entries from her final few days...

Wednesday -- 2pm Mountain Standard Time,

It was a perfect day in Phoenix. The temperature hovered near eighty and the humidity was low. The sky was a cloudless blue and was intersected by the jagged profile of the mountains that surround the Valley of the Sun. Last night I watched Randy Johnson and the world champion Arizona Diamondbacks beat the St. Louis Cardinals at the “Bob” or Bank One Ballpark. Sitting adjacent to the third baseline as the roof was noiselessly retracted prior to the start of the ballgame with a cold beer and a hot dog, life felt good. Work has taken me to Phoenix as it had to Augusta National two days earlier to watch Tiger Woods secure his third green jacket. Sometimes I wonder how I get paid for doing this!

Fortunately the queue at security is short, a rarity in these post- September 11th 2001 days and I am seated at the gate in good time for my flight home to Cleveland. A check of messages reveals no major problems so I punch in the speed dial for home and hit the send button. My wife answers and we exchange the usual staccato comments regarding the weather - hot, the kids - noisy, the dog - asleep, and flight status - so far on time. Then my wife mentions that she had spoken to Gloria my mother’s best friend earlier in the day. Mum had been taken into hospital the day before to check out a bad cough and cold that she could not shake and which made her breathing very labored. Her condition had been getting progressively worse since leaving to return home to England after spending Christmas with us; however the doctors were continuing the tests and were confident the right treatment would soon be identified. Donna reported that Gloria had visited Mum in hospital and hat she was comfortable but breathing with the help of oxygen. I quiz Donna as to whether the doctors know what the problem is and she replies that they think it is pulmonary fibrosis. This means little to me, however it doesn't sound good. Donna explains that it is a disease whereby the body’s own defense system attacks the lungs and causes scaring of the tissue, hence the difficulty in breathing. This is not sounding too good at all. The next few minutes are a little hazy as Donna uses words like not curable and you need to go over. I respond that it cannot be that serious and that I have a lot of commitments the next few days. She tells me firmly that I should go over, Mum wants to see me and I am her only living relative. For some reason I ask about visiting times at the hospital, Donna tells me they are 2pm to 8pm but reports that they told me not to worry about that.

I am getting frightened now and tears start to roll down my cheeks, the young girl sitting opposite looks at me quizzically. The airport is getting very busy as the incoming planes unload their cargoes, there is nowhere to hide. The conversation continues as Donna tries to get me to think clearly. I agree to think about it and hang up. I need a beer. A large Fosters later, I am on the phone to Continental Airlines and manage to book a flight for tomorrow to England. When I get home that night Donna and I talk long into the early hours trying to rationalize the situation.

Thursday -- 9pm Eastern Standard Time

I am on a flight from New York to Manchester, England. The film is Oceans Eleven a remake of an early sixties film staring the Rat Pack. The current version stars George Clooney, Matt Damon and others. This is the very film I took Mum to see three months earlier. A powerful feeling of déjà vu washes over me. The last time I did this was three years ago and Dad had died a few hours earlier at the age of 67. I tried to banish any thoughts of comparison. Mum is 68 and alive. However, the parallels could not be shaken as my father-in-law met me at the airport upon landing, just as he had three years earlier. By now I have, for some reason, become more optimistic. I was confident the doctors would have stabilized Mum’s condition and that her mood would improve the moment she saw her little boy walk through the door. After a few days of building up her morale and working out the details of her care when she leaves hospital I would fly back to the U.S.

Friday 10am Greenwich Mean Time

After a quick wash to freshen up I got in Mum’s car and drove the ten miles to the hospital. Approaching the hospital the irony of the sign that says Hospital left and Crematorium right struck me as it always does when I visit.

Mum was not in a ward but in a side room. She would like that – much more peaceful and dignified. I walked down the corridor and saw her through the open door. Apart from the oxygen mask she looked as she always did. Good colour, neat hair – things weren’t so bad. Her eyes were closed so I said “Hi Mum” as I entered the room. I was rewarded with that special look Mother’s reserve for their sons. The look that says “ Its good to see you”, “I love you” and “Are you looking after yourself” all rolled into one. I bent down and kissed her forehead, her hand grasped mine and we hugged. Her voice rasped the words, “It’s so good to see you, did you get much sleep on the plane?” As usual she was worrying about other people. I ignored her question, pulled up a chair, sat down beside her and said, “More importantly how are you?”

The next few words were like a hammer crashing down on my head and heart.

“Not good, I don’t have much longer left”

The emotions were uncontrollable, tears flowed, my heart felt like it was about explode and I gripped her hand even tighter. Her next words were:

“Don’t be frightened, I’m not. I don’t want to go on living like this and I am ready. I have had good life and my only regret is that I won’t get to see Eleanor and James (my two children) grow up any more.”

Well there it was. I had been at the hospital less than five minutes and my Mum is dying. This is not something you can prepare for, although it seemed as though Mum had. After a few minutes of shared crying and hugging I calmed down and she started talking between taking gasps of oxygen. She had thought everything out. The hymns at to be sung at her funeral, the flowers she wanted, the items from the house she wanted me to give to her friends, the names and phone numbers of the lady who helps clean her house, and the man who does the garden. She had even cancelled the newspapers before being brought into the hospital.

