Thanks again, everyone. Your comments and insights have been a great comfort to me.
I sat up with her on Tuesday night, as I said I would. Her breathing changed around 3am and I thought her time had come. I held her hand, told her I loved her, told her that she could go if she was ready. She kept breathing, though. At 5.30am, she opened her eyes and smiled. I asked if I could get her a cup of tea, and she said 'That would be lovely.' I made us both one. She took a few sips of hers, but that was it. I spoke to her about the day. I drew the curtains so she could look out at the sky. We had a nice time together for those few short hours.
Then, at 8 am, people started ringing and arriving. Palliative carers, social carers, nurses, doctors, family members - a constant stream throughout the day. I just wanted to be with her, but there were other people all the time. In the afternoon, a nurse arrived to fix up a driver to give her continuous small doses of sedatives. A niece arrived whilst she was there, then another. I got a call to say a night carer would be coming to give me some respite. But the only respite I really wanted was to be with mum. Finally, at 7pm, the last person went and the phone stopped ringing. I went back to mum, who was still just awake, and told her that we were alone at last. I sat in the chair beside her, listening to her breathing, watching her eyelids flutter. I talked to her, but she wasn't really responsive. At 7.21, her breathing stopped. After a few seconds, it started again - so I jumped up, held her hand, told her I loved her... and then her breathing stopped again for the final time. I hope she heard me. Oh, how much I hope she heard me. She knew, anyway.
I called everyone. Absolutely everyone. I couldn't stop until everyone knew. Then I broke. I couldn't stop. The sobbing was so hard I thought my heart would stop. Part of me was wishing it would. When the funeral directors arrived and couple of hours later to take away, I ran outside and howled into the night. I was inconsolable. It took me a long time before I could even go back indoors. And she was gone.
I stayed there last night. I covered my duvet with her coats. I left her bedside light on. I called out goodnight to her. I told her to call out if she needed anything. Somehow, I slept. Her coats kept me warm.
It's strange, the things that you do to find comfort in such circumstances. When I got up, I went through the old ritual. I called out to wake her. I asked her if she'd slept well. I made her a cup of tea. Later, I got her hearing aids out and turned them on. I could hear the sound they made, and a faint static crackle. I said 'Can you hear me now?' as I used to when I put them on for her. I even used my mobile to ring her phone - which I then answered, saying 'It's only me. I just rang to see if you are okay.' When I went out, I called 'I won't be long.' When I came back, I called out 'I'm back.' I asked her what she wanted for lunch. It was the only way I could keep things on a level that I could bear. I've spoken to her or seen her virtually every day of my 58 years, so I can't stop now.
Tonight, my brother helped me to move back to my flat. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do was to pack my stuff up at mum's bungalow, then leave it. I'll return tomorrow to tidy up and clean around. It's still mum's home, after all. I have to give the Council a month's notice, so there's plenty of time to clear things. We're going to put most of it in storage temporarily - until we feel ready to handle it.
These last 6 months have been the most important of my life. I wouldn't have missed them for the world. I knew there was a reason why I never moved too far away, and why I went into care work. It's as if all of my life has been leading me to this time. I now feel simply empty and without purpose. My flat no longer really feels like my home. Home is where I've just come from. My true, spiritual home. I don't think I'll be able to be involved very much in the clearance. Mum's been there 23 years. It's always felt like coming home when I've gone there. It's an emotional time-bomb now - made bigger by the fact that she has stuff stored in her loft that goes back to my childhood. Dad's stuff, too, from when he died. And things from when I was married, that my ex no longer wanted, and which I didn't have room for and couldn't face anyway. It's as if my entire life was encapsulated in those four small rooms of mum's. And she was there, too. She was always there - as she always has been for me. I can't bear to think of someone else living there.
I got back and unpacked in time to light some candles and hold a small vigil as the clock came to the time of her passing last night. I spoke to her. I told her how beautiful and special she was, and how much I loved her and missed her. I have no idea of knowing whether my message got through, but I like to think so. Daisy's been a little unsettled (she'll miss the bungalow, too, with the big bright windows and the garden to play in, and mum), but whilst I was having my vigil, she jumped up on the chair with me and made a fuss, and was purring loudly. Cats are such sensitive creatures. She keeps making a fuss of me, and she's not usually like that. She knows.
I was pretty broken up during the morning. Every time I spoke to anyone, I was in tears. I went to the doctor's for some sedatives, and broke down in her room. She told me that, without me, mum would have died long ago. That was reassuring. All I wanted to do was keep her alive and happy for as long as I could. The doctor even hugged me afterwards! Then I spoke to a neighbour of mum's, who sat patiently listening to me spill everything out. That was a great help, too.
The rest of the day has been spent with formalities: arranging the funeral, sorting out bank accounts. A bit at a time, though. No rush. I had coffee with my brother and his wife, and they've been hugely supportive. It all made me feel a little calmer.
This loss is so profound. I know I'll get used to it. But it will be a very long time. And I'll never really get over it. There's been no one else in my life like mum, and there never will be again. She understood me - deeply and instinctively. She always listened when others wouldn't. She was always there when I needed her.
Bless her. I love her so much. She suffered such a lot in her life, and many of the dreams she had ended in tears. She was always putting herself down, too, and never giving herself credit. She had no idea just how special she was, and how many lives she touched. She was talented and bright, and had a spiritual quality that drew people to her. She was one of life's genuine carers. She never judged people. She always looked for the good, instead of the bad. They don't make too many like that.
The loss of such a person is tremendous in any sense. But when it's your own mother... it's incalculable.
Rest easily now, mum. You deserve it. I'll see you again one day - but I'll always be with you anyway, in spirit.
All my love, Kevin
xxx