I buy myself a magic carpet

I recently went down to the wonderful Chalice Well Gardens in Glastonbury for a ‘retreat’ – a few days of calm contemplation in the lovely surroundings. Once I’d arrived and ‘let go’, I realised how tired I was, not just physically but mentally too. I kept returning to the memory of how I had sat with mum just after she’d died. That had been a beautiful, peaceful moment but, since then, I have felt as if nothing was real; that everything was make-believe. I thought this might be because I hadn’t had a proper chance to mourn. Even that first pure experience of sitting with mum after she’d passed had been marred. I’d been conscious that I was in the Care Home and must let them get on with what they needed to do; I was aware that I needed to go straight from there to the funeral directors; that I needed to get food because my brother was coming etc etc – all of those thoughts overlaying the shock that mum had actually died! For years we’d thought she might die at any time but, she didn’t die. Now she had actually gone, I felt in a sort of suspended animation.

Over the next few days of my retreat, I slowly began to relax and unwind; to detox from the stress that had been blocking my emotion. I became able to experience my grief and then, to accept that it will be my companion for a while. I also began to understand that this is just another phase in my life. Because people kept asking ‘what are you going to do now?’ I’d inadvertently fallen into that mind-set – that mum’s death had been a cut-off point and I’d immediately know what I’d do next. But the truth is, I’ve been living here for 5 years. I never expected to be here this long, but it’s ceased to be a short-term occurrence, it’s become a phase of my life in which caring for mum was one aspect – perhaps the central aspect because I would never have come here otherwise – but I can’t just close the door and walk away as if the last few years haven’t happened.

I’m sure I will eventually ‘move on’ when the time is right, but before I can do that I need to sit with my feelings and emotions for a while. I arrived at the Chalice Well on the Equinox, after which – at least in the northern hemisphere – the days grow shorter and the nights longer until we reach the Winter Solstice. I think this is a good metaphor for what I need to do. I need to let myself drop into the darkness like a seed in the earth and – as the light returns, as spring comes again – see what shoots have appeared, see what I feel like doing then.

In the short-term though, here I am still living in my parents’ house, which is not a house I would have chosen, in an area I would never have chosen – and it’s not furnished or decorated in any way that I like. Sitting beside the Chalice Well, I thought: what I need is a lovely rug. I imagined a rug rolled out in front of the fireplace. Yes, that’s what I need! It would cheer up the living room no end; it would make me feel more like it’s my place. (I am rather partial to a nice rug). Later that day, I went into the town and there, outside a shop I’ve never been in before that sells furnishing and bric-a-brac, I saw a rolled-up rug. It was a bit expensive but there was another smaller one at a better price. I didn’t go in and ask about it but the next day I decided to return to the shop and have another look.

The rugs were still there but the smaller one was too small, it wasn’t right. The guy unrolled the larger one. It was lovely. In fact, it was the rug I had imagined. The owner said: it’s not that expensive. No, I agreed, it’s not that expensive for what it is. I told him I’d go away and have a think about it. I got about 50 yards down the road. I thought to myself: what’s your problem? This is synchronicity. You imagined a rug and here it is. You love this rug! It’s come to you from the cosmos! And even though it was a sum of money, at the end of the day, it was a sum I could afford. I went back. I bought the rug.

When I unrolled it at the retreat house (because I had to fold it up properly in order to carry it on the train) the other residents admired it. One of them said: this is your magic carpet! Yes! I loved this idea.

Now I have a beautiful hearth rug that completely lifts the room and stops it looking quite so dull and dingy. If I feel a bit miz, I just go and admire my rug – and cheer up immediately. Perhaps, when I emerge from the underworld, it will help me to fly off on the next stage of my life’s journey – whatever that may be!

 

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Above: Chalice Well dressed for Mabon – or the Autumn Equinox.

Below: My magic carpet! The colours are much more jewel like than in this photo!

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I resolve a tricky problem – with a little help from The Milkman.

