All things must come to pass

I never imagined that mum would die whilst I was doing bus duty. I never imagined finding that out on my mobile phone at a busy tube station whilst on my way to see her, knowing that she had taken a turn for the worse. I had imagined that somehow I would know the end was near, and that I could be at her bed-side, holding her hand, ensuring that she wasn’t alone at the end. But the best laid plans of mice and men, and all that.

Mum’s last few days were strange. On Thursday she was moved to the nursing home that we had been fighting so hard to get her into for all these weeks. On Friday she broke her thumb, by sitting on it, and was rushed to A&E to get it sorted out. She had to have her thumb nail taken off so they could do whatever they had to in order to mend the thumb. To fight any ensuing infection, she was pumped full of antibiotics. A very long and distressing day, no doubt.

On Saturday, Gastropunk and I went to visit her in her new home. We took some CDs with us that we thought she would like – Cliff Richard’s Platinum Collection (the embarassment of having to buy that in Borders was immense, so we bought a Velvet Underground CD also, just to prove to the sales assistant that, actually, we are cool – honest!) and Neil Young’s Harvest – one of her all time favourite albums. Yes, she did have good taste, Cliff Richard aside. Her new home was lovely. The staff were so caring, and the other visitors took time to get to know us because of course we all thought we would be seeing a lot more of each other. Yeah right. Before we left to go home to see the firework display that evening, I noticed that her breathing was quite laboured. Having read about the end stages of life, I realised this was an important sign and then promptly put it to the back of my head (to deal with later) and sat on it for the remaining days of her life. We left to go home feeling so relieved she was being cared for properly. She didn’t wake up the whole time we were there, but we did wheel her out into the garden for her first 15 mins of fresh air since 1st September. We sang along to her Queen and Neil Young CDs in her bedroom before going, and hoped that on some level she was aware we were there. Maybe it was our singing that finished her off.

On Sunday she stayed in bed. The nursing staff were convinced she was still very tired from the drama of Friday, but on Monday she went downhill very fast. Her temperature changed and her breathing problems became more evident. We had to make the decision about whether to send her back into hospital (to be put on IV antibiotics to fight her apparent chest infection) or to let her stay in bed at the home. It was not a difficult decision, and we decided that she of course should stay put. At 4.20pm I got the call that told me about her worsened condition and I immediately decided to go straight up there. A few phone calls later and Gastropunk had been given two days off work and we were ready to go. Twenty minutes later I was at Hammersmith station, about to get the tube home, when my step-father called to say she had just died, and he mad missed her by 5 minutes.

My world stopped. I had to tell myself to blink, for I had forgotten how to. I suddenly had a chai latte in my hand, which I must have bought in a daze from Starbucks. I had phone calls to make, people to talk to, make this whole thing seem real. And then all I could feel was this river of sweat running down my back and the knowledge that life would no longer be the same. How I got on that tube and the bus which took me home, I shall never know. It was hell. I coped by doing the Sudoku puzzles in the London Paper, yes all three in record time. Even the difficult one. All my energy was focussed on logic and reasoning, and not the sense of loss that was rising up inside me.

I got home to find candles lit in the fireplace, soothing music on the record player (yes we live in the dark ages) and dinner being cooked. And dozens of text messages on my mobile phone. And then the phone calls came. A hot bath, home-made chicken soup and a long night-time walk in the chilly air helped to sort my head out a little.

It wasn’t until I went to bed last night that a feeling of calm started to wash over me, in relief that mum is no longer suffering as she had been for so long. But it will take a long time for that to be a comforting thought. At the moment, it just makes me realise the magnitude of my own personal loss. The end of an era. A start of a whole new one. The lights have gone out, but I am looking forward to the dawn.