the 'c' word

A year ago today my mum and I went to the doctors on Pyrles Lane for her most recent blood test results. As we sat and waited for the taxi mum applied her lipstick and my heart leapt as I noticed her jaundiced skin against the pink shade. We had to swap shoes, as her swollen feet wouldn't fit into hers, so I unlaced my trainers and she just about got these on. It was a hell of a job getting her to the doctors, her legs so swollen it was difficult to bend them, so getting into and out of the taxi took monumental effort. It was at this appointment that it was obvious she was gravely ill. There were inflammation markers in her blood. The 'c' word was mentioned and I wanted to cover her ears, protect her, for the doctor to tell me and not her. 

My mum died of suspected liver cancer 19 days later. She endured with no complaint and didn't ask for anything. In the final weeks of her life my sister and I took turns staying with her, so she wasn't alone in the house. Her health declining fast we did all we could. She didn't want medical help so it was only when things became desperate that we asked for assistance. I'm still processing the shock of her death, and that she died from cancer. She was tough. She did it her way. She lived for 81 and a half years, just like her own mother. 

In the run up to the first anniversary of her death I'm counting down and remembering the anxiety and fear of knowing she was dying. I've always had a sense of protecting mum, as children, she used my sister and I as a shied against our violent and unpredictable dad, sleeping in our shared room. It was an unusual, topsy-turvy relationship. 

I couldn't protect her from dying, but, alongside my sister, I could be present and ensure what happened around her was the best it could be, especially in her final days on morphine and semi-unconscious. I've felt untethered this year, not part of the world. My life has a different purpose. I can no longer protect my mum and I've lost the job I was born into. 

things that break my heart - candlelight

Doreen Edna Logan (née Furmage)

The evening of the day Mum died I lit a candle and let it burn down in the darkness of my bedroom. I set it in front of a photo taken on her 70th birthday in 2005, me to her right, my sister to her left: the same positions as at the moment of her death. The candle illuminated her photo, so if I woke in the night she was smiling out at me. I'm very grateful that Mum died with 'her girls' present. My memory is muddled but Clare's voice is clear, simply stating  'it's happening!' as we simultaneously leaned in close to stroke her face and hair and say, 'goodbye Mum, goodbye' as she died. Her colour change was dramatic, in the instance her heart stopped beating she was yellow, the effect of liver failure shockingly apparent - poor thing.

Each night before I sleep, I say out loud, 'night Mum', and in her voice answer, 'night dear'. I'm trying to retain her voice, as my Dad's is long forgotten. It is important that I do this for a year, the last night lighting will be on the 1st May 2018. I'll buy a special candle to burn on the 2nd May, lightening it at 5.45pm, the time of her death. I mentioned my ritual to a friend who's husband is from Ghana. His father died last year and she told me the first year of bereavement is honoured in his culture, marked by family gatherings and a celebration and remembering of the loved ones life. This first year feels sacred. My first year with no father, no mother. 

things that break my heart - lipstick

Mum was clearly very ill, and on 13th April we visited the doctors on Pyrles Lane for her second round of blood test results. It had been a challenge getting her to the doctors, her legs so swollen she couldn't bend them at the knee, so getting in and out of the taxi and walking to the surgery was a monumental effort.

While waiting for the taxi, Mum sat in the living room, having applied her pink lipstick. It was a heart stopping moment, seeing her pink lips against yellowing skin and, as happened repeatedly throughout each day, witnessing how dreadful she looked, how ill she was. Her routine and pride in her appearance existed throughout the last weeks of her life. In the doctors waiting room, I remained outwardly cheerful while my chest ached at her obvious decline. It was at this appointment that cancer was first mentioned and I wanted to shield her, protect her from THAT word. I wanted the doctor to whisper it to me, I would carry it.

Mum lived for 19 more days, dying at 5.45pm on Tuesday 2nd May 2017.

The last few weeks of our lives together were one of a before unknown level of physical intimacy. Each morning I soaked her swollen feet in a bowl of scented water. My sister and I had visited Brighton in April, Mum giving us £20 to treat ourselves to lunch. In a health food shop I'd bought her a sachet of lavender bath salts, thinking she would enjoy a foot soak. The smell was indeed lovely, and I washed her feet and swollen legs, gently exfoliating her dry and flaking skin, carefully drying then moisturising with E45. I remember looking up at her from my position on the floor one morning and seeing her resting with her eyes closed as her feet soaked in the warm water. I hope I was able to give her some comfort in her last days.