For the last 5 years I have dreamed of sleeping in my own bed. It’s a nice bed, a small double with a good mattress and I bought it when I moved into the studio apartment I had in London. When I moved down here, there wasn’t room for it in the spare room where I had to sleep. That only had room for a single bed. So my bed had to be stored in the garage.

After my surgery last year, I couldn’t manage in a small bed, so I moved into what had been my parents’ bedroom and slept on my mum’s old bed. It wasn’t a bad bed in itself – the mattress was good quality but it had been badly stained. I covered it with layers of blankets and sheets before I put my own bedding on top of it. I dreamed of swapping the beds over but the logistics of how I’d ever be able to do that, defeated me.

First of all, I’d have to hire two men to carry mum’s double bed out of the house – and I’d have to co-ordinate that with the pick-up service from the council, who have to be booked in advance if you want them to collect large items. I’d also need time to clean where the bed had been, hoover and dust – before these men would be able to bring my bed in from the garage – which would mean they’d need to leave and return for a second time. I felt exhausted just thinking about how on earth I was going to manage the logistics.

I wrote last time about how I realised I had to make a start on clearing the house and how I did clear out mum’s wardrobe and also, the large storage drawers under her bed. After I’d packed everything up and piled it all in the garage ready for collection by the charity, in the same determined spirit I took all the stuff that had been stacked up on top of my bed base – just boxes and odd bags and things – so the bed could be moved easily if I ever did work out how to get it inside the house.

Two days later, The Milkman turned up. He also does gardening and grass cutting, and he reaches the back garden by bringing his lawn mower through the garage. I said: I’m sorry, I’ve been sorting out mum’s stuff. You’ll have to move all these bags. He knew mum well, so he was quite understanding. I put my hand on my bed base. I said: I don’t suppose you know a couple of guys who would help me swap my bed over. He said: I can do it. I can do it now, if you want. I laughed in disbelief: What by yourself? He said: I expect the double bed comes apart. Let’s have a look.

With that, he went into the house, took the bed apart and carried it outside. I said: I’d better ring the council to take it away. He said: I can take it in my truck. My eyes were round in wonder: Really???? Yes really, he said, but first I have to go and do another job for an hour. This was perfect. It gave me time to hoover and dust and move the furniture out of his way.

I couldn’t believe it was really happening. I cleaned up – under the bed had been pretty disgusting, as I’d suspected – then he came back and brought in the bed. I have to say, at one point it did seem as if The Milkman had underestimated the difficulties he would be faced with. As he was trying to manoeuvre the bed base through the doorway into the living room, it got jammed in the hallway. Then it got entangled on a low-hanging light fitting. I hate this light fitting but it’s wired in so I can’t remove it. Luckily, I am tall, so although I couldn’t help him by taking any weight, I was able to reach up and help extricate the bed base from the light. And then, somehow, miraculously it was done. Mum’s bed was gone and my bed was there instead. I left it to air for a couple of days, burned some cleansing essential oils and, at last, slept on my own bed again.

I said to The Milkman: you have no idea how horrible it’s been sleeping on my parents’ bed! And I do think it’s been unhealthy for me psychologically, but I just couldn’t work out how to organise the changeover. Since then, even on sleepless nights, I feel so relieved that I’ve finally resolved such a huge obstacle to my attempts at house clearance. Of course, I’m already thinking about the next task I’ll have to complete but, in the meantime, I’m giving myself a bit of breathing space.

And I have now finished emptying out all the things that belonged to my parents from drawers and cupboards and my mum’s desk. I’m not saying this stuff has all left the house! Much of it is in piles: stuff to be recycled; stuff to be shown to brother and/or grandchildren; stuff I may – or may not – wish to keep myself.  It’s a long sad task, emotionally taxing as well as physically demanding. I’m continually coming across items which take me down memory lane, or which contain an essence of mum or dad as human beings and bring me sorrow.

But, at least there’s no time pressure. And at the end of each stressful day, I am very happy to lie down on my own bed!

