Some nurses came to transfer Mum to a hospital bed. It’s inflatable with a control to alter head and leg incline. Apparently it’s much more comfortable.
The nurses were chatting to each other, and to Mum, as if this were a normal day and a normal situation. One commented how she hadn’t seen Mum in about 2 years. Mum confirmed it. “Yes, when all this started” she said. The other started chatting to me, asking me questions to see if we had met. Her face seemed so familiar. She asked me if I was the daughter who lived in Spain. I struggled to form a coherent sentence.
Sheets for the new bed? I’ll get them. These lilac ones are nice… Ah, but they’re worn and bobbly. Which one’s are the best? Which ones would Mum like to die on?
Have to get out. Have to get out. Shoes, shoes. Where are my shoes? Avoid everyone else. Don’t let them see you’re upset. Don’t be weak. Everyone feels sad but no one else is crying. Don’t be a burden on them. Phone, phone, where’s my phone. Got to get out of this place. Can’t breathe.
I left the house without my phone. The pressure in my chest was too great. I walked for about 10 minutes, to a gate in a hedge. I’d often stopped there on my walks, admiring the view of the Cheshire plains.
I leant on the gate and let go, letting the tears run down my face, leaning in to the sobs . Trying to keep it in is like trying to stop a tsunami sometimes. I’ve found that letting it out, getting it over and done with in controlled bursts, makes carrying on doing daily tasks easier.
I came back to the house, feeling tired but refreshed. It turned out that one of the nurses used to go to Guides, that’s why I recognised her. I must have seen her when I was small, watching my sisters with the older girls. And now, 20 years later, she’s helping my mum into her last bed.
Mum looked a lot more comfortable in the hospital bed. She slept peacefully until the next carer came.