It’s not all sadness and tears

What can I add to last week’s blog when I described my Mum as “in the departure lounge, awaiting the flight” however, three weeks on from the dreaded phone call I got from my mother’s nursing home, when they anticipated that she was entering her last 24 – 72 hours, she is still here, defying doctors, nurses and even the hospice who visited last week and again re-iterated that her death was imminent. The next day she sat up and said she would like a cup of tea even though it was 30ºC+ so still retaining a very British custom of, when in doubt have a cup of tea! So to update the situation I would say, still in the departure lounge but flight has been cancelled so now deciding whether to go home or get on another flight!

It's not all sadness and tearsShe smiles, she chuckles, she is so well-mannered always thanking the nurses for the smallest of kindnesses shown to her. Meanwhile I lurch between sheer delight that she is still here to (and I know some of our readers will not understand) wondering when this will all end. Some days I wake up thinking how can I keep going, spending all day with my mother but I started this three weeks ago and I have to go on, my Mum is on ‘end of life care’ and I must be with her. Some of the other residents, all with varying stages of dementia, think I am a carer as they see me so regularly, and often ask me to do things for them. I have grown so fond of them all and will actually miss them when this is all eventually over. One of the residents thinks I am her mother and always kisses my hand and asks for a hug. Another enquires, with no malice, as a child would, “Has she died yet?” and yet another pops into her room, as he always did when she was well, for a chat and his first question is to ask if she is still alive. Their bluntness is not offensive but simply honest and practical and it never upsets me and more importantly the one time that my mother was awake and heard such an enquiry, she replied, “I’m not dead yet!”

So we all knock along together, the receptionist watches me sign in with an understanding smile, the tea lady knows my favourite biscuits, and the nurses all manage my spiralling emotions. My family are tested as I never seem to be home when they want me, my children are understanding to a point however my dogs are always so happy to see me and are, like all dogs, the least judgemental.

It is not all sadness and tears as I have started to take breaks and have been to the Henley Royal Regatta twice. I have needed to keep sane and step back into real life. I have sat in the sun, drunk no alcohol as I am always half-expecting a phone call and a mad dash to the nursing home. I have an overwhelming feeling of guilt if I have too much fun but I am sure that is normal, or maybe it isn’t? My friends still keep asking how my mother is but I think they must be feeling that this is dragging on. Again I ask what else can I do but more of the same, visit daily, talk to the nurses and make sure that all my mother’s needs are being met and most important of all keep her comfortable and pain-free.

I have learnt that you cannot judge anyone in their way of handling dying and, as I said in my last post, it is a personal thing, and no-one knows how they are going to behave until it happens.


  1. Your post has really struck a cord. We had that dreaded middle of the night call. My youngest rushed up from Southsea and we sat by my mum’s bed waiting for her to pass. The priest gave her Last Rites at lunchtime and by tea time she was asking for tuna sandwiches. When I finally went home I have to admit I felt cross with her! 5 months on and she is still hanging on, frail and muddled but still with us. Unlike you I don’t spend all my time with her, she sleeps most of the day anyway. So that final phone call is yet to come and making holiday and weekend break plans are always tainted with the “what if” worry. My thoughts go out to you.

    • There is another lady here who has been on ‘end of life care’ for two years, surviving on little food but her daughter who visits regularly is worn to a frazzle. I understand when you say that making plans is so difficult. The whole end of life process is so complicated and it comes laced with enormous amounts of guilt! Thank you for taking the time to make a comment as it is so nice to know that we have readers who are reading our posts! Annabel x

  2. Oh Annabel, I completely know how you feel. I went through the same thing six years ago. It wasn’t all tears, as you say, I had conversations with my mum that I never thought I would have, planning her funeral, talking about me looking after her beloved grandchildren when she had gone, and my dad…. I would go home and say to my husband, ‘I have just spoken to mum about (whatever), why am I not crying?’ Mum was dying of cancer, she was totally lucid when she was awake. It lasted two weeks. We chatted, we laughed, she was totally aware of what was happening and quite honestly the bravest person I have ever met! Thinking of you and what your family are going through too. Life will be alright, different… but alright in the end. Lots of love. X

    • Thank you for your kind words. It is always good to know that other people have gone through the same spiralling emotions. As I type this I am sitting with her and she is asleep but the nurses says she always knows when I am here and asks when I am coming. I agree the conversations are worth all the tears. Annabel x

  3. It is normal to feel that way but once they finally leave you wish they were right back here…especially when you know that once passed they are healed and revitalised. x

    • Thank you for your kind comment. I am finding that every day is a bonus, to be able to care for her as she once cared for all of us, her family. Annabel

    • Thanks for your kind comment. I know, when she eventually leaves us, I won’t regret all this time I am spending with her – it is such a small part of her 89 years. Annabel

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