‘NO EASY WAY TO SAY GOODBYE’

FACING FUTURE WITHOUT MUM

SO there we were, three middleaged men standing in the chill neon glow of a Minehead car park at three in the morning. My occasional memories of being in such places in the middle of the night have usually been related to some form of booze-fuelled jollity or other, but this was a very different experience.

Three of four brothers, just standing in the easterly wind, slightly lost for words for once – feeling grim and suddenly facing a future without their dear old mum.

Not that losing your mother when you are 64 is the most surprising or unexpected of blows, but you know what I mean. There is no easy way to say goodbye to the woman who brought you into this world, no matter how old she is or how ancient you have become yourself.

So me, John and Dominic, standing in the car park feeling bleak and numb – agreeing that one of us would have to ring our other brother in the morning because Ralphie lives in South Devon and he couldn’t possibly have made it up to Minehead in time after the ward sister had phoned each of us just an hour before to say that Mum was near the end.

It came as a bit of a surprise, because I’d been to see her earlier and although Mum was very weak with cancer, we had chatted for an hour. As usual, she was bright as a button, remembering all our recent conversations, telling me what her grandchildren were doing during the week, and even informing me which areas were being hit badly by Covid and which weren’t.

She had been close to death a fortnight before, at the time when she was admitted to the excellent Minehead Community Hospital. She had been at home trying to fend for herself with only her sons and daughters-in-law for help – for a little bit too long if the truth be known, despite my continuously begging the health authorities for professional care.

But these, alas, are the Covidtimes we are living in and social care is not as available as it once was – which is a truly alarming fact when it comes to a weak, sick, elderly person living at home alone.

Then she had suddenly gone downhill badly. When I went to see her the night she was first admitted to hospital, I really did think she had entered her final hours. But so good were the staff and the care, she seemed to rally and gain strength – to the extent that there was even talk of sending her home again, albeit with a proper care package in place. But it never happened…

Which was a relief. Because although you never want a loved one to die – ever – you do not want them to suffer either. And as we all know, cancer is a cruel, cruel thing that has as much empathy for its victims as a demented psychopath in a garden full of innocents.

That said, an amazing new genetherapy had given Mum four extra years of life – and we are extremely grateful for that. It had been keeping the cancer at bay, but early this year – just in time for Covid – some complications arose and her specialist said: “In normal times there would be more we could do, but now we can only send you home and make sure you are looked after with palliative care.”

And because of the pandemic, the care package did not materialise in quite the way it perhaps should have done.

Accepting that no one could have done more in the circumstances, you could say Mum did not die of coronavirus – but that her existence came to a slightly earlier end because of it.

A sad end to a remarkably fit and healthy life.

However, Mum was 85 so we can rejoice that she had such a full and happy existence.

She had lived in beautiful West Somerset all her life, she’d been married to a kindly loving husband, she’d produced four happy boys who’ve also enjoyed full and rich lives, and she had a clutch of healthy and rather impressive grandchildren.

So… Did we brothers reach the hospital in time to say goodbye?

No. Despite getting there in just 25 minutes, Mum had slipped away. Which in some ways was a relief because if she’d known her boys had entered the room she’d have fought with every atom in her body to sit up or whatever. And what she needed more than anything was rest. Deep, soothing and endless rest.

And during her last moments she had the lovely ward sister – my old friend Penny – holding her hand. “I love that Penny,” she’d told me just a few hours before.

It was Penny who rang us and who came to meet us just outside the ward to say Mum had passed away. And it was Penny who made us a cup of tea and who told us how quick and painless Mum’s passing had been.

We shall all be eternally grateful to her for that – and to all the other wonderful staff at the hospital.

Double, triple, quadruple their wages! Is what I say. And I reckon there’ll be a lot of people echoing that sentiment over this long dark winter.

Although you never want a loved one to die, you don’t want them to suffer either