I can’t seem to focus on anything.

It’s been a strange time. I don’t feel particularly sad or grief stricken, but my brain doesn’t seem to be functioning normally. I’ve had several ideas for writing the blog and every one of them slid sideways, out of the frame. It’s like my brain is fogged and I can only think about what’s in front of my eyes. And even that seems to involve some issues.

In the middle of August, I went to stay with old friends who’ve moved to a city where I’ve never been and now live in a house where I’ve never stayed. So it was the best of both worlds: a dear pal I could share my thoughts and feelings with – and a new environment that had no links with the past. I returned here feeling refreshed but – there was a strange problem: I was developing a stye in my eye. I’ve never had one of those in my life! But I knew that the psychological ‘tag’ for such things is that there’s something you’re ‘not looking at’ or ‘not seeing’.

I wrote this thought down in my journal. Then I stopped writing, raised my eyes and looked around with conscious intent. I saw that I was surrounded by stuff. Stuff that I need to sort out. Stuff that belonged to my parents. Stuff that is overwhelming me. Yet it is also Stuff that must be dealt with before I can even think about moving on from here. So. There was my answer. I’ve been sitting here reading fantasy novels and thinking about holidays – holidays I know very well I shall never book. But, if I do want to move forward, then I have to clear away all the Stuff.

I bathed my eye in warm water – I even rubbed it with a warmed gold ring – and after a few days the swelling and soreness went away. But I also began to work. It was a long weekend and the cricket was on the radio. I began the task of emptying out my mother’s clothes from the wardrobe, and from the remaining drawers of her dressing table. (I had of course already begun this task over the last months, but only in a desultory fashion). Now I packed the clothes into bags and arranged for a Charity to pick them up.

The cricket was exciting; the neighbours were making some dreadful racket in the garden, grinding paving stones for a patio so, although the weather was fine, I forced myself to carry on and empty the storage drawers under the bed. In some ways, this was more upsetting than packing up the clothes, for here were freshly laundered sheets, carefully washed and ironed and put away – which mum must have done when she was still able to do that sort of thing and before she reverted to just using the same easy wash and wear bed linen that she was using when I arrived. I got a sense of a house-proud, happy woman. But I gritted my teeth. I stashed it all into bags. And piled all the bags up in the garage.

When the guy came to collect the bags, I almost cried out to him: no! It’s a mistake, don’t take them! But I resisted. And now, they are gone. There is a sequel to all of this which I’ll write about next. Suffice it to say that I’ve made a start. Chores like this are not easy psychologically but, as my brain isn’t functioning normally, it probably is quite a good idea to try and complete these practical tasks. Even though my emotionally hardwired brain tells me ‘don’t do it!’ my rational brain knows very well that there’s no point in delaying: especially as, until it’s done I will have no choice but to continue to live here in a place where I don’t feel at home and which I don’t actually like very much. No one else is going to help me do it. My brother won’t. He wouldn’t mind if I spent the next 10 years helplessly sitting here surrounded by chaos.

By the way, I did finally manage to collect mum’s ashes. I brought them home on the bus, mainly because the bus was there, stopped right outside the funeral directors – but also because it saved me having to talk to a cab driver. ‘What have you got there?’ ‘Oh, just my mother’s ashes!’ I apologised to her for not carrying her home along the sea front like I did with dad, but I did put her on the bus seat beside me so she could look out of the window (!?!). When I got back here, I said: well, you’re home, as you wished to be. And it’s not as upsetting to have them here as I feared it would be. So I no longer feel under pressure to find a suitable place to scatter them as soon as possible. I am happy to take time to find the right place.

Some photos I found:

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1953 Coronation Day Party. I’m the little girl at the side with her drink of juice!

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At Bracklesham Bay which isn’t that far along the coast from where I am now, but the charming farm and duck pond are long gone.

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I fail to collect Mum’s ashes.