6 days before she died, I washed Mum's hair, my first time doing so. As she was chair bound, the process began with covering her in towels, wrapping one around her neck, draping one across her shoulders. She held a bowl of warm water on her lap, and I wet her fine grey hair, soaping it into a lather. She leaned her head towards the bowl and I poured clean water from a plastic jug over her head, watching as it ran over the contours of her face and dripped from her nose. That day I also washed her face and arms. Seeing her in her vest, much reduced from the round soft Mum I'd known, her shoulders small, arms thin with skin hanging was unspeakably painful, a shock to the child in me, her daughter. 

I'd selected an outfit from her wardrobe and helped her dress. Her fine straight hair had never been to her liking, so Mum asked for her curlers and she twisted them into her hair for the last time. Automatic, no mirror needed. There was one strand of hair that misbehaved and I tucked it around a curler for her. This whole performance exhausted Mum. I think she was glad when I left her in peace.

things that break my heart - last shopping trip

Mum on holiday in her youth, in a skirt she made

It is now a full year since Mum and I walked down Pyrles Lane, hopping on the 20 bus and sharing our last walk along Loughton High Road together, before going to Morrison's for her weekly food shop. It was a bright and chilly autumn day, from the bus stop next to Molen's cafe we walked to the zebra crossing, then up to Halifax bank. Mum wanted a statement and to withdraw £200 from her account. I walked her to a comfortable seat, then queued at the cash machine. Glancing at her sitting patiently, I was glad she was safe and had my sister and I to trust in. Having her pin number and money at my fingertips I thought of all the older/vulnerable people with untrustworthy relatives, and felt the honour of her trust. I returned to her, gave her the statement and cash and shared my thoughts. During these moments I sensed this would be the last time we would do these everyday things together.  

A few doors from the bank is M&Co, we went there as Mum enjoyed looking at fashion. When she was younger she made her own clothes and is so stylish in photos of that time. As kids she knitted us jumpers and cardigans, teaching me to knit in her own loopy way. In M&Co Mum bought herself a hat and gloves. The gloves were made of a blue checked fabric and I tried them on and found them short in the fingers, but Mum was happy with them. I have my mothers hands, sometimes we used to place out hands next to each other and marvel at their match, when I look at them I think of her, especially as I age. The hat was a soft peaked cap in a mottled grey fabric with discrete velvet bow on the right side, it suited her, and of course, I tried it too. Mum went to the till and paid.

The hat is one of the items I keep in a memory box of her belongings, it has significance for me. Mum wore it once, the day in December when we walked to the doctors surgery on Pyrles Lane, her lower legs red, hot and swollen. It was at this appointment that blood tests were first suggested to understand the cause of the swelling. I remember her being incredibly tired when we got in, she had done so well in walking almost a mile. 

things that break my heart - london zoo

This is my Mum. Mum never showed us this photograph, I found it in her bedroom chest of drawers. It is strange that now she is gone this image appears of her so young and I wish I could ask her about it. The woman I knew is visible in this pretty child's face. Look at her adorable checked summer dress with its peter pan collar, her soft blond hair shining in the sun, the right hand that I held as she died. 

Who took her to the Regents Park Zoo that day? Who took the photo? Who's handwriting is that? Mum was the youngest of seven siblings and living in Camden Town they were near the zoo but I bet it was a memorable day, as money was tight.

It was an honour to have been present and fully engaged with my mother as she died. This image reminds me of the inevitability of death in the face of her illness, while simultaneously radiating the hope of life to come, of new beginnings, of all that would unfold for this little girl Doreen. I am so sad it is over. 

things that break my heart - council house

Mum lived in a council house, so from the day after she died my sister and I were charged full rent on the house she had lived in since 1975. We are both fortunate in having mortgages to pay, so for financial reasons we had to clear Mum's home as quickly as possible. Because of the speed of this I decided to keep a pile of Mum's belongings, thinking at a later date I could be more selective. It turns out everything I kept fitted perfectly into the floral box I bought for the purpose. 

