I know the logic of what she’s saying, but the idea of it is so agonising to even comprehend – there’s a hope that she’s forgotten she’s said anything, like with the hash.
Slopes
It wasn’t the uncontrollable bladder or the distorted speech or the limbs as heavy as tree trunks that made me grasp the gravity of Mum’s illness. My realisation that MS was dominating her body came when I noticed she couldn’t tie her shoelaces. At first I put it down to simple clumsiness or one of those momentary memory lapses, when you forget how to spell a three-letter word or something. I laughed at it. But then it happened again. And again. She suggested a major bout of pins and needles to ease my distress, but I knew differently. We howled whenever I had to do them up for her.
‘That’s you all done,’ I’d say, slapping her instep.
‘Right, that’s me ready to take on the world.’
‘Now, don’t be jumping in any puddles.’
I quite enjoyed our little ritual, but it became embarrassing for both of us. Before she changed to wearing sandals and pumps, I tied Mum’s laces in total silence. I felt emotionally useless to her and vulnerable in my new role as her chief dresser.
Then her symptoms became more noticeable. I remember once as she was watching some music documentary on BBC Four her left leg started shaking. And I mean uncontrollably shaking. Her thigh muscle rippled like water after a stone’s been dropped.
‘Mum, look,’ I said. ‘Look at your leg.’
‘It’s nothing, Bobby.’
‘But, look!’
‘Sshh, I’m watching this.’ She slapped her thigh like you’d swat at an unwelcome wasp.
I knew something was wrong. The tiniest domestic chore would leave her shattered, as if she’d vacuumed the world. We’re talking about making toast here, nothing strenuous. But we could handle it then.
After school I’d either find her zonked in bed or flaked out on the couch. That’s when I got the finger out and started doing most chores: making dinner, food shopping. Her desire to wheel around Asda practically disappeared. I washed our clothes, her dirty underwear. I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t. Danny was a problem though; he was younger and didn’t appreciate that Mum needed rest. He threw mega tantrums, craving her affection. Eventually Mum got her arse in gear and visited a doctor, who, being the medical wizard he was, told her she had some type of aggressive virus and that she’d be as right as rain in no time. He packed her off with a course of pills. Everyone’s a winner! Even with only four years of school biology behind me, I knew this doctor didn’t know his arse from his stethoscope.
Mum had some strange Lazarus moments at the beginning of her illness: occasionally I’d discover her in the garden, head to toe in dirt and sweat, like she’d hoed a rainforest. Thing is, she hated gardening. It all came crashing down on top of us one night when she returned from the garden clearly terrified. Her leg had buckled. It wouldn’t support her weight and she kept stumbling and falling down. I carried her upstairs like a fireman that night; it shocked our core. A pivotal moment, because she understood these little episodes were connected to something more sinister … bugger all to do with clumsiness.
She cried that night.
It was the first time I’d seen her cry. Parents aren’t supposed to cry, not in front of their kids. The crying was one of the hardest things to get used to. We had to accept it, because when Mum received the diagnosis she wept buckets, a daily soundscape ranging from sweet soft sobs to explosive bouts of wailing. Danny’s head was constantly in his jumper or buried under his pillow, poor soul. This MS was a WMD that didn’t discriminate: everyone was going to feel its wrath.
I wanted to hide my head at times as well, but couldn’t. Too busy making sure Danny was surviving. I embraced him, held him whenever he felt like lashing out. I read and reread stories, made sure he ate properly. I was the one who tried to explain in the simplest terms all about Mum’s illness, spoon-fed him information on a need-to-know basis. With Danny it was all about amputating his panic and worry. I didn’t want him to go directly to Google, with its smorgasbord of scaremongering shit; it could’ve seriously triggered a meltdown.
Around this time there was no place for my indulgent thoughts: Who’ll embrace me? Who’ll hold me tight? Who’ll eliminate my fears? I guess the answer to these questions was Danny. He became my blanket, as I was his.
And that’s how the slippery slope began. Minor problems in light of what we now know. But I never imagined how fast and in what direction things would accelerate. Here lies a woman who’s not so much slipped down the slope as been propelled from it.
But where to?
#8 … complete
you didn’t stir
I snuck into your room
you must have heard me
you must have heard me
I bent down
put my lips to your ear
whispered:
I can see your chest hum
hear your heart weary
you must have heard me
weeping
no?
Jaggy Head Kiss
After Danny scoffs his scrambled eggs I bring him up to Mum, hoping she’s awake to see him. She’s on her side, serene.
