Gift: A Son's Story (extract) - Mother's Day

Another extract from the final draft (still in progress) of my memoir of my time as my mother's full-time carer at the end of her life.

            So March wore on, and mum remained relatively stable.  At least we had no more emergencies, no more trips to the doctor.  Our daily routines stayed more or less as they'd always been.  On the 22nd, just before Mother's Day (another milestone I'd been hoping she'd reach), the world was transfixed by the terrorist attack at the Houses of Parliament in London.  Throughout the late afternoon and evening, the news updates kept coming.  People killed and injured on Westminster Bridge.  A police officer stabbed to death.  Every time something came on, mum stopped whatever it was she was doing and watched.

            "I don't know what's gone wrong with the world now," she said.  "People killing others for no reason."

            "That's always happened, mum."

            "I know.  But in the war, we were fighting against something.  The Nazis did some terrible things, and we went to war to stop it.  Now, what they're doing... it just doesn't make any sense to me at all.  Running people over.  Killing policemen.  All because of religion."

            "They're fanatics, mum.  They're not true Muslims.  They just distort everything to suit their own ends.  That's what fanatics do."

            "I know, but..." she pressed the remote to switch the latest update off.  "It just doesn't make sense."

            She shook her head sadly and tried going back to her crossword.

            "I'm just glad I've had my life," she said.  "I'm glad I lived when I did."

            I tried to lighten the mood.

            "You've got some way to go yet, I hope."

            She either didn't hear me, or she ignored it, concentrating instead on something that she could still make sense of.  Part of me agreed with her.  Maybe it was just an 'age' thing, but even I was looking at what was going on in the world - not just terrorism and the rise of the far-right, but the rapidly increasing pace of change that had got entire generations hooked on smartphones and instant communication - and thinking that I, too, was glad I was born when I was.  I was different, though.  I still had my health and, all being well, years ahead of me.  If I lived to mum's age, I wondered how I'd feel then.  Would I be clinging on to every last moment, as she seemed to be doing?  Or would I sign out at the earliest opportunity?  Whenever the right time came, whatever the circumstances, I'd long known how it would be.  A bottle of whisky and a pot of sleeping pills.  Float off to sleep and never wake up.  Kill the suffering dead - literally. 

            Which morbid thinking brought me back to mum.  I wondered how it would be for her, when that time actually did come.  I hoped it would be like that - falling asleep.  Dr Ebute had assured me it probably would be, and probably quite painlessly.  I expected, any morning now, to get up and be sitting in the kitchen with the kettle boiled, waiting for that sound of the zimmer across the carpet and the creak of the bedroom door handle - and to not hear them come.  To wait a further few minutes before going to the door to call out.  To hear nothing - not even her breathing.  To know then that it had happened.  I hoped it would be that way.  Not in writhing pain, or wired up on some uncomfortable hospital mattress in CDU.  I hoped it would be here.  I hoped it would be calm and quiet, with no suffering.  And I hoped upon hope that she wasn't suffering now, in her awareness of things.  That she wasn't wishing it away, as dad had.  That she could still live to enjoy some more days like the ones we'd had.

            Mother's Day arrived, and mum was as bright as a berry that morning.  Lottie was the morning carer, which she was especially pleased about.  She helped mum to dress in some nice clothes, made her feel good.  I cooked a special Mother's Day breakfast - egg, bacon, fried bread, toast - and mum wolfed it down.  Afterwards, I gave her a card and a small gift I knew she would like: the DVD of Eddie the Eagle. 

            "I remember when he was in the news," she said.  "I always followed him.  I always liked to root for the underdog.  We'll watch that this evening, maybe."

            I'd wanted to get another big bunch of flowers, but Russell and Lynn usually did that.  Lynn would make up a special bouquet at the shop.  They wouldn't be over until the late afternoon, though.  It was a pleasant day, and after lunch mum said she fancied a little trip out for some air.  I got the wheelchair out of the shed and we set off. 

            It was quite busy along the seafront, but this time mum wanted to go up towards the clock tower and the jetty.  The promenade was crowded, but she seemed happy to be around lots of people and to soak in the holiday-like atmosphere.  Many people were dressed more for summer than spring, with shorts and t-shirts, but it was quite warm already in the sun.  We reached the clock tower and I wondered if mum had had enough.  But she said she wanted to go along to the pier, where she often used to walk in more mobile days - which weren't really that long ago.  We carried on, going through the bandstand, which was like a piazza with the outside tables and chairs of the café there.  People were sitting with coffees and ice creams, relaxing.  There was a definite buzz in the air. 

