A true story.
10 November 2018: She was too frail to drink much water. As I sat beside her, I found myself staring into her weary blue eyes. I dipped a black sponge attached to a stick into a small plastic bowl filled with water, then gently dabbed at her parched, cracked lips. Like arid desert soil thirsting for the season’s first rain, her lips thirstily absorbed each droplet.
It hadn’t sunk in how ill she was. In my mind, she was merely deeply tired, taking the extensive rest she desperately needed. But in reality, she was weak and on morphine to ease the pain of her lacerated lungs after 50 years of smoking, a habit she adopted to numb the pain of life, or so I assumed.
I began filing her nails, which were dry and brittle. Her skin was wrinkly and sagging, her body drained of its former vitality and plumpness. She mustered a tiny smile, acknowledging that she appreciated my care and attention.
My other brother was here; I almost had to beg him to come and see her. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive, but I had agreed to drive him. He was shocked to see her in this state, as it had been a while since their last get-together.
We all sat in silence; she was now asleep, looking peaceful, resting deeply, perhaps dreaming lovely dreams.
Gary, my brother, and I went down to the M&S shop to get sandwiches. Finding a sea of discount stickers on the sandwiches, providing me with a brief distraction, I bought a couple, took a photo, and told my other brother who visited yesterday—he loves a bargain too.
We walked back upstairs along the endless sterile corridors. My mum’s three siblings were at her bedside: her younger brother and two sisters. I felt more tense with them there; I couldn’t be myself. We all sat in awkward silence; my mum was comatose, lying on her side, bony and curled up like a baby bird, her outline visible through the thin, white sheet.
It was time for Gary and me to leave; it was getting late. I wanted Mum’s siblings to leave so I could share heartfelt words with her, but I was too shy to ask. I hugged her as best I could, kissed her cheek, and told her, “I love you so much and thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” That was all I could muster, though there was so much more I wanted to say. As I was leaving, I said, “Try your best to get better.” As soon as I said it, I felt dreadful.
The nurse pulled us aside as we were leaving and said we were welcome to stay in a side room with my mum for the night if we wanted. Gary and I agreed it wouldn’t be practical for us, so we thanked them and left.
The drive home felt long, but the M25 was clear, and the skies were a dark, deep blue. I felt strangely sad yet peaceful, and Gary was in tears—a tough army man in tears, while the usually sensitive mess was being stoic, a role reversal. We got back quicker than expected. I dropped Gary off around the back of his house, we hugged, and I drove another 12 minutes to get back home and straight to bed.
I slept well that night; it had been a long day filled with driving and emotionally draining seeing Mum so unwell.
Upon waking, I received a phone call from my other brother, Matt, the one I told about the sandwiches. Choking back tears, he managed to whisper, ‘I just wanted to let you know that Mum passed away peacefully at 6:10 this morning.’
