I recently wrote a little book about a chap called Harold whose life is a series of minor mishaps, disappointments and embarrassments. You can read about it here.
I thought on this date of all dates I should share one of my best embarrassing moments with you.
Two years ago my mother was dying. She’d been dying for months, but the day had finally come when the end was inescapable. It was a Good Thing, by and large, as she’d been far too long slipping slowly down the long downward slope.
One Thursday I had a phone call that afternoon telling me to get to the old home town, as she was much worse. When I arrived that evening she was much worse still. I’d last seen her a week before, maybe ten days before, and we’d talked and she’d given me tips to improve my shepherd’s pie recipe. This evening she was slumped, her lip slipped loose to one side, and she was just too weak to speak.
I’d grown used, as her illness had gone on, to seeing her grow older, like a time lapse photograph, but this evening she’d gone a step even further. (It was surprising that every time you think, someone can’t get thinner/older/weaker than that, they go and do.)
I spoke to her and she tried to answer and squeezed my finger and all that sort of stuff. Right up until the end she’d not lost an inch of mind or memory. We did crosswords together. (My dad had been shot through with brain tumours and had vanished upstairs before his body finally gave out, she went the other way.) It was pathetic to see.
I told her I’d be back the following morning, if she was still around. No one really expected her to live the night. The doctor had been. I waited for the phone call. And it didn’t come.
So early(ish) the next morning I headed off to the nursing home and went in through her open door. She was, of course, still there. Her eyes were open and were that startling blue people who aren’t wearing their glasses anymore always seem to be. The droop had vanished from her lip. She didn’t turn to watch me come in. She couldn’t.
She was lying on her back, her mouth open gasping at the air. There was effort in each breath. I held her hand, as you would, and she tried to squeeze back, although the attempt only materialised as a half centimetre lift of her hand. I’ll take that as sign enough.
She looked like dad had looked on his last day, halfway mummified, automata-like. Except his hands had been clawed, had been constantly flycatching. She seemed more at ease, more at rest than he had, more tired, but more present.
I did what you do in a room like that.
I held her hand and told her I loved her, and I told her she was good, because she had been that. It’s a weak adjective, I suppose, not as bland as ‘nice’, but getting there. But it’s the best word to describe her: a social worker working with adults and children with learning difficulties (and later elderly people with dementia), she had helped set up a respite care home for the kids and provided independence to adults by setting up homes in the community (not in that Thatcher way, but by helping the more capable adults get out of the institutionalised world of mixed-ability residential care, where for years everyone had just been lumped together); and she was a Samaritan: Ann 824. Good hardly covers it.
I told her that I would never have made it this far without her, without her help, which was true. And I said I would be going now. I said I couldn’t stand to see her like this.
She’d told me she didn’t want me there when she died. She’d sat with dad as he died, and then she’d sat with her next partner Tony when he died a few years later. She said she didn’t want me to have to do that too. That’s also why she’d jumped at the idea of going into the hospice, so we wouldn’t have to have her dying at home, with all the added fuss.
So I did as she asked, as I was told, and made myself scarce. I kissed her and said my final goodbye.The only goodbye in one’s life that has no chance of turning out to be au revoir.
It was a frightfully dramatic moment. The full weight of personal history. Only one chance at this farewell. It was terrible and moving and irrevocable. I picked up my hat and went.
One of the practical things I had to do while I was there was pick up her mobile phones, so that I could contact her various people. So naturally I picked them up on my way out.
Fifteen minutes later I was almost back at her cottage, where I’d been staying, when I remembered what I just said in the previous paragraph, realised I hadn’t. It had completely slipped my mind at the time, so full was I with the irrevocability of that final farewell.
I turned on my heel and walked back to the nursing home, crept up the stairs, tiptoed into her room and apologised for being absolutely rubbish at the serious dramatic moments in life, picked up the phones and left again.
There is a scene in any comedy worthy of the title: the hero has a blazing row, stomps out, slams the door, dust settles, the others look at one aother and then the door opens, she comes back in, picks up her handbag and leaves again.
Even though she couldn’t move, I felt her eyes roll. It was the sort of thing we would’ve laughed at becaue it was just bloody typical of both of us. Undercut with ridiculousness.
Anyway, I left again and an hour later she was dead. That night I had the best night’s sleep for a year.
Here’s a poem to go with this. Inspired in part, obviously, by the parrot sketch and in part by everyone’s simple reluctance to say ‘dead’ in times like this, their dreadful irritating pussyfooting around in the garden of Euphemismia (the Greek goddess of softening the blow). I found it annoying, but if you feel the need to avoid the word, here’s a list of choices for you to take from, some old, some new.
Get Over It
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She’s passed away, gone out the room, pulled the curtains.
