Monthly Archives: February 2019

Grief comes in unexpectedly

As my mother’s health improves, my grief seems to be receding. Sure, Mum may never get back to being the sparky, independent woman she has been all her life, but perhaps that matters less than we thought it did.

And watching over the last year the process of her gradual change, acknowledging how many personal mountains she has had to climb – not only losing her husband and her son, but having to move her home twice in less that eighteen months and make all the necessary personal adjustments – I appreciate her courage anew.

In her quieter moments, she remains an inspiration, and not for the reasons she might suppose: not for her physical strength, her purposefulness, her self-reliance, but for her resignation. Her stoicism, never her most obvious trait, is resurfacing in such a way that grief comes in unexpectedly. It pricks behind the eyes, occasionally overflows, but then it leaves again. And this has happened so much in the last few years, that I too am becoming more resigned.

I can’t pretend to understand the Whys of our situation. I can hope to make a small difference, and give my mother the hope that she will be heard, and that she will get better. I keep my fingers crossed, pray almost constantly, and hope for the best. Because when examined objectively, there has been nothing else we could have done that would procure a better outcome. The NHS – God bless it! – has proved itself a worthy champion of those in crisis; they have rescued my mother from death and from her habitual defeatism, they have given her the hope of a new lease of life as well as a long-overdue medical review, and today, they conceded that she could come home, after more than three weeks in their care.

So with the help of two members of staff, we packed my car this afternoon and drove home peacefully, and with gathering relief. There may be more grief to face, but at least we now have hope that we can face it on our own terms. Which is something else to be grateful for.

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The example of others

In visiting my mother, increasingly I notice the help offered and contributions made to my life and peace of mind by the example of others: doctors who help, nurses who answer bedside summons, auxiliaries who dish out tea, or supper, or chat, taxi drivers who take me where I want to go, my husband who cooks when he is asked to, and my daughter who can be trusted to do chores she is asked to.

And I realise, teamwork really does help the world to function. Yet another lesson for me: I can work in a team. I do not have to be solitary, alone and independent all the time. Capable of doing all things reasonably well, I can also ask others to help. I can delegate. Coming down from the citadel of solitariness, I can lighten the load, have more fun and gain insights from others, by sharing with them all my travails – gently, of course – and being thankful for their efforts on my behalf. It’s lovely to let go the reins and allow life to flow.

I learn a lot from my mother: that independence and self-reliance are great strengths, that it is good to have our own opinions and to be able to justify them, that hard work will reap great rewards. In the example of her dependency, I also learn that teamwork is valuable, necessary and can save lives, as well as making living much more fun.

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To the hospital

Timetables are useful, and so are routines. Which now include visiting the hospital most days to visit my Mum. I have driven myself there, but the difficulties of obtaining parking are almost insurmountable. (What do I do if, having reached the hospital, I can find no-where to park?) So now I get taxis and am grateful that I can relax in the back of the cab for fifteen minutes each way. If I time it right, I can avoid the worst traffic clutter and shorten the journey.

            I really cannot fault my mother’s medical treatment at the Western General. Having such an apparently intriguing case on their hands, the treatment appears to be tiptoe kid gloves careful, and the staff are uniformly kind, helpful and easy to get on with. And I say that as someone who has good reason to loathe hospitals and to never want to go into one again.

Yes, I can identify with the tedium. It amuses me to hear my mother complaining of boredom and frustration, but I refrain from saying, “I do know, I do understand…” as that would only make her feel worse: without prompting from me, she remembers my hospital admissions, which she herself sanctioned, and concedes that yes, I do understand, and yes, I have been patient. That was nice to hear, today. (Increasingly, I find I can make a point by being silent and letting it speak for itself.)

            So yes, I have reason to hate hospitals, but I no longer do. Which for me is not so much a turnaround as a revolution of cosmic proportions. A whole arena of paranoia that I have, apparently, let go. For which, yet again, I am immensely grateful to my Mum. Thanks be to mothers for the lessons they teach their children.

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