A parting gift

Being with my mother at the end.

The framed photo of us that she had in her care home room. It was taken by my stepfather in 2010.

My mother, who was 77, died two days ago, from dementia after another stroke.

I was with her, alone in her room in her care home. I had flown in that morning from Ireland, as the doctor had told us that she was likely close to death. 

A month ago, there was a similar scenario after a previous stroke, but she’d rallied, against the odds, as she so often did; I used to call her the ‘comeback kid’ as throughout my life she’d had so many illnesses, so many medical emergencies. Her mental and physical health had been deeply impacted by childhood neglect and trauma but she never stopped working to create a good life despite it. She was a tiny woman but she had the fierceness of a scrappy Cockney street-fighter, as many discovered who underestimated her.

The stroke a month ago had taken more of her language away, but it had left this once intensely defended woman even more deeply at peace. For the first time in my life, she let me look into her eyes; they were a soft grey, like a morning mist, and we stayed in that mist together for what felt like an eternity. I told her I loved her and she was able to receive my love without batting it away. “That's nice,” she said. Those were the last words she ever said to me, and the sweetest I’ve ever heard from her.

This time, I’d taken the earliest flight possible after a conversation with my stepfather and when I arrived, we drove straight over to see her. The care home had rung him that morning to say that her breathing had changed, and was Jody coming because it could be soon… When we arrived, she was deeply asleep, lying curled up on her side as skinny as a bundle of kindling, breathing fast and shallow breaths. She was unresponsive but I sensed that she knew we were there, and we all spoke to her as if she could hear us.

My stepfather went for a walk on the beach for a couple of hours, and while he was gone staff kept popping in to see her, even ones who no longer worked there. They came to say their goodbyes and to share funny stories about her. For a woman who had struggled with friendships for much of her life, it seems that the gentleness that dementia had surfaced, along with her often hilarious and determined quirkiness, had endeared her to many. This was the version of her that her husband knew and loved too. He came back from his walk, said his private goodbyes to her, and went home. I said I would stay.

In the early evening, the care home quietened down; it was a small place, probably no more than about twenty residents. You hear so many horror stories, but Mum’s experience was nothing but kindness, and my stepfather’s daily involvement made a huge difference too. The office staff and others had left for the weekend and it was just the night carers on duty. They made me a sandwich and kept checking in on us, making sure we were both comfortable. They showed me how to swab her lips with water. I ate my sandwich and watched a little TV whilst I did, and then turned it off so that I could hear her breathing better. Her face had started to lose a little of the lovely peachy colour it had been all day; she’d always had the loveliest skin and whenever I’m complimented on mine, I always said, “It’s my mother’s.” I’m now going to have to say that in the past tense.

I sat next to her bed, holding her hand and talking to her, telling her she had done a good job, that she could let go any time she was ready, that she was loved by me, by her husband. I reminded her of something I don’t think I’d ever told her - that when at ten years old I’d had a near-death experience, I’d turned away from the white light because a voice had said to me, “She’ll never make it without you.” I had instinctively known that the ‘she’ was my Mum, and my next memory was waking up in the hospital bed.

Mum’s eyes were open now and unfocused, and I told her that as she had nearly died so many times, she probably knew that it wasn’t anything to be scared of. I told her that I’d stayed for her, as promised, and that whatever came next, I’d see her there. She took a last big breath as if diving deep underwater... I waited for her to surface and take another one; the gaps between them had been getting longer for a while now. And then as the life left her eyes, and her tiny hand began to cool, I knew she was gone.

After a difficult life together, my unmothered mother allowed herself to be mothered across that final passage by the daughter she’d tried so hard not to love. Something ancient and sacred passed between us, and I had the sense of a circle being brought to completion, of a contract having been honoured.

My mother died on Friday, but she left me the most beautiful gift: a mother’s love.

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