My father died in hospital, with very little warning. At that time, I didn’t live in the area, so had no local knowledge or contacts – but I had to arrange everything as well as look after mum who was obviously very upset. I coped with it all, of course I did, but it meant that I couldn’t grieve properly myself. The only time I almost gave way was when I went into the Funeral Home to collect his ashes.

I wasn’t prepared for how much the ashes would weigh. It’s a sizable amount. Nor was I prepared for just how much I’d feel that dad’s personality was still attached to them. I stood there with the container in my arms and began to repeat in a monotone: I didn’t realise they’d be so heavy! I didn’t realise they’d be so heavy! I knew I was on the verge of losing control. A protective inner voice told me: get out of here now! So I fled into the street and started to walk. I knew I couldn’t get on the bus or even into a taxi. In the end I carried them all the way home. It ain’t heavy, it’s my dad, as the song sort of goes.

On the way home, along the sea front, I chatted to the ashes. I said, look, here’s the sea; look, there’s a dog enjoying himself on the beach. Things I knew dad would’ve enjoyed. I felt better when, later on, a friend told me that, after she’d collected her mother’s ashes, she’d taken them round her mother’s favourite shop.

It’s over a month since mum’s funeral. We’ve been looking for a suitable place to scatter or inter her ashes but haven’t yet settled on a suitable place. However, I didn’t think I could leave her ashes in the Funeral Home for much longer, so I made an appointment to collect them. The night before I felt terribly anxious. I spent the time psyching myself up; preparing myself for the fact that they’d weigh a lot and – because, at the moment, I can’t walk quite so well as I could 10 years ago – I would need to get a taxi home.

But what would I do with the ashes once they were here? I really didn’t know. Mum was happy to keep dad’s ashes with her until the day we scattered them in the sea – I like to think we gave him a back-to-front Viking funeral. But it always made me feel uncomfortable to have them close by.

With all this on my mind, I went into the Funeral Parlour. I was met by a very kindly employee, whom I’d never met before. Had I chosen a ‘scattering tube’? he asked. No, I hadn’t. He brought me a selection and I chose one. A sensitive and perceptive man, he said: you don’t have to take them if you’re not ready. I nearly burst into tears. But then very few people ever see through my competent façade. I’m not ready! I admitted. Will it be all right to wait another couple of weeks? He assured me it would be. I blurted out: collecting dad’s ashes nearly broke me. Now I’m terrified I won’t be able to cope when I collect mum’s.

I left the place not weighed down by the ashes but feeling light with relief. I know it’s only a temporary respite but, hopefully, I will feel stronger in my spirit in a week or two.

Later that evening I spoke to my cousin. Her mum is in a Nursing Home and they are planning to sell the house which is standing empty. She told me my Aunt still has the ashes of her own father; her own sister; my cousin’s father – and the cat. And Cousin has to decide what to do with all of them. So in the scale of things, my problem is relatively minor!

 

 

 

 

 

Mum would have been pleased with her funeral.

Nothing will be as bad as the day of the funeral. It’s a huge responsibility and you only get one shot at it. So many things could go wrong, which would be upsetting, not only for me, but also for the others who had come to mourn.

In the weeks between the mum’s death and the funeral, I was driven by nervous energy. I couldn’t stop cleaning. I couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes. But, once the day was over, the nervous energy disappeared and I collapsed. Brother and his partner stayed overnight. As soon as they left and I was on my own, I felt so tired I didn’t know what to do with myself, as they say. In the end I went to bed and read and slept and that lasted the whole weekend. And I still do feel very tired, although not as much as I did.

But. I do think mum would’ve been pleased with her funeral. She was so old that many of her friends and relatives have died, but even so there was a sizeable crowd at the service. I didn’t realise how many had come until I stood up to give my ‘eulogy’. I looked back down the chapel and saw that, although it wasn’t full – it holds about 100 people – it didn’t feel empty either. Not only family came, but friends of mine came down from London and people came from her Care Home. In the end, only a couple of people were unable to make it.

