Picking up the pieces

Getting over grief? It takes time...

An apologetic nurse phoned: "Your mother's had a fall; she's been taken to A&E in Merthyr. I think you ought to get there..." It's the phone call that everyone with an aged parent dreads hearing, and worse still when that parent is already in the care of  the NHS at Cwm Cynon, near her home in Aberdare.

The pathway to Cwm Cynon Hospital

There followed  frantic phone calls with other members of the family, and the arrangement of travel for the following morning - no good travelling that evening, as there is no transport to get from Merthyr to Aberdare after 6.30pm. It's a long way from London, with its easy access to tubes, overground trains, and - where needful - night buses.

My mum was 92, with "end-of-stage heart failure". I'd already had the discussion with nursing staff about interventions. Dad had died in 1999, and she never really recovered from this. Her life had slowly shrunk: walking was slow and difficult, macular degeneration rendered reading (and watching TV) impossible, and hearing aids do not restore that which is lost. A life fined down to the taking of medication, and memories of my father. She'd been in Cwm Cynon for a couple of months, but wanted to get out. Who could blame her? In a side room all day, with only her thoughts for company, and the brief visits of family and friends. She recognised she was no longer able to live alone in her sheltered accommodation, and that a care home beckoned. We knew that her heart was gradually packing up, and that it was highly probable she would die before the end of the year. But this? It was sudden, and shocking.

I don't blame the staff at Cwm Cynon. Without exception, I always found them to be patient, compassionate, and gentle. They were just short-staffed on Friday 13th September: one individual had to take emergency leave, another was off the ward attending a patient. Mum wanted the toilet, rang; then tried to make it alone. She fell onto her face, with the loss of a tooth, and horrific bruising; she looked like the local mugger had given her a serious beating. There is much to be said for regulated numbers of staff on duty in wards, especially those for the elderly - but you cannot legislate for emergency leave, nor the need to accompany another patient elsewhere.

I made it to Merthyr in time - and for that, I am grateful. She died holding my hand - and she'd always said she never wanted to die alone. I thought she'd gone to sleep - and she had.

It's now nearly six months since she died. She would be astonished - and amused - at quite how much I miss her. She would be caustically amused, for example, that the HSBC require me to go to a branch with a copy of granted probate, the letter of 26th September sent by their Bereavement Team , plus two forms of identification (passport & a bill from within the last 3 months) - only to watch, bemused, while someone photocopies these documents, returns them to me, then tells me they will be sent to the Bereavement Team... I could have done that at home...

I think of her frequently; and I can feel the warmth of her affection and love for me: a gossamer scarf, woven of tenacious threads.

A moment in the sun

I have much more understanding of the Victorian mindset on death. Her birthday has passed (November 24th), and so has Christmas. There is still Mothering Sunday to face, and I may wimp out on that. I find myself wearing black almost automatically; I don't feel quite right in colours just yet. I recognise I am grieving for two parent, as my own grief when my father died was muffled by the enormity of Mum's. A shaft of joy came when I discovered Dad's signet ring: I now wear this on one hand, Mum's wedding ring on the other.

Death, like taxes, is inevitable. It's top of the list of high stressors. If you know someone who's recently suffered a bereavement, be kind to them: you will appreciate all the kindness that comes your way when it happens to you.