Before the Loss — There was Resilience.
My mum passed away just two months ago, just 10 days before her 87th birthday. It is the strangest of experiences to be looking at life from the perspective that there is now a space, an absence of her physically here. I was shopping last weekend and as I usually do, I saw some little bits and pieces that, before now, I would have bought for Mum. Kept for her birthday or just a no-reason gift when I next saw her. She always delighted in the little things like the yellow flower-shaped gingernut biscuit I gave her and the colourful perspex hummingbird to hang in the sun, so the light casts pretty colours. In so many ways, she was quite childlike. She said it was because she was a Gemini. I would roll my eyes, but she would insist that all her quirks were attributes of a Gemini.
My parents live almost two hours away and I saw them often. But in recent months, since Mum began to feel unwell, the visits became more regular. Mum had been experiencing pain in her belly for some time. It had grown round and protruding but the rest of her was tiny, frail, and she seemed to be shrinking more each time I visited.
Her pain was so bad one day, she found herself in the hospital where, there was no surprise really, if I allow myself to think about it, that she was diagnosed with cancer of the colon. Sent home with the care of daily nurse visits, my visits became weekly. Every weekend I would make the drive north taking with me meals and nice cakes and biscuits. After all, the enjoyment of taste and special treats had no bearing on the outcome of this brick wall of fate that lay before her.
Mum had a tenacity and resilience that bode well for her in her life. She overcame the loss of three babies, and multiple surgeries and maintained an attitude of “life is what you make it”. I remember that saying so well from childhood. Wayne Dyer’s book on her nightstand almost fifty years ago and that saying. It annoyed me so because, life happening to me and getting me upset or irritated was so much easier to live by than the idea that actually, it was up to me. But that’s how it was in my childhood home, no excuses for life happening to you and I saw my mum living that adage through all her road bumps. Her competitiveness had begun young when she competed in dancing, swimming and diving and mostly won, even against the men, she was particularly proud of that, beating her male competitors in the open diving championships.
So, here we were, looking at a brick wall when upon reflection, there had only ever been road bumps. I felt lucky, yes, I had to give it some conscious effort to think about the fact that, unlike so many others, I had been, and was, enjoying my mum in her 87th year. Nothing was imminent and there was time, how much, we didn’t know, but that meant, in my mind, as long as we, could keep things stable, nothing was happening now, and nothing was happening in the near future.
Mum struggled with her medication and keeping her pain managed was a challenge. She began to give her things away and we didn’t know to whom or exactly what, but we knew this was happening. She was appealing to a neighbour to help her write her own death notice and this was upsetting, especially for my dad.
Upon reflection, I can see myself and what I was thinking at that time, I was totally in denial and these activities, we witnessed Mum doing, seemed out of context, after all, nothing was happening imminently and I kept this as my mantra in my mind, saying it over and over. But I became less happy and comfortable with Mum seeking assistance from others for these things and although my mantra remained strong, I suggested we begin a notebook.
I gathered as much information as I could find from the funeral directors’ website about preparing for a funeral. I purchased a pretty notebook and transferred headings into the notebook from a list I had written from the websites. We began to fill in some of the pages, me and Mum together. I was fighting back tears and saying out loud, “not that we will need for quite a while but at least you can take your time and jot down what you want”. Mum was happy enough to do it and said to me “I’ve accepted it now”. I couldn’t hold back any longer and hugged her, crying and saying, “but it’s not yet mum, you aren’t going anywhere yet”. She didn’t cry, she had such a warm, calm, soft smile on her face as she looked at me. Such a picture, if only I could have captured that look on camera, but I vow to remember it as clearly as I can forever because, that expression, that calmness, that softness for her acceptance was so precious and insightful, and, so very beautiful.
I began to understand that my response in this process was to be in as much control of it as I could. Because the ultimate outcome was control less. In other words, no one had control of it let alone me, or Mum. This meant I was the point of contact for her medical care, I was the point of contact for the notebook. It was me the nurse phoned and it was me mum phoned when she became confused about her medication.
