Do not go gentle into that good night
My mother, Anne Patricia Pirard - Pope
It is Saturday morning, Alyosha my daughter wakes up with the cats sitting on her chest. In her waking dream Dad is standing there, he tells her to stay next to her granny. She goes back to sleep.
That next day she visits Mum spending a few hours with her. Later that night Tom, one of my brother phones her, Mum has fallen badly. I was still in Toulouse, France, they did not want to tell me. I arrive back home at 10.00 pm, Sunday, directly to Mum, to her bed where she can not move, only cries, in pain. All night I hold her like a little child, to me.
I know it is serious.
The next morning we await the ambulance. Three of us, Pat, Tom, and me lie on her bed. She looks out at her wild and tangled garden, the wood pigeons on the branches, spring slowly opening its arms with the daffodils smiling sweetly, and the winter roses beginning to melt. “What a beautiful day it is.” Her words seem so final. I wonder if she is taken to the hospital, can she ever come out again? Falls at this age can be fatal. She is 92. How can she survive?
Ivan the eldest brother arrives at the same time as the ambulance people. Stubborn, clinging to the bed, she says she will not go, Ivan tells her she has to.
I travel with her. Through the slotted windows I see all the places she would take us as kids. Dunorlan Park was one of our favourite, on Pembury Road. A Victorian garden meadow which was created by the infamous Victorian gardener, Robert Marnock in 1850. It was our secret garden, our hunting ground, getting lost ground, hiding from the gardener ground, climbing the huge oak at the entrance ground and dodging the cafe owner who had an open counter of sweets, easy to pick-quick, then run from.
The ambulance slows down by Swing Gates where I had gone to school. The good-looking traveller lads used to hang out there waiting for us girls to come by, young skinheads, wearing their slick Crombie coats - cropped hair, silk scarfs in lapels. I see in my past-time-eyes - Mandy S, leader of the pack, running after Joe Boy, the best-looking traveller lad from Dr Barnardo's orphanage. At fourteen, adopted by a family and whisked off to the US.
I wept for weeks.
I often think of Joe Boy.
Mum holds my hand. In between are those words and worlds known only to us; of our lifetime together.
Memories.
STRIKES
The NHS is under siege. Horrifying, desperate, unkind. Alyosha my daughter works on ward 32, 13-hour shifts. Yet, despite strikes, and uproar for pay, they let Alyosha spend the next 24 hours next to her granny. They let her pass the picket line. She sleeps on a hard chair, then she goes to work.
Stoic.
They finally put Mum into room 17 overlooking the Weald of Kent trees which whisper kisses to each other in the spring winds.
The Weald is wooded landscape that stretches across Sussex and Kent, lodged between the North and South Downs in southern England. It is a place of ancient oak trees and woodlands and extensive agricultural land…It also holds large areas of heathland, some of the rarest habitats in the world. Daniel Greenwood from Unlocking Landscapes
In and out of slumber
where the nurses tell me our constant visits brought her back from that night when the doctors told us to prepare ourselves.
The was no gentleness in that good night, the 31st March.
It was hell! I kept telling myself it was my honour and privilege to be with her, yet the pain, her gasping for life, clinging on, this pitiful fight for what?
For life.
Her tangled life.
The wild wind howling outside made me feel smaller than I have ever felt. The trees bent and distorted in anger rattling in unison with my mother’s breath.
I was not in the UK when my father was in the hospital; private he was, he asked my brothers and mum to leave and then left. Not mum, stubborn, cantankerous, chatty, ferocious, and sometimes a tad scary, is not going to give us that.
That unkind night, I cried for Dad, asking him to come and take his wife. It was their wedding anniversary, 31st, March, the perfect time to go. Please. Go. GO!
At some point, I fell asleep in exhaustion, maybe ten minutes, when I heard a voice boom the early morning awake. "I want a gin and tonic," Her 5 o'clock drink with the boys, at home.
That was it. She was not going to go gently into that good night.
Yet frail,
so I move in with my computer . The African nursing sister, ( from Nigeria, been here 6 months on a work visa) tells me I can stay. My hotel, home-from-home for the next weeks to come.
I work by her bed, I edit my films by her bed, I change her sheets, learn about bandages, her sores, sit her up, lie her down.
I also have my favourite seat in the corridor on the first floor, where I escape now and then. I call myself the hobo of corridor 1.
Life. Death, Pain, the fight, the ebbing of the breath, the moments of laughter, starting all over again and dreaming, with hope, that things can go back to how they were.
Yes, life is all a collection of memories. Gail told me that. Gail told me lots of important things like this.
A beautiful story, sent this morning by Ivan, brings me thanks for the power of words in these moments. It is called Adda, by Tresha Lionel. It is lovely to read at this moment. Tresha becomes a kindred spirit. It is about her grandmother. At one point she says: The tiny dresser next to the bed says a lot to those visiting. Her dresser had Johnson’s Baby Powder, bay oil, deodorant, lotion, Vicks and toothpaste …
Mum’s dresser has l’immortale oil made by Maurice, our friend from our village mountain in Tuchan, a photo of Dad looking directly at her, photos of her family, her sister, Nivea cream for her still beautiful hands that used to model rings for a Parisian boutique, her comb and a lipstick; always coquette.
A hospital is a microcosm, yet breathes as a whole, from the cleaners to the head consultants. The gangs of young British girls just out of college working side-by-side the nurses and doctors brought in from Africa and India and the Philippines.
Why are you here? Are you happy? One girl Grace (name changed) from Trinidad, says she hates the food here, it's vile. "Why" 'No taste?" But, surely you can find Trinidadian food? She laughs, 'Pretend Trinidadian food!"