The flowers were all lovely and there was a good display. The celebrant was a pleasant chap – he didn’t have the same presence as the woman who presided over dad’s service and who has sadly left the district – but he was good hearted and had a gentle sense of humour. Mum loved poetry so we had to have a poem! My nephew read the one we had chosen; it wasn’t too mawkish or sentimental and we thought it summed mum up quite well. Nephew got a bit choked up but got through the reading ok.

I knew I’d be ok reading out the piece I’d written, because I always can do it if I have to. It made people laugh, as I’d intended, gentle laughter at mum’s idiosyncrasies. I’m going to add it onto the end of this post. It wasn’t easy to write as mum and I didn’t have the smoothest of relationships but I think in the end it struck the right note. Certainly, people mentioned that they’d enjoyed it.

Finally, we went back to a pub restaurant for The Wake. The place was recommended to me by a woman in the bank when I went to close mum’s accounts. A complete stranger, she mentioned she’d had her own father’s Wake there. It turned out to be a perfect recommendation. Just the right private space for us to gather together, talk and laugh, have a drink and something to eat. The evening before, while I was writing my speech, Brother had made a montage of old photos, which unfortunately we didn’t take a photo of, while his partner created an album of photos of mum and dad having fun at fancy dress parties or in their costumes for the shows and pantomimes they performed in. People seemed to enjoy looking at them all. Everyone said that, although it was sad occasion, it was also the celebration of a long life, well-lived. So yes. I think mum would have been pleased.

Here’s my little speech:

Mum made it to 98 and a half! It’s a shame she didn’t get her telegramme from the Queen. However, looking through her papers I found she had received a letter from Buckingham Palace only a few years ago. Before I read it out, I’ll just remind you that mum and dad’s wedding anniversary was 29th April – the same date that Will and Kate chose for their wedding… It is actually signed by a lady in waiting, not the Queen herself!…….

The Queen wishes me to write and thank you for your letter in which you say that you and your husband were married on the 29th April 1944. Her Majesty was very sorry to learn of the recent death of your husband and sends you her sincere sympathy at this sad time.

The Queen was particularly touched by your kind message of good wishes for the wedding of Prince William and Miss Catherine Middleton and much appreciated your thought for the young couple.

I hope that you will be comforted by many happy memories as you recall your own wedding day on 29th April, and I am to thank you again for your thoughtfulness in writing as you did.

It would have been Mum’s own idea to write this letter to the Queen. As they say in Australia, she wasn’t backwards in coming forwards. I’m not sure if she was hoping for an invite to the wedding but as many of us know, she did manage to get to the wedding of Harry and Meghan. For those of you who don’t know, I’ll tell you what happened….

Even though mum hadn’t been able to go anywhere by herself for years, she went out of the Care Home and there was a bus. The bus took her to the church. There were loads of people around but the security guards let her go in although, she assured me, she did sit right at the back!

I quizzed her about it several times, but she seemed so convinced of the truth of her story that in the end, I could only say ‘what a lovely memory for you’, and she agreed that it was.

But the memory she returned to again and again was the night she met dad and then their first date the following evening. Her life could be pretty much divided into before and after that. Not that they were an obvious couple. Dad was a practical sort of guy – a man of few words as he liked to say – whereas Mum was very verbal. She liked words; she was proud of her ability to spell very well; she enjoyed puns and liked playing scrabble and doing crosswords.

She was also proud of her skills as a shorthand typist. Once when we were watching an episode of Foyle’s Law on TV, the main characters were in one of the war ministries, and they passed a young woman walking along a corridor. Mum said proudly: that was me! I had security clearance. I could take individual dictation, not just stay in the typing pool. Like many women of her age, if she’d had the same chances that became normal for later generations, I’m sure she might have gone onto something more than typing, like teaching for example – or even some kind of performing, acting or singing. She always liked the fact that her mother’s family were ‘theatrical’. And she never liked Vera Lynn – said she was nothing special, and had just been lucky. The implication being that, if mum had had the same contacts, it might have been her who ended up as a big star. And who knows? After all, she managed to make it to Harry and Meghan’s wedding.

