As I pack up six years of my life from living in South
Melbourne I’m clearing out a lot of paperwork. Much of it relates to my public
relations’ career; as well a ton of personal memento, like letters and cards
from friends, old lovers and family; and of course, as one former boyfriend,
Nirmal, used to name as one of the ‘three sure things in life’ – taxes. He said ‘death’ and ‘nurses’ were the other sure things, him being an obvious sure of himself doctor.
Among the pile of
papers I've waded through is a writing assignment for my Graduate Diploma PR
degree. I only have it in hard
copy, therefore my decision has been to throw away the hard copy, retype it, and
post to my blog.
The assignment was to
write a feature piece based on the tone and style of an article derived from a magazine. We could
find the article ourselves to base it on and I chose the piece: “On the death of my mother” by an American writer, Caroline Knapp.
Her story had appeared in Cleo magazine in August 1994.
My lecturer wrote on grading my work a 'High Distinction': “Powerful and moving writing Caroline. Technically good,
too.”
So let's see what you think (!) I’ve decided to chronicle it among my blog entries.
Interesting that it comes so close to my blog entry mentioning my mum “Hello Mother”. That’s just the way it is with mothers – you
never forget 'em...!
Unfortunately I cannot include a photo of mum as digital
didn’t exist back then and I haven’t a scanner. Instead I’ve posted a
picture of a Camellia flower. A camellia bush grew for
many years outside mum's bedroom bay window in our beautiful garden in East
Malvern and the blooms looked just like this one which she loved.
Written in 1998 – I
was 23 years old at the time of writing.
On the death of my mother
Caroline James was only 21 when her soul mate – her mother –
passed away. Here, she lends an account
of her mother’s life and suffering in the final days until death. And two years
on, how she feels today.
On Thursday, July 25, 1996, roughly 7.40pm, my mother died.
The time since has been like a vacuum, and not until now is the gap starting to
fill. For the first time, I can write openly about it, without breaking down or
fearing I will.
Time feels divided in two parts. Before – with my mother, and after – without
her.
The death certificate states sepsis as cause. But I know my
mother died of cancer. It started in her breast in 1987 and like a creeping
vine, spread under her arm to the lymph node and to her ribs and hip. After
nine years, our worst nightmare became reality when malignant spots were confirmed
on the lung.
My mother’s attitude was one of ‘living with cancer’ rather
than dying. I remember my friends’
reactions to the news – in the weeks/months following her death: “I never knew she was that sick” and comments such as “she
always looked so well.”
Despite her deteriorating health, my mother lived life as
usual. Yet usual to us, was very different to her. I remember in a rare moment,
adding humour to the very serious, she shared how she felt: “You know when you have a shocking hangover? That’s how I
feel 90 per cent of the time.”
Nonetheless, in all the time I knew my mother was ill, I
seldom heard her complain. I once saw her cry.
The never ending treatments,
radiotherapy, chemotherapy, tamoxifen – took their toll on her physically.
After chemotherapy, she lost her hair, and I watched her grasp and tug the last
strands from her head, reluctantly placing them in her lap.
In the course of one year, my mother had aged ten. It’s
noticeable in photos. In a photo taken
at her 50th birthday party, my mother shines; a head full of auburn
curls, supple skin, sparkling eyes. You would never know. Photos taken six
months before her death, paint a very different picture, one not so deceptive.
Yet her attitude, especially to her family, never changed. Travelling
overseas shortly before her death, I stayed on because I could never detect
anything other than ‘mum’ when speaking on the phone.
Happy mum, funny mum, mum
who was always there.
Her own mother is still alive. I’m 23, and a motherless
daughter of nearly two years. The harsh reality seeps in because I was there. I
witnessed, begrudging, the suffering and the dying, the shocking side effects
of cancer treatment: the exhaustion, the vomiting, indigestion, constipation,
muscle spasms, lack of appetite, mood swings – and the pain.
Although in constant denial, I knew. At night, I would slide down between the
sheets in effort to block it from my conscious, yet no matter how hard I tried
to forget, the constant reminder was there. My mother’s bedroom was only two
rooms away. The reality of loss is completely surreal to me. Previously, death
was just a word, not an actuality.
