My mum died this morning at 10:40.
The decision not to go to Almeria was the right one. I’d set my sails, and was ready go. Then late yesterday afternoon, having just made arrangements with Sweder to pick me up in Crawley on his way to Gatwick, I went to see my mother. She’s been unwell since Christmas.
Last weekend, M and I drove to North Yorkshire to help celebrate the 50th birthday of M’s old friend, Sally. The party was raucous, but beautifully organised with a never-ending supply of decent Australian fizz and spicy canapés — distributed by a small platoon of unflappable professional caterers. We finally got to bed sometime after 3 a.m., only to be woken 4 hours later by a call from my sister to tell me that my mother was rapidly deteriorating, and they thought we should come back immediately. So instead of heading for a nostalgic lunch at our favourite Chinese restaurant in Leeds with a bunch old friends, we found ourselves heading back down the M1, not sure what we’d find at the other end.
The answer to that unspoken question was a roomful of family, and a very frail old lady, barely able to speak, gazing out through a face shrivelled and ancient beyond her 79 years. She was unable to move her body, though she could flex her fingers upwards, as though she was waving goodbye. Which of course she was. We grinned at each other, even though we both knew she was dying. Maybe that’s why we grinned: some final act of defiance. She croaked a few sentences in my ear. “No one ever comes back”, she said mysteriously. Then added: “Death means nothing”. She asked to speak to my wife. “Melinda, there’s something I must tell you…” We both leaned forward. She cleared her throat with difficulty, then said: “You’re the spitting image of Sarah Palin”.
We chuckled. Then she retreated again, just staring out at me. “Look after your father”, were her final coherent words to me.
For the rest of the afternoon, we took it in turns to hold her hand and stroke her face. She just stared back, with a very distant smile on her parched lips. I was convinced she would die at any moment, but incredibly she hung on. Not just for the rest of the day, but for the rest of the week.
Until I saw her yesterday, I was convinced she would keep chugging along for a while yet. But yesterday I knew the game was up. If she recognised me, she wasn’t letting on. There was no movement in her fingers this time. Worst of all was the news that she had stopped drinking water. She’d barely eaten for a fortnight, but people can keep going for a long time if they keep hydrated. But without fluids, there’s no hope. I got back home and called Sweder, to tell him I’d have to miss Almeria this year.
The expected call came at 10:45 this morning. She’d stopped breathing.
In death she looked heartbreakingly frail and insubstantial, like a tiny sparrow frozen in the snow.
The pain is over. Goodbye Ma, and thank you.
For the rest of us, life goes on. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., at the exact moment that our friends in Almeria are igniting their medio maraton effort, I will leave home on my own 13.1 mile adventure. This one more sombre than usual, but more determined too.
