Randoms by Rach

Missing Mum

Well, it's been a funny, old week. Last Saturday was a massive high. I closed up my Mad Hatter's Tea Party, and when I added up the figures, I raised over 1.4 million GPs. That was incredible, and I felt so happy to be able to help out my four chosen groups. Then, in the evening, shock central when I won a Quill Award at the PreQuill Gala. I won Best War/Miliaria with my poem, "A Hero's Heart" . I was not expecting that at all. What an honour. What a massive, wonderful honour.

After Saturday, my week has kind of been sucky. But that's to be expected. You see, today (7th April) marks five years since I lost my Mum to pneumonia. The events of that last harrowing week have been invading my mind. I keep thinking how could I have not noticed how ill she was before? I should have noticed. She might still be here.

I remember everything about that week as though it were yesterday. She went into hospital on the Monday morning, with the paramedics telling us they thought she had pneumonia. "But you can die from that," I said. On the Tuesday when David and I visited, she was wearing this breathing mask (CPAP, maybe??) that was violently forcing air into her lungs. I almost collapsed when I first saw her like that. She looked so frail. But she was awake and I told her all about our neighbour whose partner had just given birth to my god daughter. The doctors took me aside on that day and said that if she didn't respond to the treatment they were giving her now, there was nothing more they could do. So far, they said, she wasn't responding. But I knew that the moment I saw her. I knew she wasn't going to get better.

That night, I phoned my Auntie Beryl. She was Mum's favourite sister. They spoke everyday on the phone, sometimes five or six times a day. I told Auntie Beryl to take our visiting spot the on the following afternoon, as it didn't look like Mum would make it. She went, with my Auntie Betty. I was glad they got to see her. She was in good humour, they said. Confused, but cheerful. However, by the time I got there in the evening, she was unconscious. She never woke up. I never got to speak to her, or hear her say my name, again. I'm glad Auntie Beryl got to say goodbye, but I'm jealous that I never got another conversation with her.

I was at the hospital with her every day until her final day, on the Saturday. Easter Saturday. I don't know if she knew I was there. When the doctor told me her lungs were clear, but she wasn't waking up, so they thought there was something else going on, I crumpled and cried. I had the choice to make. Should they withdraw life support? You always see people on TV dramas who are given this choice. They agonise over whether to do it or not. Well, I knew straight away it was the right thing to do. Mum was struggling so hard to breathe (even though they said her lungs were clear) and I knew she was ready to go. So they took her off support at 4:30 p.m., and I held her hand and watched her disappear. Her breaths became smaller and smaller. It looked like a part of her was still fighting it. So I said, "It's okay, Mum. I have David, I'll be okay." Within the next minute, she stopped breathing.

It took fourteen minutes from when they switched the machines off. That's all. It was actually really peaceful and understated. As she had been in life, she was in death. It was in sharp contrast to Dad when he died. He fought and struggled and terrified me. Not Mum, though. She just quietly slipped away. And my heart was shattered.

So, here we are, five years on. Some days, I don't think I will be able to live with the pain of losing her. I can't believe she is really gone. Throughout my whole life, she was constantly in and out of hospital. So, for some reason, it still feels like that. Like she's in hospital, and she will come home again. Because she always does. She always did.

I miss her so much. She was the kindest, bravest, most selfless person in the world. She suffered so much pain in her life, and I know I let her down too many times. She deserved better than me. She's left such a hole in my life. Auntie Beryl misses her terribly, too. The one thing I take comfort from is that in her very last breath, it looked like she smiled. I would like to think she saw Dad and was finally home. Maybe she saw God, I don't know. I don't have any religious beliefs, but I really don't know.

Well, I'm crying so hard I can barely make out the letters of my keyboard. So I think I'll leave it there. I love you, Mum. I miss you. I hope you're with Dad and pain free. I hope we meet again one day.