She’s stepped outside, might be some time.
She’s snuffed it, clocked off, left the building.
She’s pegged out, is feeding worms, gone up the chimney.
She’s put on the big overcoat. She’s filed her last report,
has finished her homework, put down her paintbrush.
She’s kicking up the daisies from six feet under,
has sent the bucket flying, has dropped the baton.
She’s left the farmer one hand short for harvest,
made paperwork for the doctor, given the undertaker overtime.
She’s paid the piper, paid the ferryman, paid the price.
She’s stopped making plans, stopped making sense, has switched off the lights.
She’s shut the last book, finished the cryptic crossword.
Her record’s stopped spinning, her radio’s reporting static.
She’s struck out for wherever, she’s joined the statistics,
she’s helping the angels with their enquiries.
She’s slipped into the Country of Unconcern, she’s not coming back.
She has moved away, has no more regrets, has spoilt my weekend.
She’s been removed from the DNA Database,
has been deleted, is showing a 404 error.
She’s been uploaded, downgraded, downsized.
She’s been discontinued, dismissed, has disappeared.
She’s met her maker, met the inevitable, met with misfortune.
She’s turned up her toes, turned her nose to the wall, is keeping quiet.
She’s gone swimming, grown forgetful, has slipped into night.
She has ceased to be a productive member of society.
She’s caught a cold, collapsed the wave function,
has gone with the flow, gone with the undertow, gone off.
She’s got beautiful plumage, she’s fallen off her perch.
She’s passed her sell-by date, the blue tits have had her cream.
She’s walking with dinosaurs, teaching dodos to fly,
has found the lost chord, is dancing to a different drum.
She’s fallen asleep, has answered the call, has gone for her tea.
She’s been marked return to sender, she’s heard the call of the wild.
Her train’s jumped its tracks, has run out of coal, run out of steam,
has been cancelled, no longer serves this route, has departed early.
She’s giving us the cold shoulder, is avoiding her responsibilities,
is behind the bike-sheds, under the yew tree, through the lychgate.
She’s running late, has passed Go, has collected two hundred pounds.
She’s come unstuck, she’s all dressed up with nowhere to go.
She’s gone West, gone to a better place, gone for a burton.
She’s gone exploring, gone fishing, gone to the rainbow’s end.
She’s gone aloft, gone away, gone forward,
has gone home, gone to grass, is out of sight, is having a kip,
has cut the cable, unknotted the painter, is set adrift.
She’s given up the ghost, has closed her eyes, checked out the hotel.
She’s sat in Banquo’s chair, she’s eaten Borgia’s dinner,
she’s sipped the wine of eternity, drunk the waters of Lethe.
She’s painting the town black, has put her worst foot forward.
She’s ticked the boxes, skipped tomorrow, cleared her diary.
She’s solved the big equation, she’s bitten the dust,
she’s drawn a blank, she’s breathed her last.
She’s bought the farm, has faded away, has dropped off the twig.
She’s left the back door open and let the cold weather in.
She’s answered the summons, has heard the last trump.
She’s gone before, she’s moved on, has left town.
She’s passed through passport control. She’s airborne now.
She’s off on a cruise, she’s having a terribly big adventure.
She’s walked by herself into a dark kingdom.
She’s gone off the map, taken a real wrong turn.
She’s underground, she’s wearing her Sunday best.
She’s at peace, she’s having the big sleep, she’s been made new.
She’s been kissed by the maiden, has kissed the scythe,
has heard the whistle out in the long grass.
She’s joined the great majority, has paid nature’s debt,
has had her last waltz, had her last meal, taken her last bow.
She’s passed beyond the veil, to the other side of the Styx,
to the other side of the Great Divide, she’s passed over.
She’s scored the home run, hit a six, converted the big try.
She’s seen the chequered flag, has breasted the tape, won the race.
She’s started having her post forwarded upstairs.
She’s gone straight to voicemail, is the other side of the firewall.
Her clock has stopped, her watch has stopped,
her spring’s wound down, her caesium atom no longer vibrates.
She’s returned to ashes, she’s returned to dust.
She’s not answering the phone. She’s forgotten her address.
She has ceased to be. She’s withdrawn from the race.
She’s walked the plank, gone the way of all flesh.
Farmer Todd has ploughed her under,
Sweeney Todd has sent her downstairs,
Brother Todd has taken her under his wing.
She’s stopped working, she’s retired, has run out of juice.
She’s flown out of the high window of the old meadhall,
out into the unknowable night from whence she came.
Your mum is dead, get over it.
(This lion (see left) guards our patio. He does so in a rather camp manner. He has a matching partner (not in shot). They were two of the reasons we moved into this house last year. With such butchness manifested outside, we feel awfully safe on the inside.)
