Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Her vulnerability was palpable. Each day becoming a little more fragile, a little less able to do for herself, a little closer to what we both knew was unavoidable. Edna, my mum, had been living in the aged care home for the previous 18 months or so, not entirely unhappily and yet never quite getting over the loss of her home and her ability to do what she liked, when she liked. Freedom in short.
Meanwhile, I was off managing another aged care home, looking after strangers who were in the same predicament as her, this woman, my mother who had been unceasingly loving and supportive during the turbulence of my marriage breakdown and subsequent inability to cope. She had been my strength and my safe haven in what was to be a maelstrom for many years – too many years!
One night while visiting her at the home, she was particularly frail and just not able to make the effort to get ready for bed nor did she have the physical wherewithal to get into bed. I helped her get changed into her fresh, clean nightie ( she was always spotlessly clean and smelt clean), I arranged her hospital bed in the manner she was so pedantic about. The sheepskin placed just so, where she would lie, and the blankets in a very particular arrangement – not tucked in. I placed all of her night time paraphernalia so that it would be close at hand for her to reach easily, I could tell she was not going to have a very good night and it absolutely tore at my guts.
Once she was comfortable, looking radiant in a sort of angelic way, I began to say my goodnights to her, choking back my tears and my longing to make it all better for her. I would have given anything to make her smile and feel well again, but she knew and I knew that wasn’t how it would be, and in an instant, in the glow of her over bed light, we both understood that this was possibly the beginning of the end.
I remember stroking her smooth, warm face and asking if I could do anything else for her before leaving for the night. She responded with such tenderness and authentic sincerity, saying “ you’re a darling and I don’t know what I would have done without you …thank you for all of your efforts”. This may not be absolutely accurate, but it is what I remember. The poignancy of that moment stays with me always as it initiated something of a turning point for both of us.
For me, it helped me to crystallise my resolve to bring her to my home so I could care for her in the last phase of her life, for I simply could not risk her care being less than what I could provide on a 1 to 1 basis. So in practical terms, it meant that I immediately went on prolonged leave from work, so that I could devote myself to her needs. For her, I hoped it signified the end of her tenure in that place and some much longed for care at home.
Luckily, my wonderful husband Peter, showed only love and integrity during this time and this was to provide incredible support to me, my mum and indeed my whole family. For that I will never be able to thank him enough, but I know that he knows how much it was appreciated and that I love him unreservedly.
About a week after being at home together, Edna deteriorated quite quickly. She took on a very peaceful demeanour, and on the day before she died, related in a very contented voice, that whilst snoozing in the lounge chair, she had enjoyed a visit from all her deceased brothers and sisters! I sat at the foot of her chair and cried when she said that. She comforted me and told me not to cry. Later that same evening, she was unable to stand and was in pain and distressed by her breathlessness. She had always said that she feared not being able to breathe as being her huge dread, and here she was, living her nightmare.
I summoned by brothers to the house later that evening and together we held vigil around her bed, with me (being a nurse) left to administer the morphine intermittently to give her some relief. She lasted the night, but passed away the next morning, just as the palliative care team had arrived. I like to think that was her final way of saying “ don’t start messing around with me”, for she always had been a pretty spirited woman.
I had always thought that I would fall apart when she died, but I discovered that I had done a great deal of my grieving in the lead up when she had been so sick. She was a great woman who never faltered in loving her kids and grandchildren. I will never be without her, because I feel her living on in me continually, and even more so as I get older.
Good night and God bless my darling Mum. I love you forever… and then some!