            At the pier, we wove up through the jostling crowds - past the carousel and the helter-skelter, and the tiny souvenir shacks and food stalls, to the end.  Or, at least, the end as it now was - about a quarter of the pier's original length.  It had once been the longest pier on our stretch of coast, but large sections of it had been destroyed in storms just months before we moved to Herne Bay.  Spring of 1978 - 39 years ago almost to the very day.  As the years went by, more and more sections collapsed or were demolished until all that was left was the stub we were on and the pier head - sitting alone now, like a ruined fairy-tale castle, about half-a-mile out to sea.  I pushed the chair up to the railings and we sat for a while, looking out there - the offshore breeze gently ruffling its fingers through mum's cotton-white hair.  The pier head had deteriorated over the years, but the domed structure on it was still recognisable, even though it was beginning to cave in.

            "Amazing it's still there after all this time," I said.

            Mum just smiled.

            "Not much out there now," I went on, "except birds.  And ghosts."

            I often used to look at it and think of it as kind of symbolising my life.  Something that was detached from the mainland yet, in a sense, part of it, too... or had been, once.  Something that was visible and within reach, but at the same time isolated.  And yet, despite the continual onslaught of years, it still stood - unmoving and resolute.  I felt a very strong affinity with it.

            When mum had had enough there, I wheeled her back to the promenade again.  I took her along through the sunken gardens in Waltrop Square, past the flower beds which were radiant in the spring sunshine.

            "This is beautiful," she said.  "All the flowers I could need for Mother's Day."

            We stopped for a moment by one bed and I took a couple of photographs of her smiling at the blooms. 

            At the clock tower, she asked for an ice cream.  Then we sat by the jetty as she ate it.  From there, I could see up to the windows of my old flat, overlooking the parade above a Turkish restaurant.  I'd moved in there in 2011. It was cheap and spacious after the studio, and had these glorious views.  It seemed perfect.

            It had become a nightmare very quickly, though - and I soon realised why it was so cheap.  Nobody ever stayed, because of the noise.  The restaurant had, at that time, been a pizza takeaway that opened until very late.  There would be car doors slamming and horns beeping long after midnight.  Plus, the staff used to stand out in the street talking loudly.  I'd politely asked the management once if they could mention something, but had been given short shrift.  On top of this, the main car park opposite, by the jetty, was used by the local boy racers every night - sometimes until long into the early hours.  Beeping, shouting, doing doughnuts and racing around.  The pub next door had loud live music nights regularly.  The neighbours downstairs were young lads who had weekend parties.  I'd spoken to them, too, and had basically been told to move if I didn't like it.

            I would have done.  But I didn't see why I should have to put up with it.  In the end, though, I had a mental collapse - a combination of all that, plus, I think, a delayed reaction to dad's death and my divorce.  It all seemed to tumble in on me at once.  I gave up my job because I could no longer handle it.  And then I was trapped.  I took to sleeping on cushions in the hallway, because it was the only fully-enclosed room, away from windows and noise sources.  It was eighteen months of hell - until I found my current flat, with a fair landlord.  It was quiet, too - but I was so traumatised by the previous experience that it took me ages to settle in.  I lived in one room for about a month, scared to go into any of the others in case I could hear noises from downstairs or next door.

            Looking up at the old flat now, I could see that the windows seemed vacant and dirty.  In fact, most of the flats in the block looked empty.  It didn't surprise me.  It was a bad part of my history, and I was glad it was long gone.  Throughout it, though, mum had been my main source of support.  She listened to my tales of woe.  She let me sleep on the camp bed on really bad nights.  And she was just there as a source of reassurance for me.  I don't think I would have come through it without her.  She kept me going.  Though she wasn't to know it, she probably kept me alive.

            "I'll bet you're glad you don't live there now," she said, as if reading into my thoughts.  "I am, too.  I couldn't manage all those stairs any more."

            "I couldn't manage all that racket," I said.

            Mum had only been up to the flat once.  Sixty-three stairs in total.  She'd had to take it in stages, resting on each landing.  She wouldn't even have made it up the few steps to the entrance now.

            She finished her ice cream and we moved off again, cutting through the town centre towards home.  When we got back, mum seemed refreshed and invigorated.  But she'd no sooner settled herself in her recliner than she was asleep.  She slept for the rest of the afternoon, until Russell and Lynn came in around five.  As I'd hoped and expected, they bought mum a lovely bouquet of flowers. 

            They left just before the evening carer was due.  Later, when mum was ready for bed, we sat and watched the DVD.  She laughed a lot all the way through it, managing to keep awake.  It was good to see her so engaged and happy, and perhaps escaping for a couple of hours.  When it went off, though, she was exhausted and decided to go to bed.

            "Well, I've really had a nice time today," she said.  "Best Mother's Day for years."

            "Good," I said.

            "Maybe, if the weather's nice tomorrow, we can rent a car again."

            "Sure.  Perhaps we could head in the other direction this time.  Faversham, maybe.  Or the Isle of Sheppey."

            "I've never been there," she said.  "All these years here.  It's not that far away, either."

            "Okay.  Let's see how the day pans out."

            And that was mum's last Mother's Day over.