Mum was dying for a long timeslowly, painfully, and without dignity. It was only her eyes The closer the end crept, the darker they became. On the very last evening, her eyes seemed velvet-black, impossibly wise and all-seeing. Or maybe it was just that her pale face made them stand out even more
At the tail end of summer, I brought her back from the cottage and, since it was late, stayed over at her place for the night. In the middle of the night, while making her way to the bathroom, she fell andthough we realised it only laterbroke her hip. For the elderly, thats usually a death knell.
After that, everything tumbled forward: ambulancefracture clinicsurgerythen ten days in hospital.
As we rode to the hospital, I remembered spending the night at my old nursery teachers houseMrs. Anna Parsonswhen they buried my dad, whod been hit by a lorry on his ancient motorbike one night. Mum was twenty-eight, I was three. She didnt want me to be scarred by the news of Dads death, so she took me away during the funeral and told me Dad had gone away on business She never remarriedshe once said she was afraid any new husband wouldnt be a true father to me.
When Mum was discharged, I had to leave my job to care for her. We couldnt afford a carer, because at the time my youngest needed help getting his own flat.
So I moved into Mums tiny one-bed flat for good, spending each day changing her pads, washing, feeding, and caring for hersometimes three, four, even six times each day. She never complained. She simply endured, only making a small, childlike gasp if I moved her too quickly. Afterwards, shed whisper: Never you mind, love, its all right everythings fine
Id never realised I was so squeamish and weak. At night, as I lay on the sofa beside her bed, Id quietly cry in helplessness. It would sound touching to say my tears were all sympathybut honestly, much of it was for myself.
Help wasnt forthcoming. My two sons were busy with work and their own families. My wife Well, my wife just said: Shes your mum, not mine. To me, shes just someone elses mother
Oddly, I remembered then, the first time I brought Janemy Janehome to introduce her to Mum. Mum was gracious and welcoming all evening. After Id seen Jane off and came back inside, I looked expectantly at Mum. She simply shrugged and said: I dont know, something feels off But, son, you must do whats right for you. After all, youre marrying her, not me.
Their relationship was always fine, all our lives.
But now, just as it was long ago, Mum and I were alone. In the quiet evenings, after turning out the lights, we would talk for agesjust the two of us. Shed tell me about Grandma and Grandad, about the day the Germans marched into their village, and how she and her older sister hid behind the back fence, watching the strangerswell-fed, playing harmonicas and laughing together.
She talked about my father, though I barely remembered him. In truth, perhaps not at all Only an echo lingersa large man, scratchy-cheeked from stubble, reeking of tobacco, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me again and again after work. Hed murmur all the while, My son, my boy
But Mum grew weaker, and our night-time talks faded. I convinced myself it was because I fed her poorly. To make up for it, I began ordering meals from a restaurantproper, hot and nicely packaged. When Id ask if she liked the food, shed give a faint, indifferent shake of her head and say, Youve become quite the chef, love. But she hardly touched a bite.
On her last night at home, for some reason, she remembered the first ballpoint pens arriving in our townwhen I was in Year Three and had only ever heard of them. Lena Pomeroys father brought her one from somewhere, and it was so wonderful that one evening Well, I brought this pen home to show off to Mum. When she found out how Id got it, she gave me a hiding with her beltproper hardthen took me and the pen to the Pomeroys to return their treasure.
I barely remembered the incident, but now Mum started apologising for hitting me all those years ago, trying to defend herself, explaining that shed only ever feared I might become a thief.
I stroked Mums cheek and, strangely, felt a flush of shame before her, though Id never turned out a thief.
By early dawn, when things turned critical and the ambulance came for her, she surfaced from her deathly haze for a moment, squeezed my hand, and whispered, Oh, Lord how will you manage here without me Still so young and daft
Mum missed her eighty-ninth birthday by just under six weeks. The day after she died, I turned sixty-four.
