5 years ago my Father died. He was 99, a ‘good’ age although his last year had been a deterioration mentally and physically, so was it really a ‘good age’? Would it have been kinder if his body had said ‘no more’ earlier?
5 years ago. It was in the time of Covid. Strict national guidelines on who, what, where and when but I had my own rules, and they were even more restrictive than those imposed by government. My husband had been diagnosed with Follicular Lymphoma and was on a journey with chemotherapy. His caregivers emphasised how vulnerable he was, no resistance to bugs. His consultant haematologist told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would DIE if he contracted coronavirus. We withdrew into our shells and interacted with family, friends and the world via electronic devices. The time we ventured out was to take walks together, exploring the beauty around us, whatever the weather.
My Father became ill, another stroke, he went to hospital and contracted Covid. Hubby and I were walking, a muddy, blow away the cobwebs escape to the country. My mobile rang, withheld number. It was a doctor from the hospital where my Dad was, the news was negative, my parent was not responding to treatment, can we discuss the End of Life care?
I didn’t wake husband. I didn’t want him to see me cry. To see how my sadness was not just due to losing my parent but also because I couldn’t have been there supporting my sister.
How odd, standing in a field chatting with an unknown doctor about how he would help ease my parent’s end of life experience. Just keep him well hydrated and pain free. This is going to seem harsh, uncaring, but I lost track after this. My sister, she divides her life between England and an antipodean country, she appeared and took control. I can’t remember time scale but one day it was obvious Dad was leaving us, he was dying. For me he had been dying for months. Due to covid, NHL and chemo I had not seen him for months. My focus had been 100% on my husband, on our own little lives. One night it became obvious my Father was on the last part of his journey. My sister and I spent much of the night on the phone to each other, she was alone with Dad, I was sitting alone. He died. I went to the window and a shooting star flashed across the sky. Bye Dad.
I cried. I didn’t wake my husband. I didn’t want to let him know how sad I was. How I was grieving my Father but also desperately sad that I couldn’t be there with my sister. That she had to do this all by herself. Then came the funeral. I couldn’t go. I phoned a well-known cancer charity for advice, for support, and was knocked back. I realised that this was all my problem, that I shouldn’t, couldn’t share with anyone else.
I have never really grieved my Father. I have locked my feelings away in my brain cupboard, the storage place for anything which causes me angst.
My Mother. Always a hard woman. We have never been close. Now is not the time to journey back over my childhood, my teenage years. Enough to say that I left home before I was 17. My Mother started preparing for her death from 40+. Every decade she joyously told us that she wouldn’t see her next. She lived on, studied for a degree, divorced my Father, remarried and is now in her mid-nineties. A few years ago she was put in a care-home by my sister. I agreed with the decision as Mum was showing minor signs of dementia and was really approaching the need for care. Mum was put into a care home, 20 minutes away from my sister’s UK home, an hour from my permanent home.
I find it easier to defer to my sister, so the home contact her when there are developments. Recently I received a message from my sister, currently overseas, to say that Mum was moving to the palliative care hub, could I pop in to see her. Off I went. Yes Mum has deteriorated, mentally more than physically. My Mother has gone. For years she hasn’t known me, but there would always be moments when we would connect. A prayer, a hymn a poem. Now there is nothing. She sits, toothless because she has lost so much weight they fall out, clapping and shouting wee wee. My Mother has gone. Why visit? She doesn’t acknowledge that anyone is there, she doesn’t care that anyone is there. I’m just ticking a box. Checking that the person with my Mother’s name is warm, clean and cared for. I spoke with my sister. Reassured her that although Mum has deteriorated mentally her physical state makes me feel that we will still have her in 2026. Sister has decided to come back in a couple of weeks to be with Mum on her journey to death. Perhaps this is where I go wrong. I don’t feel the need to be there, to witness life being extinguished. I’m already grieving my Mother.
A Midwife's Muse 