While we were growing up, money was tight, dad worked long hours and mum worked too, as a shorthand typist. They almost never went out. But as soon as the kids were off their hands, then they were out dancing nearly every night and once they retired down here, there was no stopping them. They got really involved with the community at the Laburnum Centre. They performed in shows – ‘for the old people’, they went to fancy dress nights and away on holiday abroad. They really had a lot of fun until the arthritis that affected her mobility and her hands too, took over.

When we were kids, we always did have a holiday, usually in a caravan or self-catering apartment, and always visiting different parts of England – except for one memorable year when we went to Scotland. Mum had Scottish blood and also Cornish ancestry. She was proud of them both and liked the fact that she came from each end of the British Isles. But she always felt disappointed that she knew very little about her family, especially her father’s family who don’t seem to have kept in touch. Her mother had anecdotes about her Cornish forebears and I did discover the farm where mum’s great-grandmother was born. Some friends of mine (who sadly can’t be here today) visited the farm. They cheekily drove straight down the entrance drive and spoke to the current farmer. Mum was thrilled when I told her.

The last few years, I spent quite a bit of time with mum. I got to hear quite a few anecdotes which she might not have shared with me when I was younger – it was like she began to chat to me more like she used to chat to her sisters. Sometimes I felt like saying: too much information! But I did get to see another side of her; I got to know the lively, adventurous young woman she must have been before she began the serious business of bringing up her family – or then the cheerful, smiling woman who had lots of fun down here with dad. And that has been a real gift for me.

I also know that although she did miss dad, her final years weren’t unhappy. She was lucky with lots of care and support from friends and carers who became friends. As she reached such a venerable age, she finally couldn’t manage to stay at home alone and then, when I couldn’t manage to look after her, even with help, we were very lucky to find a home from home in Arun Lodge, where I know she charmed everyone with her continual jokes and comical phrases and puns.

I hope she’s still smiling and happy, I’m sure she’s dancing with dad once again.

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Mum passes through the veil

Mum died a few days ago. Her death was peaceful, she was not on her own. And she was able to stay in the Care Home where she felt safe and comfortable, where they knew her and cared about her, until the very end. I arrived a couple of hours after she’d actually passed and they had dressed her and given her a flower and her favourite soft toy. She looked at peace. In fact, she looked like she was asleep. I kept staring at her thinking that if I called her, she might indeed wake up. But of course, she wasn’t breathing. Her heart, which had been fluttering fast, was still.

The fact that she has actually died is hard to take in. We expected her to die several times in the past and she bounced back. But this time it’s actually happened.

We had been warned that her life could be over in a matter of days – or possibly weeks. It was clear that she had reached the end of her days, that it really was just a question of time. But given her past track record of surprizing us all when she seemed to be on her death-bed, I did think she would live for another week or two. Brother sadly arrived a few hours too late. An old friend who was very close to Mum, had arranged to come two days later. It didn’t occur to me that they would miss saying goodbye to her. Indeed, when I left her, it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t see her again.

The last time I saw her, she was still conscious, still talking – although her mind was obviously wandering. Her last words to me were: Where are you going? Shopping, I told her, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Well, I was back tomorrow but it was not as I’d expected. But I do know that she was tired; she was worn out. It was her time. She officially died of Old Age – not many people manage that!

And now, there’s so much to do! That’s good because otherwise I might lie on the couch like a slug. Even though it was expected and she was very old, it’s still a shock on a deep emotional level. To have your mother die is archetypal in ways I haven’t yet thought through. I have to wait for the process to be completed. And although this is going to make a difference to my life, at the moment I can’t really think about that. I’m focused on giving her a good send-off. I want the funeral to be as good as possible because you don’t get a second chance at it. Brother has been back here and has been a great help. It’s a pity he wasn’t more help when she was still alive. He is very upset – as I knew he would be – and keen for the funeral to go well. I’ve been taken aback by just how involved he wants to be in the planning – and of course, I have appreciated being able to share the burden of decision-making with him.

