Notebook
My mother died seven years ago last week. I’m not sure if it is some kind of seven-year-itch combined with the effects of Covid isolation, but I have been reflecting a lot recently on the time of my mother’s illness and death. I have good and bad memories of that time.
Firstly, there is my somewhat unresolved anger about aspects of her hospital care. In the weeks my mother was in the hospital we encountered a lot of wonderful staff members who despite working under huge pressure, were very kind and caring to both my mother and our family. There were, however, exceptions and sadly those are some of the memories that remain.
Precious
When someone close to you is dying I learned that you become very conscious of the language that is used by nurses and doctors as they speak to you. Perhaps we become over-sensitive to every word and phrase spoken, but when you are losing the one who gave you the gift of life, the person most committed to you in your life, then yes, every word spoken about them is precious.
My mother went on a morphine pump and we had been led to believe she might last only a few days. After some weeks a nurse said to me: “Your mother is on a small dose of morphine, not really enough to push her over the top.”
Another day, the same nurse said to me: “Your mother is dying, just not as quickly as we thought she would.”
The insensitive language was not just confined to the hospital staff. In those final weeks Mam was moved from a multi-bed ward to a private room. A priest, visiting the hospital, said to me: “I see your Mam is gone to the departure lounge!”
After my mother’s death, I made a solemn promise to myself that, in future, I would be extra careful in the language I used with sick people and their families.
Siblings
Those final weeks of my mother’s life did provide opportunities to create some very precious good memories. In a sense, for me and my siblings, the world came to a halt when Mam was in hospital. Events and appointments which previously had seemed so important were dropped or postponed so that we could be there by her bedside.
We not only spent time with our mother but we also spent time with each other in a way we had not done since we were children.
There were stories and a lot of laughter during those weeks. Then there were the precious moments spent on our own with Mam.
My mother had never been an affectionate woman in a physical sense. One day while sitting with her she asked me to rub her foot which was painful. Despite being a little awkward at first, I remember being so grateful to be able to do something for her which brought her comfort. There was also an intimacy about that simple gesture which I had not experienced before.
My mother was a woman of great Faith and she was a daily Massgoer most of her life. Like many Irish homes, the Rosary was said every night and when my mother was leading it we got all the trimmings. During those last weeks of Mam’s life I couldn’t help but feel somehow, that Faith had deserted her or at least it did not seem to be helping her on her final journey in the way I hoped it would.
Mam did not want to die and I think she was frightened of dying. One evening towards the end when there was nobody with her except her six children, I suggested that we revive an old family tradition of praying the Rosary together. She shocked me when she said: “I’d prefer to have a drink.”
We all laughed, but I knew she was resisting any suggestion that her journey might be coming to an end.
The journey did end a few days later and in this November time I think of my mother and father and all of our parents and loved ones who gave us so much and who have now gone ahead of us to the Father’s House.Yes…and no
***
The mother of three notoriously unruly teenagers was asked whether or not she’d have children if she had it to do over again. “Yes” she replied. “But not the same ones.”
Nobody knows but Mother
How many cares does a mother’s heart know? Nobody knows but Mother. How many joys from her mother love flow? Nobody knows but Mother. How many prayers for each little white bed? How many tears for her babes has she shed? How many kisses for each curly head? Nobody knows but Mother.
– Mary Morrison