It was traumatic clearing Mum's house immediately after her death. I gave myself a whole day over her bedroom, folding her knickers, tights, pop socks, carefully placing items into bags for recycling/the tip/charity. While the house still looked like her home I allowed myself an afternoon of watching TV and taking a short nap in her bed - quietly observing her view, the ceiling with its textured paint and cracks, the nets I hemmed years ago, the view to the small landing where we thundered about as children. 

When we moved to the house I was four, and the first thing I did was to sit crossed legged in the corner of the living room and spread my Ladybird books out in front of me. On my last moments in the house, I sat again, cross-legged, 42 years later in the empty living room. Thanking the walls, I thought about the next family to inhabit this space, call this house home and enjoy the view of the forest from the living room window, The cycle continues, and I was glad that my family never had the money to profit from social housing, that another family without the means to own property would benefit from a sturdy, safe council house.  

things that break my heart - hair and teeth

Ring box containing baby teeth and hair on top of my keepsake box for Mum

Address in the ring box: Dawson & Briant, Goldsmiths & Watchmakers, 281 Kentish Town Rd, London, N.W.5.

Mum had a heart shaped, fabric covered ring box, and forever I've known about it. It contains mine and my sister's baby curls. Mine a dull blond, my sister's shiny with a reddish tinge. This precious box also holds two baby teeth wrapped in toilet tissue, the first teeth lost? Mum was not one for stories, of telling her/our past and we were scared to ask as much of the time she would become upset and silent, her eyes reddening, the atmosphere altered somehow. Her way of signalling the end of a conversation was to stare at the ever present TV.

When I open this box it feels incredibly precious. A woman in her late 30's kept the hair and teeth of her daughters, a symbolic and significant act. Was she a poetic soul? Moved by the love for her girls? One of our cousins talks of Mum being a joker and a laugh. As a child Linda would walk from Camden with the family dog Judy, meeting Mum every Friday on the Euston Road where she worked. Mum would take her to a toy shop on the way home, encouraging Linda to pick a toy and Mum would buy it for her. Sadly, my sister and I don't recognise this woman years before we were born, Mum suffered domestic abuse from our alcoholic and traumatised Dad, it's understandable she would lose herself during her married years. We knew Mum as anxious, a worrier and not much fun to be around, though in this she was doing her best. I always hid parts of myself, making sure I was the version she needed. 

The ring box now lives within a larger box. A box I bought to contain selected belongings of Mum's, personal items that in the coming years will evoke her. This box contains:

1 x pair of black shoes
1 x turquoise fleece
2 x Damart tops
1 x M&Co embroidered shirt, Mum had shortened the sleeves, so her hand stitching is evident and makes me cry
The Epping Forest Guardian Newspaper containing her death notice
The Order of Service from her funeral
1 x M&Co hat, bought on our last trip to Loughton together
Glasses and case
Purse containing bus pass, bank cards, Morrisons card, VIP Taxi card, stamps, door key, an old £1 coin and a photo of my sister and I
Magnifying glass, that belonged to Dad
Old green comb
Wrist watch
2 x lipsticks, Smoked Peach and Pink in the Afternoon by Revlon
Spider's Web (tape), Francisco Yglesia plays the Paraguayan Harp, bought in Harlow
Letter opener
Fresh mint tictac's
Jessie's identity disc, our dog who died in 2005
Heart shaped ring box with baby hair and teeth

things that break my heart - chair

Mum died at 5.45pm on the 2nd of May, 6 months today. I've decided to mark this first half year with a series of writings, collectively titled: Things That Break My Heart.

In the lead up to Mum's death there were moments I knew I'd never forget, even as they were happening. Mum had a beautiful oval mirror above the fireplace, and one day while helping her to her chair I glanced into the mirror and saw a bent old lady with thinning grey hair and stooped posture being helped by a broad shouldered giant of a woman, young looking but middle aged, her arm through the old ladies arm, supporting her tiny juddering steps before she folded (collapsed, sunk, fell) into the chair. The difference in us was a sharp slap to my face. As if the mirror showed the truth where my eyes could take the edge off the situation, my brain performing a trick to help me endure.