I remember after visiting hours at the hospital one night,
my father, brother and I left to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Little
Bourke Street. We made meaningless small talk while avoiding any mention of my
mother’s health. The reality was all too consuming. It was the first time our
family had sat at a Chinese restaurant table together without my mother.
Chinese dining is like an institution to my family.
The possibility she would never join our table again? No,
mum still had so much to give to life and to us. Who would tell us what to do,
how to do it and when? To ensure the iron and gas oven switch was off and the
doors were locked? In the structure of
everyday life, my mother’s importance to ours was overwhelming. She, to us, was
larger than life.
She carried with her a positive outlook all the way, even
toward the end. I remember one day when I was crying at her hospital bedside,
she turned and said: “What are you crying for? I ain’t dead yet.”
She defied the odds several times before. Like a
rollercoaster ride she would be up and down, but always amaze us, and bounce
back. When the cancer spread to the
internal organs, we realised things were looking grim.
On overhearing a telephone conversation between her nurse
and specialist, she later told my father and me what had been said. Phrases
such as...this one’s not long now...three weeks at the most.
Mum was presently at home. She had been in and out of
hospital for months. As her condition worsened, further time in hospital was
inevitable.
I must admit this time in my life is blurred. I was vague
and carried a great sense of denial. This infuriated my mother – she needed me
– yet I’d run the other way. I simply could not face death in the eye,
especially hers.
On reflection, I swept a lot of grief to the back of my
mind, under the carpet, somewhere where it could be hidden/forgotten. But who was I kidding? And who were the doctors kidding? Not once
did they tell us that our mother’s life was nearing an end.
My father travels frequently with work and at the time, was
due for an assignment in Cairns. The doctors did not advise him to stay in Melbourne;
it was my father’s decision and intuition that prevented him from leaving.
The doctors gave nothing in the way of time-frame, and
influenced by the ambivalence, I started a demanding job the week she died. I
was completely horrified however, when they suggested a hospice. It had come to
this? Ten years of fighting and the battle was to be lost.
We did not move her, she died before we could. Slipping in
and out of coma, she was often confused and disoriented, largely from the
morphine. I remember her giving me the strangest look one day, a look of ‘who
are you?’ but then there would be something, a gesture, a word to remind me she
knew.
Her state of mind was playing tricks; she would mumble and
talk to herself, all the time wearing an expression of confusion and
anxiety. It was as though in the five
days leading to her death, she had hit the replay button on her life, and her
mind was reliving it, sorting through the last 52 years.
I believe mum died when she felt it safe to go. Her mother
and sisters (who live in Adelaide) had come and gone. Her minister gave his
blessing and afterwards placed his hand on her leg and softly said: “Goodbye
Jenny.”
On her final day, my father had sat with her for over an
hour during lunch. And strangely that night, I was the first family member to
arrive at her bedside. Every other night I would walk into the room to find my
father and brother sitting beside her. Tonight was different; it even felt
different. The room was dark and mum was lying on the bed. I was shocked at her
breathing. She drew breath loudly, gasped for air and then slowly exhaled. Only
later did I learn that nurses call this “cheyne stoking”. My mother had hit the
downward spiral and it wasn’t long to go.
I sat with her in silence, I was terrified by her breathing
and in my mind I begged her over and over not to go – not without my father or
brother in the room.
Time lapsed until finally between my tears I courageously
whispered: “It’s okay mum, I know you can’t stay. I want you too, but I
understand, you can’t stay.”
Where were my brother and father? It was so weird that they
hadn’t come yet. Looking back, I believe they weren’t meant to be there. This
was my time – my goodbye – alone with my mother.
It was to be my 22nd birthday in five days. I had
wanted her to hold on, but that night I knew she had to go, sensed she wanted
to. And in that time, before my brother finally entered the room, we had said
goodbye.
Moments later William and dad arrived. I grieved also for my
father and brother, both in their own internal mess. Mum knew how we were, I’m
sure of it. I was so scared to witness her passing and I know she knew it (I
think I’d even told her months before).
My father and I didn’t stay long after that. Despite our
suggestion that he come with us, William was adamant: “I’m not going to leave
her.”
