Mum was calm tonight. Still in the side-ward. They’ve cured the pneumonia, and the gross distress and wild confusion. Caused by constipation – the bane of nursing everywhere.
Mum is lying on a magic bed that really does prevent the scourge of pressure sores. The nurses visit regularly, offering food and drink, tablets and smiles. She’s not sure where she is. She’s trying to get out of bed but can’t.
The doctor wants to see me tomorrow. There is no more they can do. The physios have been again and Mum is not responding. We must think of what comes next for full-time care.
Mum smiles at me and finally I know what’s happened here: the NHS has bought us time – this time, with her and me together, quietly. Time for me to explain what has been happening, and why, and then to ask my Mum ‘What next? What do you want?’
Of course she doesn’t know. And doesn’t mind. She is amazed to learn the Chaplain prayed for her, barely a week ago. ‘How awful’ she says, and, strangely, ‘This has been hard on you’, and I fill up, because it has.
She hasn’t eaten any of her meal, and the sips of luke-warm tea I’m giving her are not enough. ‘You know you’re near the end of life?’ I say, and she says ‘Mmm’, and ‘What a pity’ but is not distressed.
She’s been looking at the big family photo on the wall. I get it down. We identify each person in the picture, every grandchild… everyone is there. We speak of her 90th birthday in three weeks…. ‘Far too old’, she says. ‘Ridiculous’.
‘Who’s missing ?’ she says, several times, looking at the picture, until I realise … she’s thinking of my step-dad, long deceased.
We talk of heaven and I ask her ‘Are you ready?’ ‘What?’ she says. ‘To meet them?’ I reply. ‘All of them. The other ones – who’ve gone before. Your Mum and Dad. Your man, whom you have loved and who loved you. You know! Even the ones you didn’t like? Have you forgiven every one? Be free of all regrets before you go. Let it be a sweet homecoming, Mum.’ She turns to look at me and nods and smiles. ‘How wonderful!’ she says.
You’re needing ‘full-time care now’, I’m impelled to say. ‘We have to say goodbye to where you were, and find you somewhere else, for care. Do you trust us to get it right Mum? Maybe you could come to my house, with a lot of help, or maybe we can take you to a Nursing Home we like’. ‘Of course I trust you’ she replies. ‘I’m doing nothing here’ she volunteers, ‘It’s just a waste of time.’ But there is nothing that she wants, or can think of doing with her time.
So we speak instead of ‘being’ – being like a little child, whose present purpose simply IS to ‘be’ – and of the ‘being’ of life – when there is finally time to stop doing and be simply close to God. When life is truly spiritual.
Mum understands. ‘How wonderful!’ she says again, and really smiles, and looks at me again. ‘You are a sweetie, you know’, she says. ‘I do love you’. And then, ‘I think you need to go to bed’, and I agree.
On the bus returning home the ache between my shoulder blades grows worse. I think of nothing but my hurting knees. I feel like eating chocolate, then decide to write instead, when I get home. I should remember this.
Lisa Battye blogs 