There was something about her dusky pink cardigan, bought last Christmas by my sister, hanging off her even then, that was tragic, its knit, colour, buttons just looking so sad. Mums back so curved and she appeared much shorter than her 5ft 4in frame. Mum, reaching for her chair, anxious to sit down looked worryingly frail, the effort of getting to and from her commode a few feet away a marathon. There was truth in our distance in the mirror, Mum in her final days, me at the midpoint (hopefully) of my life, I walk onwards, without her.

ashes

Yesterday would have been mum's 82nd birthday. Yesterday we buried her ashes in the family plot. Doreen Edna Logan joins her mother and two of her sisters on the East Road in Islington and St Pancras cemetery. 

Mum kept a photo of her mother by her bed until the end of her life, this photo was placed in her coffin before cremation. They are reunited. 

My mothers ashes in her petal urn

fairy

Mum loved brands. When clearing her home I took some comfort in gathering everyday items purchased by her: fabric softener, washing up liquid, soap, shampoo... and using them up in my flat. Mum's presence lingers a while longer in her favourite products, ones I wouldn't buy myself. Some items, particularly the fabric softener bring back the smell of her wardrobe, the sheets on the single beds in the front and back bedrooms. Just over three months have passed since she died and I've been using this Fairy Original, thinking of her as I squeeze green liquid into hot water. Almost used up, its time to buy another and to say goodbye to Fairy, I have not inherited my mothers loyalty to brands.

telling

Telling someone your Mum has died is like being interviewed for the worst job ever...

How old was she?

Was it sudden?

She must have had you when she was older?

If I answer this barrage of meaningless questions, then I feel spent, vulnerable, cross. All someone needs to say is 'I'm sorry to hear that. How are you doing?'. Then I'd feel seen, heard and my heart would soften. 

I'm keeping myself away from people. I have nil energy for flakiness, clumsiness.

mum

My mum, Doreen Logan, died on the 2nd May. Her funeral, on the 18th May was a month ago today. Now I am paused, at times with no words to describe how I feel.

As a little girl I stitched this lavender bag for her using fabric scraps and ribbon. It still retained a trace of scent almost 40 years after its making. It was one of the items placed in her coffin.

robert

My father, Robert James Logan died on this day in 1990.

ruby

In the summer of 1990 I worked in a nursing home for a couple of months before heading off to university. My father had died in the June and I left home for Derby in September. 

My father spent the last months of his life in hospital, dying on the morning of June 2nd. Watching him slowly fade, gaunt, with bedsores and towards the end his oxygen starved brain leading to confusion, I was a teenager with a larger than most experience of ageing, and a teenager in deep, profound distress. Working in a care home was a strange choice looking back, like prising my eyes open with matchsticks and forcing myself to gaze unblinking at suffering, failing bodies, death. Was I numb? Did I feel some duty? I do not know.

There was a woman in the home who was dreadfully confused, behaving as a toddler. If left on the toilet for too long she would smear herself, her thighs, walking stick with excrement. I remember being on my hands and knees washing her, verbally scolding her. In some part of her brain she knew she had done wrong and whimpered a little. In her room was a black and white photograph taken in the 1930's of a stylish, smiling young woman with beautifully waved dark hair, she had on pencil pleat shorts, gorgeous legs and was perched on the back of a motorbike. Young, at ease, carefree, loved, our reality and the image at odds, and I've never forgotten that moment. She was a girl just like me. 

Just once I went into Rudy's room, the curtains were drawn and in the dim light I could make out a naked figure on the bed, she lay on her back and was so thin, I recall my shock at seeing the outline of her spine through her stomach. The room smelt of urine, and Ruby was conscious, eyes open, uncomfortable, my memories are vague, that we turned her, bed sores being present in many... Outside, I felt a shiver of enjoyment from a staff member who regarded my reaction, probably assuming that was my first encounter with death, having no understanding of my own recent trauma.

Death was in that room, and I hope it came soon. Over the years I've thought about Ruby, never forgetting her name, never seeing her girl self photograph. I also think of the other woman, the one who's name escapes me, but her image does not, the young creature, radiant at the beginning of her womanhood. Its been almost 26 years since these experiences, their families do not know they are with me, that I sing for their bones. 

Around this time I remember sitting at a bus stop, an old woman glancing at me turned to her friend and said loud enough for me to hear, Young people today don't know their born,  depressed, newly bereaved, working in a care home I vowed never to be that unseeing woman.