My mother died two years ago today.
Before I say anything else, I should explain that she was 93 years old, in reasonably good health, still lived in her own house, had relatively recently, thanks entirely to my sister's tireless efforts, agreed to have both a cleaner and a carer, and, so far as anyone can tell, died peacefully in her sleep. We should all only have it so good.
Do I miss her? I wish I could say yes, but I really don't. I don't miss the monthly duty visits, two agonising hours of sitting in her living room trying desperately to spark a conversation or find any point of mutual interest - or, in my case, trying to get her to hear me at all; she either couldn't, or pretended she couldn't. I don't miss the constant worry, even after she'd agreed to have help about the house, that she might fall, or someone might break in, or ... I don't know; all the things you do worry about with very old ladies. I certainly don't miss the mess and the smell - yes, again, even after she'd agreed to have help. I used to clean as best I could while I was there, but it was never enough. And we couldn't, in sheer self-preservation, have visited her any more often than we did.
It is a little odd to think that her house, as it was, is gone - either demolished or renovated, I don't know which, but you certainly couldn't have moved straight in there the way that it was. But, in a way, that hardly matters: it still exists in my head, unchanging as it was over the 30-some years my parents, then just my mother, lived there. The paperback books, shelved in no particular order, all tilted to one side or the other and, apparently, never touched; the shelf of ornaments they'd had ever since my childhood - the Scandinavian painted horse, the ginormous purple brandy balloon, the horrid Aborigine head that used to frighten me when I was a kid; the hugely expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo unit that, again, had been untouched in all the time they lived there; my father's wretched collection of ornamental bells; the windowsill with its proud display of dead flies and photos of every one of my parents' children and grandchildren except me ... It's all still there, and I don't think it will ever go away.
What I do miss is somebody who would give love unconditionally: who would always be there with a hug, an understanding word, a cup of tea, a shoulder to cry on. But I never had that - none of us did. That wasn't who my mother was. It was probably very good for us, and extremely character-building. Still, sometimes I think I could have done with a little less character and a lot more sympathy. Who knows? Either way, ain't never gonna happen.
I wonder how my mother would have dealt with cancer? I suspect she would have treated it much as she dealt with Hitler: with the utmost contempt. She'd've had anything cut off and/or out that needed to be cut, gone through treatment with dogged stoicism, and probably beaten the crap out of the thing. I don't need to wonder how she would have dealt with me having cancer. She would have found a way to make it my fault.
So, there you are. She was a difficult and not a very likeable woman, but she was an individual, and she took very little nonsense from anyone. You could, I suppose, do worse. And she's the only mother I'm ever going to have.
I myself am at present being far less stoic. I had two weeks in between the end of my fourth and the beginning of my fifth cycle of Taxel, because of the neuropathy in my fingers. I was almost starting to feel human by the beginning of this week, although still so tired that a walk down the main street in Bicester was enough to wipe me out, but one dose of Taxel and I'm back to a state of general uselessness, unless anyone knows of a good use for sleep. Judy and I have just been to Brackley to shop, and I was too wobbly to drag myself around Tesco. I've been lying out on the bench in the garden, but it's starting to get too cold for that. Winter is going to be a drag ...
I had a bit of a scare on Monday morning, when I woke with a temperature of 102 (Fahrenheit, that is, of course; else I wouldn't be typing this now). I don't know what caused it; I was together enough to do all the things I needed to do - phone the triage team for advice, get an emergency appointment with my GP, call my brother and ask him not to visit (woe!), contact the district nurses - and, by the time I got to the GP's, things were back to normal. But something definitely happened. I just don't know what, and I suppose we never shall find out.
The main thing is, I was well enough for chemo on Tuesday. I had to throw a bit of a tantrum in there; because I'd had to put off the district nurse the day before, my PICC line dressing hadn't been changed, and the DTU nurse tried to tell us we'd have to get the district nurse in to do it the next day because they (the DTU) were too busy. Cue tantrum. She changed the dressing. I win!
The moral of this story is, save your tantrums for when you need them. Most of the time I am very good and quiet, and just let them get on with it.
It didn't help that I was tired before we went into the DTU, having spent the previous hour talking to a woman from the Maggie's Centre. I don't say this wasn't useful; just that I can only do one thing per day, and we really do need to remember this. The upshot is that I have an appointment with a counsellor next Friday, so we shall see how that goes.
My mother would have been disgusted. She would have had no truck with what she would have called 'trick-cyclists'. However, she's not here. I am. So, STFU, Mother!
Bless you, dear, wherever you may be. How I hope there is not a hereafter.