A little while later the doctor came and confirmed everything Mum had told me. He recommended that the treatment stop and that they focus on making Mum as comfortable as possible. He asked if I wanted her to be revived when her breathing or heart failed. I replied that he should ask her but I knew her answer would be no. I was now completely numb and I had been at the hospital for fifteen minutes. I thought to myself that this is what shock feels like. A very surreal feeling of being there but not really being there if you know what I mean.

The next 24 hours passed in a blur. Multiple visits to the hospital were punctuated by a mini-tour of my life. I visited pubs Mum and Dad used to take me to. I drove over to my old high school and remembered all the times she took me over for rugby matches on a Saturday morning. I looked through photograph albums of long ago holidays. I wandered aimlessly around the surrounding towns that were the scene of many shopping trips we shared as a mother and her only child with a father who worked on Saturdays. Our conversations alternate between reminiscences and practical details of today and beyond. She repeatedly tells me she is not frightened and is perfectly ready to die. I reply that I am frightened and am not ready for her to die. This becomes a joke between us and I actually find myself laughing.

I arrange for Donna and the children to come over. It was now Saturday, only 72 hours since I left Phoenix, they would arrive tomorrow. When I told Mum they were coming she started crying and told me how happy she was as she thought she was not going to see them again. The next time the nurse came around with a dose of morphine Mum refused it commenting that she wanted to be fully alert for when Donna and the children arrived. The effort it takes for her speak is obvious. However, there is no complaint and the calm resolve is strangely inspiring.

Sunday – 11am Greenwich Mean Time

Mum is sitting up in bed, her color is still good and if it were not for the oxygen mask you would not think much was wrong. Eleanor and James walk to the side of her bed and say in unison,

“Hello Granny.”

That look returns and kisses and hugs are exchanged all around. Despite the difficulty of talking she peppers the children with questions. They are nine and seven and know what is happening. Eleanor the older one is a little frightened but sits on the side of Granny’s bed and answers all her questions. James is just James, bouncing around and chattering away at a hundred miles an hour. Mum’s delight is palpable. The visit is a big success. After an hour or so, Donna’s parents arrive and take the children home. As they leave, Mum, Donna and I all start crying. We know it is the last time they will see their Granny alive.

Sunday 9.35pm Greenwich Mean Time

I have just poured a second gin and tonic. The phone rings and Donna jumps up and answers it. After listening for a few seconds she hangs up and says, “That was the hospital, Mum has taken a turn for the worse and has asked for us to go over.”

Thirty minutes later, Mum admits that for the first time she got frightened as she could not get her breath properly. It takes her an hour for her to settle down. We sit with her and take turns holding her hand. There is very little conversation. By 2.30 am Donna is exhausted. She arrived on the redeye that morning after no sleep on the plane and very little the previous two nights. Mum insists Donna go home and gets a few hours sleep. After a brief refusal, Donna agrees. She kisses Mum and tells her she will be back at in the morning.

Monday 4am Greenwich Mean Time

The next few hours pass fitfully. We both manage to sleep for a hour and the rest of the time is spent in brief little conversations and quiet companionship. About 5am the sun starts to rise and I comment to Mum that it looks like another nice day. She tells me I should go out and play a few holes of golf later on after getting some sleep. At 7.15 the nurse comes in and gives Mum another dose of morphine, she gulps it down and we both laugh. I ask her if she would not rather have a gin and tonic or perhaps a Benedictine, her favorite drinks. She says no – the morphine is better! The night shift is preparing to hand over to the day shift and the hospital is beginning to wake up to another day.

A few minutes later I dig out the magazine from the Sunday newspaper, Mum watches me flip through the pages and I give her hand I squeeze, tell her I love her for the hundredth time that night. She nods and squeezes my hand back. I start to read an article: no more than a couple of minutes later I look up. Her pupils have almost disappeared and her skin has gone a pale shade of grey. Her breathing is slow. A nurse comes in and gives me a hug. I guess this must be it. I have never seen anyone die before. The nurse sits with me as I hold Mum’s hand and kiss her forehead. There is no response. It is 7.55am. I just sit there gripping her hand refusing to let it go. At 8am precisely the breathing stops. I look around wondering what to do – my mother is dead. What do I do now? At 8.01 Donna walks through the door.
I say, “she passed away one minute ago.” Tears roll down her cheeks.

All she can say is, “I told her I would be back at 8am and I stopped to talk to one of the nurses on the way in so I was late and missed her.”

We hug and I tell her that Mum was at peace. We sit there holding her hand for a few more minutes. We marvel at the strength, dignity and genuine concern for others that characterized my Mum. These are words that I will hear repeatedly over the next few days. Everyone agrees that she was a wonderful person and a great friend to many people.

She was also a great Mum - goodbye - I love you.

Comments

[Martin Nicholson]

I found your report on your Mother's death very moving - thank you for sharing it with me.

I lost my Mother three months ago and was with her when she died.

[Brinnon Morrison]

My grandmother died in November of 2006. I watched my father go through this process with his mother. He was with her when she died. I had stayed with her for 36 hrs straight and had to head back home to St.Louis. It was so tough saying goodbye knowing that this was it.....thanks for your moving and touching story.