Suspecting this to be the last goodbye, I reached out my
hand and ruffled her hair.
“See you in heaven (repeating) see you in heaven darl.”
On the way home, my father and I stopped at a florist to buy
our neighbour, Ann, some flowers because she had invited us to dinner.
At 8.10pm, we were about to leave home and go to Ann's when
the phone rang. My father answered it and within seconds I knew, dad’s gasp
from hearing the news on the other end confirmed it. She was gone. Dad handed
me the phone. It was William.
“William, how did she go?” I had to be the strong one and
refused to lose my composure.
“It was very peaceful, she went very peacefully.”
My brother’s relationship with my mother was a funny one,
they adored each other but it was very love/hate. She tried to control my
brother’s life and at every step, he rebelled and refused to listen.
Mum used to tell me: “It’s different with your first born,”
the bond will always be there.
Two years before her death, William moved from Adelaide into
our family home. He had been away from home since he was 12, at first living
with my grandmother and then at boarding school. He came to live with us to
spend time with mum. At this time, even though she had cancer for seven years,
she was relatively well.
In flights of fury, he would scream at her: “I feel like I’m just waiting for you to die, and until you
do, I can’t get on with my life.”
Later that evening my father and I drove back into the city
to say our last goodbye. Mum had always said to me that she regretted not
seeing her father after he’d died.
I had made that promise to myself; that I would see my
mother.
We walked into the room and William was sitting beside her,
with a woman about mum’s age who had been visiting her for the past week or so.
She later told me it was her job to visit the sick, but with my mother, she
felt an immediate kinship. Mum had that affect on people, her infectious laugh
and wide smile made even the coolest person feel warm.
Immediately I sensed the passing. The room felt different,
and around me I felt her, the room was filled with her presence. She was on her
back, head slightly tilted one side and mouth slightly open, lips in a faint
smile. Her face was relaxed and eyes closed – she was at peace.
My brother stood and embraced me and within his arms I
sobbed, releasing my sense of anguish – it was all over.
That night, my father and I dropped into some family friends,
and we opened a bottle of red wine and talked and reminisced. It was a
wonderful feeling to be among those familiar, and to be talking to those who
really knew her.
William spent the night at his friends. The fact he was the
one to see her go is very special to me. I knew I couldn’t be there, but I
wanted her to go with someone and I think she wouldn’t have wanted it any other
way. It was her time with my brother, to put the tumultuous past
behind them and forgive. And love.
My cousin flew in from Adelaide the next day, and her mother
(my aunt), arrived shortly after. The following week was a time for the family,
where I was so appreciative of their support.
Five days later, it was my birthday. That night, early
morning, I believe my mother returned. I was overwhelmed by an amazing sense of
presence, much like I’d felt in her room after she had died. My cousin was
sleeping with me and she felt it too. Mum had come to say hello and acknowledge
my birthday.
Much has changed in the time since. I fell into a desperate
dose of alcohol and cigarettes. Latching onto anything, anyone, that would ease
the emptiness I felt inside. I was two people. I mechanically worked through the
day like a robot, and at night would let the defences down, sinking one or two
bottles of red to drown the misery.
The trend continued for six months, I later heard some
rumours spread about me (from a friend in Adelaide). People were saying I had ‘lost
the plot’ since my mother’s death. I briefly saw a psychologist, but was
disenchanted when he wanted to concentrate on me, not her. All I wanted to do
was talk of her; keep her alive – living – even though she was gone. I took to
reading about grieving and death, and about philosophy; thoughts on life.
Dad followed much the same pattern. He travels extensively;
I think it helps keep his mind on other things. But we talk about her, and
refer to her frequently. Missing her.
My brother returned to Adelaide in January of this year. He
left the job he “hated” and only took to “please mum”.
He has returned to complete a Bachelor of Arts at University
and has strong aspirations to be a musician (he wrote, composed and sung “Hello
Mother” at the funeral).
When you lose the most important person in your world, life
takes on an entire new meaning. But slowly, the real world seeps back into your
life, and you’re back on the treadmill with everyone else. Life goes on, so
they say. I told mum I would return to study. And I have. I am with the same
company I started with the week she died; I know she’d like that. Mum liked
stability.