It was me that was phoned when one Saturday morning as I was descending the stairs at home, my mobile rang, and it was my dad. He was at accident and emergency; my mum had experienced a fall and he found her on the floor in the laundry at 7 am that morning. The Emergency Department Doctor was handed the phone so I could relay all that I knew about her condition, her medication, and her medical history. Mum’s poor brittle bones had been broken many times, so many, we joked she was the bionic woman. Neck, shoulder, both hips and now, her upper arm. A fracture that was beyond repair, at least for Mum. An extremely painful, uncomfortable, and serious fracture. She was now in hospital and this time, there would be no return home.
It wasn’t what she and I planned and for me, the wheels were coming off my sense of control and need to push her departure from this life as far into the future as I could. It was collapsing all around me. But it wasn’t over for me, and I rallied some of that resilience that she had shown me over my fifty-seven years in her life and my mantra changed to “no one dies of a broken arm”. If she could just rally herself to eat, we could manage her pain, she maintained the resilient, competitive, and determined spirit she always had, just for three weeks, then she would be past the worst of the pain. We could then return to “it’s not imminent”. I was told by others that she had begun to say she wanted to die, she wanted to go and “this is no way to live”. She never said this to me, so for me, she didn’t really mean it. Mum was in so much pain and they were challenged with managing the balance of pain medication and her delicate, frail heart. But I truly believed that a broken arm was not a reason to give up and in time, it would heal enough so that she could still have some enjoyment from being here, with us.
Mum was medically discharged and me and my dad had arranged for a room at a hospital wing of the care facility. I was excited for Mum, there would be music and oh how she loved her music. There would be other people for company, a tv in her room. The caregivers were having so much fun the day we were there, her room had a view, and I was imagining how wonderful it was going to be to visit her there. The day arrived and I packed all the new sherpa blankets, a vase, some flowers, photos from home and all her clothing that I had ironed on special name tags with a train on them, just like she wanted. The ambulance transferred her from the hospital, and I was there, setting up her room when she arrived. Fresh tulips in the vase, the new colourful blanket on her bed, a photo of her beloved dog, a plant and all her clothing neatly inside the drawers and wardrobe. She was happy to be out of the hospital in a lovely quiet room, they brought her lunch, and she even requested a cup of tea. Something she hadn’t had since her fall eleven days earlier. My sister and dad came later, and I left, kissing her on the cheek and saying, “see you on the weekend mum, we’ll have a cup of tea together again then”, she kissed me back and said, “ok, see you then”. Later that day, she cracked a joke, watched tv, and enjoyed some dinner. I was convinced this was the beginning of returning to my mantra of “it’s not imminent” and I would not hear from anyone, anything different. That was because the following day, I was hearing just that. My ears would not allow the deceit of her decline. I had just been there the day before, that was impossible and could not be.
It wasn’t until just as I was about to prepare dinner, three missed calls on my mobile were noticed. Not that I thought for one moment it was because the care facility had news that would change my world, but more likely they needed some information or had a question.
Those three missed calls might as well have been lightening striking me down and not allowing me to rise and with that strike, both my mind and my heart went on vacation and left me with no means to think or feel, just blankness and confusion so complex and so heavy, I could move, but I was going nowhere except around in circles. Then, it was me, me who had to tell my dad and my siblings and others. Then it was me who drove myself and my sister to see her. Then it was me, who made the funeral arrangements with the direction from the little notebook and there was no more “it’s not imminent” because it had happened. The end of my mantras meant I was now experiencing an accumulation of what I can only describe as my anti-anticipatory grief, it still wasn’t real. It couldn’t possibly be, I am home, and she is still two hours north, sitting in her armchair watching her tv programmes and having a cup of tea, right? Isn’t she? Then I correct myself, no, I saw her, she had left, she had gone, and she isn’t coming back and now I must wait until I go, to see her again. I know with no doubt, that she will meet me there and we will dance like we did when I was a child, sing and laugh and remember our lives as mother and daughter and maybe …… maybe we will say, let’s do it all over again. I can only hope, this is how it will be and until then, never forget to remember her and all she was, and how she loved. I realise my denial throughout the process has been my mind’s way of keeping me safe, keeping me safe from the anticipated loss that really, deep down, I knew was imminent. But now, my mantra, is a happier one “I’ll see you again one day Mum” and I choose to believe this one wholeheartedly.