During the last few years, to stop myself falling into despair over the limitations of my life down here, I had to keep a tight control of my emotions. I had to mentally prepare for the possibility that she might live to be 100. (In the end she missed that milestone by 18 months which, on some level, I do think is a shame.) But at the moment I can’t really unravel my thoughts. All I want to do is clean. Luckily there’s quite a bit of cleaning to do!

Mum was always convinced Dad would find her when she passed across. Perhaps he came to her and called her and she went with him happily. I also hope that she’s left behind the arthritis that crippled her and made her house-bound and unable to do much – and also blighted my Dad’s life as it brought to an end their socialising, their dancing and fancy-dress parties and holidays which they enjoyed so much. Everyone has their own beliefs but I believe mum has passed peacefully through the veil between the worlds, that’s she’s found my Dad and that they are dancing together once again.

RIP MUM 1920-2019

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Mum has been in Quarantine

Last week I came back from a great trip visiting various dear friends in Scotland and London. As usual after a holiday, I came home feeling tired and happy. But I knew that, instead of being able to take advantage of the customary post-holiday glow – and the renewed energy that resulted from it, I’d have to immediately factor in a visit to mum.

I came home on the Friday, after visiting the fab Mary Quant exhibition at the V&A in London. While I was there, I got a text from Liz the Carer who told me she was sitting with mum and reading my postcard from Scotland. So, on Saturday morning I decided to spend the day shopping for food, catching up with the washing and generally chilling out before I went in to visit her – even though, as it was a long weekend, there would be hardly any buses on the Sunday or Monday so I’d probably need to walk home. As it turned out this was lucky as on Saturday morning, they decided to close to the Care Home to outside visitors. They had an outbreak of a virus – vomiting, diarrhoea (apparently there’s a lot of it about) and the correct procedure as laid done by the health authorities is to put the Home in quarantine for at least 48 hours. They rang me to say that mum had had some sickness but was recovering.

Initially I thought: Great! I can use the time to get myself straight, do a bit of gardening and some of the other things I never get around to.

After a couple of days, I hadn’t heard from the Home so I rang back. They said they expected to be open by the end of the week. And that mum wasn’t too bad, just sitting in her room. All the residents were confined to their rooms. A year or so ago mum would have found this difficult but now she’s so away with the fairies I thought she’d be ok.

I used my time off well. I finished a short story I’ve been trying to write for months and I submitted it to a competition on the very last day for entries. I didn’t do this because I expect to win – although I do like my story – but because it meant I was doing something for myself, which felt good. However, as I’d still not heard from the Care Home, at the end of the week I rang them again.

They said they were still off limits, as they had to give the home a proper clean to ensure no trace of the virus remained. They also said the Doctor had been in to see mum that morning as she wasn’t too good. The Doc said she’d been drained by having the virus. They told me she was lying on her bed, not eating much (which is unusual for her!) and dopey. So, I wanted to go in and see her. I have been caring for her, watching over her and keeping her company through so many crises over the last few years. Indeed, over the last ten years my life has been completely disrupted by demands that I drop everything and rush to a bedside etc not only for mum but before that, for my father. So, it did seem strange being forbidden to visit.

However, we all agreed – mum was capable of perking up. She’s already amazed everybody by recovering from what seemed like a terminal state three times in the last six months! But how many more times will she be able to do that?

As I was writing this post, I had a call from the Care Home. They were reopening the next day. However, they said if I wanted to go in that afternoon, I could. It was clear that they expected me to go in. And I understood from their coded references that mum had taken a turn for the worst. It seems that yesterday, she’d another collapse and she’s not really expected to recover. The medic came while I was there. I know home from the local surgery. He warned me that mum has reached the end of her life: it could be weeks – but it could also be days. Of course, she could rally and surprise us all yet again. But somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen this time.