I
STILL NEED YOU, MUM.
That
line above has been the only thing written in this blog for just over
a week. My mum died at around 20:25 on Friday the 8th of
July, finally succumbing to the cancer that has stalked her for the
past five years. Since then I have tried to write this inadequate
memorial several times, and each time I haven't been able to get past
those five words;
I
STILL NEED YOU, MUM.
I've
literally spent hours just staring at them and crying. I've cried so
much; almost every evening since the 21st of April when my
sister rang me to tell me that mum's cancer was back and there was no
more treatment. In fact I think it was me that rang my sister after
she sent me a text message asking if I can talk. I already knew what
to expect – the “can you talk” text is never anything but
ominous, but I knew what to expect because I saw mum almost every
evening in my capacity as evening dog walker. I'd watched as her
weight dropped, and her breathing got worse, her coughing more
frequent, and her legs less steady. Each evening my walk to mum's
house was filled with a very real fear that I would walk in to find
her dead or dying. So when my sister gave me that news on the 21st
of April it wasn't a surprise, yet somehow it still hit me like a
sucker-punch to the gut.
And
so I cried. I fought back tears every evening while I walked the dog.
I cried on my own each night after my girlfriend went to bed. I cried
in the mornings when I started walking the dog before going to work
because mum could no longer manage it. I cried when mum went into
hospital. I've cried several times a day since she died. I'm crying
now as I write this. I don't want to cry any more.
I
STILL NEED YOU, MUM.
I've
always been very close to mum – I'll happily admit to being a bit
of a mummy's boy. She was the centre of my world and it truly
mattered to me what she thought of me; I wanted her respect, I wanted
her to be proud of me. Just the thought of disappointing her fills me
with a crippling angst.
When
I was seven or maybe eight years old I'd got a fake spider out of one
of those little plastic eggs machines that used to be dotted around
all over the place. I thought it'd be great fun to scare mum with it.
I was very wrong. That moment I'm throwing that stupid plastic spider
at her, and her reaction to it – the fear I'd caused her (and
subsequent anger) has stayed with me for over thirty years, and I
still think about it to this day, and it still eats me up inside when
I do.
The
guilt that I feel now because I couldn't- because I didn't do more to
help her will probably also stay with me for the rest of my life. I
should have moved in with her. I should have taken time off work and
looked after her. I seriously considered it – a month before mum's
death I'd had a chat with my line manager about cutting down my hours
or taking extended time off, but I never did it. I really wish
I had. Mum though was a fiercely independent woman; her beloved
border collie, Georgie Girl, her only companion (and permanent
shadow) for nigh on a decade. She was stubborn too and wouldn't even
entertain the thought that any of her children would disrupt their
lives for her. But I know she got lonely, and it broke my heart. I
will always be so grateful for mum's incredible neighbours, and dog
owners of Brentford Dock where mum and Georgie Girl lived. I've never
known such a community of people so friendly and so eager to help.
Mum used to joke that they're all Georgie's friends and only talk to
her because she's with Georgie, but they would stop and talk with her
for hours. I got to know many of them when I took over the evening
dog walking duties (so she may have been right about them being
Georgie's friends), and have met many more since mum's death, and so
many of them have told me how well thought of she was. I am so proud
to have had her as my mum.
On
the 28th of June my mum called my sister to say she was
having trouble breathing and shortly after was taken to hospital. The
hospital said she had a touch of pneumonia and they wanted to keep
her in for a couple of days and give her antibiotics. That evening,
when I got back from the hospital I moved into mum's flat to look
after Georgie Girl.
We
realised it was highly unlikely that mum would be coming back home –
she had already decided that she couldn't look after herself any more
and she needed full time help. She wanted to go to a nursing home.
The hope was that we'd find one willing to take Georgie Girl as well
so they could still be together. Sooner or later though, Georgie's
future needed to be settled. Unfortunately she herself is nearing the
end of her life, and she's unbelievably nervous of almost everyone
except mum and myself. Finding her a new home would be difficult, and
most importantly I didn't want to lose her too, I honestly don't
think I could've handled it.
I'm
delighted to say that Georgie Girl is now living with us, hopefully
until the end of her days, by the grace of my girlfriend to whom I
will be eternally grateful. It's not going to be easy and there will
be problems but Georgie Girl is with her family, and I have a new
permanent shadow.
I'll
confess something that's going to sound contrived: I've “known”
for months that my mum would die on the 9th of July – a
niggling feeling that wouldn't go away, a persistent knowledge in my
head. Apart from a couple of work colleagues (who I now realise are
awkward conversations when I get back to work) I confided this
“knowledge” to no one.
The
thing is normally every year I go on holiday during the first two
weeks of July – I'd always bring back a pair of silver earrings and
a fridge magnet for mum from where ever I'd been. The hunt for silver
earrings became an integral part of travelling abroad – and
generally by April or May I've decided where in the world I'm going
and start making plans. My friends and acquaintances who are aware of
this routine often asked where I'm going this year, all I could do
was give a dismissive answer and try to change the subject – quite
often followed by vacant staring into the distance, because every
time the subject came up that “knowledge” would jump front and
centre of my thoughts. I knew I wasn't going on holiday this year,
and I “knew” why. The worst though was when mum asked
about my holiday plans this year – I got a lump in my throat so
heavy it sat, a massive knot of sadness in my chest.
So
on the 8th of July at 18:30, when I walked onto mum's ward
for my daily visit and found her distressed and struggling to breath,
I was suddenly confronted with all the fears that I'd played out in
my head a hundred times. I told my sister she needed to be at the
hospital NOW and I stood
beside mum, scared and panicky. Then mum managed to say two words to
me – “I'm going” and all those fears just disappeared and I
felt calm.
My
sister, niece, and nephew arrived not long after and we sat with her.
She told my sister she was “going”, and she even got to tell us
that she loved us. At 20:17 something perceptively changed and the
death rattle that had been constant since I arrived stopped. I looked
at the clock on my phone – why I did this I don't know – and
exchanged a glance with my sister, I haven't asked her but I think my
sister noticed the change too. We both held her hands and encouraged
her to go, her breathing slowed until eight minutes later she
peacefully took her last breath.
She
beat my prediction by three and a half hours.
I
love you, mum. I'm going to miss you so much, and I'll always, always
still need you.
