Nurses were packing Mum’s few things away as I arrived – Mum’s transfer from the ward to the Nursing Home for End of Life care was cancelled, I’d been told, and so had hurried in to comfort Mum – but there they were, preparing her for transport.
“Quickly!” they say. “The Home are closing down to all new admissions, but tell us if we get her there before mid-day they’ll take her, as they promised to”. Soon we’re hastening through the hosptial – the cheerful paramedics taking Mum, planning the onward journey with me, rapidly.
Now I’m driving off before the ambulance, leading the way. My heart is leaden, but I’m driving well. Extra well. It feels as though my driving has to be, well, perfect. Not a mile per hour too fast, no riding of the clutch… I’m leading Mum to her last resting place. And driving very well. As if it matters. As if it helps the road stay smooth, stopping it from causing Mum to jolt and feel the pain she feels on being moved.
My mind plays tricks on me: One moment I am Miriam, leading the way… leading the precious, precious people of the Lord from Egypt to the promised land. Next I’m sitting, as I’ve so often done, in the hearse, beside the Funeral Director, in front of a line of slowly-moving cars snaking their way between the Church and Crematorium.
‘This is her final journey in this life’ I think aloud, with some relief, except for the underlying dread that maybe, ere she passes, some kind soul will yet again send her into hospital, where she doesn’t want to be, for some perfectly reasonable reason, except that now it isn’t reasonable. I determine to insist the nurses in the Home obey her Living Will, and let her be – and die – in peace.
It’s strange seeing her dressed again, after so many weeks.
When we arrive the room they let us in, but the room is not ready. Handymen are called to build the bed within the room. “Tell them to hurry” says my Mum as she lies and we stand in the corridor and wait.
I busy myself with putting pictures out, emptying the bags I left there yesterday. Letting the paramedics roll her into bed, with difficulty. Taking her picture, when she’s there, and tries to smile.
Cleaning staff are coming in to say ‘hello’, and offer things. A cup of tea appears, but then,
“It’s not OK! How can you say it’s OK!”
Mum’s shouting at the nurse who’s come to sit her up a bit, and tell her everything will be OK. The startled woman goes away and I begin (quietly, so they do not hear): “Mum, there is a minimum they have to do to help you drink, and keep you clean. But do be sure, they’ll get to know what hurts, and they will try to stop the pain.” She doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t shout again.
There have been times when the Lord’s Prayer rattled off my lips, but not today. We say it together, slowly, line by line, until the only voice is Mum’s, for I am filling up again and cannot speak.
Will she be OK tonight? Will she suffer?
And, as I look back and take another photo – is it really true that I am going now?
Lisa Battye blogs 