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.
Showing posts with label Pyrles Lane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pyrles Lane. Show all posts
Friday, 13 April 2018
Tuesday, 7 November 2017
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.
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.
Monday, 6 November 2017
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.
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