Transcript:

We tend to measure our life expectancy, and of those around us, by our experiences and longevity of relatives. Having spent most of my adult life working and analysing numbers it was only natural for me to look at the ages of other family members when they passed; Grandfather aged 94. Grandmother at 85. Her sister at 99! Amazing. And on my Mum’s side of the family her sister lived well into her 80’s despite being a smoker, and Mum’s brothers too were old men when they passed. As a consequence I was totally unprepared to lose Mum when she was 86. Especially not without any warning.

I lose track of the days around that time, but less than two weeks previously I’d been looking after Mum; for although she was relatively robust she had dementia and to leave her alone while my Father was in hospital and my Sister away due to work commitments would have been neglectful.

Mum had been chatty, comical at times, habitually quiet, enjoying watching re-runs of the Last Of The Summer Wine, making her own hot drinks and cooking her own microwave meals. We’d walked, gone to church, attempted a jigsaw, visited dad every day in hospital, even gone shopping.

Spending these few days with Mum had been great.

I’d read a book by Oliver James, called “Contented Dementia”, so I wasn’t fearful of the change in Mum. I’m not blinkered, I knew she had changed, but then everyone changes. It’s just that dementia changes a person over a short period of time. Deep down she was still the same person. She loved my Dad, loved my Sister, loved me. Still wanted to be independent and not be made a fuss of.

I think my heart broke twice in retrospect.

The first time was when my Sister and I dropped her off at a care home, something she vehemently did not want. It was only a telephone call from Dad that persuaded her. We had work to go back to and he wasn’t going to be discharged for some time, but make no mistake, provision would be made for her return back home he assured her.

My Sister and I were unsure about that. Yes we wanted Mum home, but Dad after his fall and in his early eighties himself needed help and that was a tough sell.

The care home, one my Sister had found, was not far away. The staff were great, their handling and treatment of Mum first class. But to see her sat in a chair, looking at us as though we’d let her down and were abandoning her almost crushed me. But we had to be strong, remind her it was short term and that she would not be forgotten.

Mum came from a time when the elderly, sick or infirm were hidden away. I remember my Grandfather’s refusal to go to a hospital because it was on the same site of a former Work House. (please see show notes)

We all have our fears, and unfortunately I think in Mum’s mind maybe hers were coming true. For although we talked to her on the telephone we were barred from visiting due to an outbreak of diarrhoea. Mum was weak and listless with it, but no more than that, we were assured.

The ban was lifted two weeks later and I made plans to go and see her the following Tuesday, only it never happened. I got a call Sunday morning to tell me that Mum had died.

I was devastated, truly heartbroken in a manner I’ve never experienced.

Totally unprepared I collapsed in a heap and wept.

I remember asking and being told she had been at peace and when I could think a little I thanked my lucky stars that I’d had those three days with her, looking after her, just being there as we did nothing much with our days but be together; companionable and contented.

That day, the realisation that life is truly finite for everyone changed me. I was never a quarrelsome person but now, whenever I’m in a situation when I might prefer to partake of my own hobbies and interests I remind myself that time with my Wife, Dad, Sister and friends is precious. You never know when someone might get snatched from your grasp, so treasure the moments.

The average life expectancy of a Care Home resident is two-and-a-half to three years. I know, both from an in-law being there as well as working at two care home Head Office’s.

So coupled with this expectation, regardless of my Dad’s hopeful planning that Mum could be returned home as soon as he was out of hospital, it was a complete shock to hear Mum died after only being in the care home for two weeks.

For the most part I count myself lucky in life. I’ve had a few knocks and scrapes; cutting my knee open so much it required stitches, breaking off my big toe nail, a slow head-on collision in my car, breaking a few bones coming off my motorbike but I’ve never been involved in a headline tragedy like a bombing, Tsunami, the sort of life changing event that requires professional help so despite how I was feeling I knew I had experienced a trauma, but not PTSD.

PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, as per the NHS’s description is: “Someone with PTSD often relives the traumatic event through nightmares and flashbacks, and may experience feelings of isolation, irritability and guilt. They may also have problems sleeping, such as insomnia, and find concentrating difficult. These symptoms are often severe and persistent enough to have a significant impact on the person's day-to-day life.”

My world had collapsed around me when Mum died and although the rational part of my brain told me that it’s the order of things, that others suffer far worse, such as the death of a child, and that I was not the only person in the world to lose his Mother, I felt at the time like my world had ended.

I couldn’t think about it if I was honest, not directly. Her death was like some terrifying monster lurking in a room and I didn’t have the courage to open the door to confront. So instead I sort of nudged the door ajar and stole brief glances before I retreated.

And all the time I wept, felt so alone in the world and wondered if there was anything that I could have been done to prevent the tragedy that had unfolded.

Guilt is a horrible emotion. I remembered a conversation, one where in trying to reassure Mum that everything was alright that I told her she’d done an excellent job of raising me and my Sister. We were both successful, independent and capable people. And that it was down to her foundational rock that it was so. Could that have caused her to believe she had nothing else to give? Had I inadvertently caused her to release her hold on life?

I didn’t know. I don’t know now. I’ll never know. But that doesn’t stop the guilt that I might have robbed us all, and Mum, from more time together.

I dealt with losing Mum the same way I dealt with feeling unwell, or unhappy, I went quiet, forcing myself into tasks to keep my mind off the reality of my situation.

But the flashbacks were bad. I couldn’t get the image of her on that chair in the care home out of my mind. For most of my life Mum had been a robust independent individual, and to see her sat there physically frail haunted me. But mostly what haunted me was the lack of her understanding that it was to be temporary. Mum’s dementia had robbed her of  perspective. Like most sufferers she mostly experienced the “now” and Mum’s “now” was not what she wanted, yet she could do nothing about it. She’d trusted us but circumstance had let her down. But to Mum I feared that it was “us” that she thought had let her down.

I think it was this guilt above all others that ate at me. As a child in a civilised society you have a duty to take care of your parents; albeit an unwritten rule, even if you don’t get on with them. And I’d loved my Mum, dearly. It was horrible to feel I’d failed her.

Two things carried me forward.

Firstly, there was Dad to consider. He and Mum had celebrated their 60^th anniversary the previous year, and he had never ever lived on his own. There was a lot to do to ensure he ate, had home- and garden-help as well as knowing his personal safety was attended to; such as a key-safe and personal alarm in case of another fall. For myself and my Sister this has been an on-going project; to facilitate his continued independence but balance that, where we could, with concerns for his safety.

Secondly, I’ve never wallowed in regrets. The “might have been…” or the “if only…”. Are not in my psyche. I regard the past as a learning tool while living in the “now” with ambitions to what I want to make happen.

Of course, a year ago this clarity of thought was not uppermost in my mind, but it did assert itself in time.

One thing I am more aware and considerate of, is that I’m more mindful of the potential mental fragility we might all suffer from. We all cope in different ways, some are more robust than others. And who’s to say one person wearing your heart on your sleeve is better or worse than someone who hides it away. Tolerance is a virtue.

Nothing has happened to me that hasn’t or won’t happen to almost everyone else on the planet. It’s the natural order of things so I urge you to ease a potential burden by being present and not take loved ones for granted.

Shownote Links

• Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

• Oliver James, called “Contented Dementia”

• Workhouse