I never got to say goodbye to my mum…
Dr Rob Baskind on the pain of not being able to be at his mother’s bedside in hospital, or attend her funeral
Idesperately wanted to be at Mum’s bedside as she lay severely ill in hospital with coronavirus. But she was forced to endure the experience alone, apart from a quick visit allowed from my dad just before she passed. I was always close with my mother, Sue Baskind, a beautiful and selfless woman, utterly devoted to her husband, four children, and 11 grandchildren. I live just a 10-minute walk from her house in Leeds, and would pop over often.
But that changed a few weeks ago: my wife, Ellissa, suffers from leukaemia, putting her in the highest-risk group for Covid-19. Put simply, Ellissa’s life would be at risk if I left the house to visit my parents.
This made matters extra difficult when, on March 22, my 74-year-old mother developed a fever, a few days after noticing a dry cough. I was on the phone offering advice to Dad – my wife and I are both medics – but Mum’s condition deteriorated rapidly over the next 36 hours. Eventually, we advised him to call an ambulance.
It is never easy to have a parent in hospital, but it was particularly dreadful during this coronavirus crisis, when strict hospital rules prevented anybody in my family – including myself, my father and my three brothers – from visiting. I understand and support the rules, but they hurt all the same.
I tried to keep in touch with Mum over the phone, but that was soon impossible as she became breathless and reliant on an oxygen mask. She struggled to say anything in our final conversations, but still managed to ask how my wife was coping with her leukaemia; a sign of Mum’s selfless character.
We orchestrated a video chat with the whole family – a moment we will always cherish, but no match for being there in person. Video conversations always feel slightly forced, and it is impossible to replicate the feeling of sitting silently at Mum’s bedside, which is precisely where I wanted to be.
Plus, many of those suffering from serious Covid-19 symptoms are simply too ill for the rigmarole of a phone conversation. Mum’s doctor said that our calls were causing her stress, and asked if we could ring less often.
On the afternoon of March 27, after four days in hospital, we were told that Mum’s condition had worsened considerably. The hospital allowed one person to visit for a short goodbye. Armed with protective clothing, Dad went along to St James’s University Hospital, probably expecting Mum to look grey and dishevelled, barely able to open her eyes. But he was pleasantly surprised by how perky she looked during their 10-minute conversation; there was colour in her cheeks, and she even said a few cheery things.
He wondered whether her condition wasn’t as bad as the hospital believed. But just an hour later, she passed away.
Her funeral was two days later, as is Jewish tradition. My three brothers were able to attend – driving up to Leeds in separate cars – but I had to tune in from my living room via a Zoom conference call. It was like a bad dream. I just wanted to hug Dad and my brothers – the sort of basic human affection you usually take for granted.
As a psychiatrist, I know that it is impossible to predict the emotional toll that coronavirus will take on relatives of the dead.
Strict no-contact rules mean that many doctors and nurses are having to take on the role of relatives for dying patients, a severe emotional burden.
And the activities that usually help families work through bereavement – talking to each other, getting on with normal life – will be curtailed, which could lead to a more prolonged period o grief.
Indeed, once these restrictions are lifted and I can see Dad, I will probably have to replay Mum’s final moments again and again in my head, allowing all the grief to return. But at least I’ll be able to give him a hug.
I just wanted to hug Dad and my brothers