‘That hair makes her look mad,’ Danny says. ‘Like a black thistle.’
‘What, madder than before?’ I say.
‘Think I should get mine done like hers, Bobby?’
‘Don’t even think about it.’ I ruffle his hair.
‘Shall I give her a kiss?’ he asks.
‘Always give her a kiss.’
Danny approaches and places his lips on the side of Mum’s head.
‘It’s jaggy on my lips.’
‘I’ve been there,’ I say. ‘Listen, you go put all the dirty washing in the basket and I’ll fix her covers.’
‘Roger that.’
I study her. I miss brushing her hair, putting on my hairdresser voice. Having our banter. Skinhead? What woman in midlife gets a bloody skinhead? End-of-life crisis women, that’s who.
Mum peels open her eyes.
‘Did I just hear our Danny?’ she croaks.
‘He got back a while ago, Mum.’
‘Did he have fun?’
‘Seemed to,’ I say. ‘You OK? Need anything?’
‘No. Too tired to eat.’
‘I’ll go, let you get some sleep.’
She closes her eyes. I decide to wait until I hear her breathing, see her body rise and fall. Danny’s humming filters through from his room. Mum’s eyes flick open.
‘It’s just Danny, Mum. I’ll get him to stop.’
‘It’s fine, I like listening to him.’
‘OK,’ I say and make to leave.
‘Bobby!’
‘What?’
‘Have you told him?’
‘About what?’
‘About what I asked you to do?’
She’s not letting this go. I know her: she’s got a bone and no way she’s loosening her jaw. It’s far too juicy.
‘Remember, Bobby, truth opens doors.’
‘I know.’
‘So it’s important to tell him, don’t let it drag on too long before you do.’
Why is this my job? Why can’t Mum tell Danny herself? Because she won’t be able to spout it all out without cracking? What makes her think it’ll simply roll from my tongue? I almost do a full-on teenage foot stamp.
‘Mum, please!’ I hiss. ‘He’s in his room, he’ll hear.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Keep your man bra on.’
‘Funny.’ My face is serious. I turn on my heels.
‘Bobby.’
‘What?’ I shoot at her.
‘I’m really hungry. Could you get me some soup?’
‘Tomato or lentil?’
‘Chicken.’
‘Thought so,’ I say as I close the door.
*
‘You’ve some soup on your chin. Let me clean it,’ I say.
‘My lips are g
oing, Bobby.’
‘No, it’s just a dribble.’
‘I’m a baby.’
I run the wet wipe across her chin, clean the chicken soup away.
‘There.’
‘Bobby, I need you to end this for me.’
‘Nearly finished.’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘Mum …’
‘Help me,’ she says. I fully expect to see tears, but she’s clear-eyed and steadfast. ‘Please? You have to.’
I grapple with it every hour, some hours better than others. Mum wants to make a criminal out of me and motherless sons out of us. Danny deserves his mum. Who am I to take that from him?
‘Don’t talk, Mum. Concentrate on eating the soup.’
‘I know this is something no mother should ever ask her child to do.’
‘Mum …’
‘I’m aware what I’m asking, Bobby. I am. I know you’ll have to carry this around for life.’
‘Every waking hour,’ I say.
‘I’m turning into a feeding receptacle, son. I can’t have the indignity of that before, well, before the inevitable happens. Danny couldn’t handle that either.’
Danny would hate me, I know he would. And if anyone found out – Christ, if anyone found out – I’d be deemed evil, mad and selfish. A disaffected youth. Mum wouldn’t be there to verify my truth. They’d twist everything, spin me into a nutter. What other options do we have though? It’s not as if we have the funds to whisk her off to the Dignitas clinic in the Swiss Alps. All we have is each other.
Is my only option to stand by and watch Mum’s unimaginable suffering? Disregard her only wish? Spend the next fuck knows how many months/years witnessing her intolerable pain, hoping that today will be the day nature finally acts?
I chew over my own pros and cons list and conclude that, as big brother, chief rock and ship-steadier, I can’t allow Danny to live with a mother who is nothing more than a feeding receptacle, unable to respond to the most basic of human emotions. Unable to touch us. Unable to guide us. Unable to rejoice. A mother who is simply, well, unable to be a mother. I can’t live with that possibility.
Mum’s request has to be carried out. It just has to be. Call me the dutiful son. Call me whatever … I don’t care.