The Nigerians are proud and loud, entering with dancing steps to the room. Many are here for the experience, they will go home afterwards the visa finishes. "Too cold to stay."
It is hard, far from home, from the heat and the pulse of Lagos, large families, Puff-Puff - Fried Sweet Dough Ball and Roasted Yam.
The East Europeans will stay here, the war in Ukraine brings fear and instability and NHS benefits are worth it for them. My favourite CSW is Madie. Madie is a gem with pigtails, braces and a smile that wipes the sides out of the room. She is entertaining, chitter-chatter and loves Mum, Mum lights up when Madie comes into the room. She sits for as long as she can, as often as she can.
She is a traveller and tells me we can still say gipsy, there’s no problem. “Forgot the protocols, we say gipsy.” Her husband’s parents live in a van, wooden and ornate with a Billy stove in the centre. Her father-in-law taught her how to use a catapult and to ferret rabbits. “You can only do that on your land, not public land anymore.” She tells Mum she has never cut her hair, that’s also a gipsy tradition. She unwinds it, it falls to her waist. She wants to study nursing, like my daughter who is also a CSW - health care worker.
Then there are the patients, this mixed ward, those who come in to come out, or those that never leave, are shunted around the system, like the young man who keeps setting light to himself, and ended up here due to an infection.
Endless nights, days drip to nights as it has not stopped raining, which run into other nights with the tick-tick of my mother's heart, monitored, and watched, she is kept alive.
By the NHS, and us.
Day 8. Another dip
I have one night off to go home to wash and sleep. My brother Tom rings, I rush back to the hospital, clothes in bags. This time it is very different. She is peaceful, not fighting it. Like a small girl, her hand seeks mine in the darkness. The staff say I can stay, again.
my home-from-home,
again.
Day 25
Anne Patricia Collette Odile insists on living even though living is tough. She sometimes wants to jump out into the sunshine from the window to touch her trees, the kissing trees, but bars stop patients from doing that. Then she says she wants to come home. She says she has forgotten the house, where she lives, and the names of the flowers in the garden. I keep vigil, the boys keep vigil, only Violette can’t come and visit, she is too young. Ivan makes a film of the house. She suddenly remembers everything and the ancient roses which climb up the side of the garden shed and the birches which we’d taken from Southborough Common so many years ago, saplings, now bigger than the house which is many feet tall.
Day 30
100 hours or more sitting by Mum's bed. I create my stories, write my courses, and yes, edit my film by her side. I prefer to sit facing the window so I can watch the trees, those kissing trees. From the other window, clouds melt into the hospital window. The birds live on top, free, free, free.
Day 35
She might come home. Living in this half-world, strange world, a world where life ebbs away, today, tomorrow, so sad, so tired, yet life goes on in it’s beautiful and broken way. Is it possible she can come home?
Strikes and revolutions twirl the world, and spring in full swing, over here, April showers, it is my birthday tomorrow. The sun slips slightly through a passing cloud. I will bring a candle and cake and make merry at 5.45 pm, tonight, the 28th of April as I step into a new return of the sun which will move to the exact place on it’s orbit when I was born, 8 degrees into Taurus.
A new year
New wishes, hopes and dreams.
I want to run sometimes, away, far away to the far side of town, but I am here, with her face, see her gentle smile, the jokes that come, the hand on mine. Thank yous, the stories, the silence
Just another question to ask you
So many questions?
Was I really that difficult?
When you found me in the orphanage did you really want me? Tell me the story again. I need to hear it. It is our story. Did we bond immediately?
I love it when you tell me about The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care by Dr Spock as you had no idea what to do with me? This child who was not yours. Spock, was your hero, he taught you how to fill a bottle.
I want all those stories, again, again, one more time …
The day before my birthday.
I have a break and go with Vivi my granddaughter and Alyosha to see Frozen in Drury Lane. London. This is the first time for Vivi. Everything is magical from her grubby chocolaty face of wonderment, her slightly too big, second-hand Elsa dress, her telling everyone and anyone who will listen to her she no longer needs a snuggler at night. Her voice loud, eyes wide-open as Elsa sings her favourite song.
I think of you as you look out of the window at your trees. Tomorrow I will come and will tell you about London and the streets getting ready for the new Kings coronation. Of the street dwellers in tents. The skies of April rain, and give you the tulips I found on the way from Quarry Hill railway tunnel.
28th April
Today, I get a call, they need to send you somewhere else. You can no longer stay in the hospital. You are no longer medically unfit, yet, you do not want to try to eat or stand anymore. You have also gone on strike.
The OT says we can not cope with you at home, it will be too hard. But we know you want to come home, and we want you to come home to us, where the flowers touch your window sill and there are no bars to stop you from opening in the sun.
Hey, Mum. We’ll make it work, it will work out.
We will bring you home.
As you brought me home all those years ago.
I promise you.
Thank you for reading this.
It has been very hard to think, to write, to continue with everyday things, however, creating keeps one’s head above it all, keeps the heart clear, less heavy. Full of hope and love.
Have yourselves a wonderful next month.
Dive into spring
JEANNE
"... did you really want me? Tell me the story again..."
My childhood has not been that happy, and I finally found how to deal with that: trying to identify with an orphan, even telling friends that my ideal next girlfriend should be and orphan too. Family, mine and girlfriends', brought as many bad memories as good ones. Thanks for your lessons and examples of happiness, including "Anne and Marius" pic of 1956. Speaking of happiness, Happy birthday, dear Jeannette <3
Oh...Jeanne, I wept, I felt this to the bone, the beauty and pain and saving of souls, the l’immortale oil on her dresser, the way life is passed along from generation to generation. Love to you all.