The Residential
It’s been a week since Mum’s sledgehammer, and I’m more than happy to be going on the residential. If nothing else, to escape the constant stinging in my head, the need to disguise my anxiety whenever I check her. Thinking about what she’s asked me to do is exhausting.
I chuck random items into my sports bag. I’m calling it a sports bag but it hasn’t seen a sniff of a sweaty trainer or the hint of a football park or gym since Mum bought me it.
‘You sure you’re happy for me to be here all weekend?’ Bel says.
‘Just as long as you don’t rifle through my knicker drawer,’ I say.
‘Can’t promise.’
‘Sure. What else would you rather be doing this weekend?’
‘Well, it’s a toss between watching dad fart his way through Sunday or … let me think … nothing.’
‘Mum’ll appreciate it, Bel,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to do anything. They’re sending in a cavalry of healthcare workers while I’m away.’
‘No sweat. I’ll just make sure Danny doesn’t download too much porn,’ she says, flicking through my wardrobe and taking out a woolly jumper.
‘Don’t even think about packing that. It’s not bloody Siberia I’m going to.’
‘Thinking about night-time?’
‘I’ll snuggle into some of the others who are going, won’t I?’
‘Oh, very modern. Very progressive. Make sure you film it,’ she says, rehanging my jumper. ‘What about this?’
I agree to the hoodie she’s holding. She folds it and tucks it in the bag. ‘What’s the plan for the weekend then?’ I ask.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, Bobby Seed. While you’re trudging through sheep crap and sleeping in a damp-infested shit hole I’ll be getting down and dirty with Junk Food Friday on my lonesome. Saturday I’ll Netflix it and Sunday I’ll probably write an essay for school.’
‘Oh, please stop, Bel,’ I say, theatrically holding my chest. ‘My heart’s about to pop a chamber.’
‘I’m thinking pizza and Pretty in Pink.’
‘Bel, you’ve seen that film, like, twenty times by now.’
‘What can I say? You’re such a cultural influence on me, Bobby.’
‘It’s my dedication to your education.’
‘You’ve made me fall in love with John Hughes’s films.’
‘I’m honoured …’
‘Except maybe Home Alone and –’
‘But I think we need to give Mum the credit for the whole John Hughes enlightenment. I didn’t have a clue who he was until she told me.’
‘Naturally she should take all the plaudits.’ Bel holds up an imaginary glass and points it towards Mum’s room. ‘A toast to Anne Seed.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ I echo her toasting mime.
‘You know, you should really give The Breakfast Club another try when you’re not mangled,’ she says. ‘It’s brilliant.’
‘Yeah, maybe I will,’ I say, but I doubt it.
‘I’ll pencil it in for one of our Friday nights then.’ She holds up two shirts. Red-and-black checked and a greenish tartan one. ‘Which of these?’
I consider her question, try to picture myself in a situation where shirt compliments will be flying around.
‘I’d say the checky one.’
After a militaryesque fold, Bel gently places it in the bag.
‘Right, that’s it. Just your make-up, nail varnish and condoms and you’re good to go.’
I take Bel’s hand and don my most earnest face.
‘Bel, I just want to say thanks for the help these past few weeks. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Yes, you could. Even you aren’t that thick.’
‘Actually, I was just being polite,’ I say, dropping her hand. ‘Who else is going to make you feel good about yourself?’
‘And who else puts as much care into folding shirts as I do?’ she says. ‘I was born for this kind of shit – just take a look at them folds. It’s like I’m a teen mum of twins.’
Bel takes a pace back from where I’m standing and clutches her left boob with both hands. Her face contorts.
‘I can’t believe it, my baby’s going on his first overnight,’ she says in a fake comedy voice.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I snort through laughter.
Bel gives out a little gasp and moves her hands to her cheeks. Something about her expression suddenly feels too real though, and the laughter drains from me. I see Mum in her mannerisms.
‘My baby’s going off on his first holiday.’
My ears fail to hear the comedy. It’s lost. I can’t maintain my fake smile. I wish she’d stop now; what I’d give to hear one coherent beat of Mum’s own voice again, one of her caustic putdowns, anything. This vile cover version is an affront.
‘Oh, be quiet now, will you,’ I say.
‘My little boy’s now a man …’
‘Seriously, Bel, shut it.’ I hear the shudder of my own voice.
She stretches out her arms and edges towards me again.
‘Oh my! My little man’s heading off, all alone, into the big bad world …’ she pretends to cry.
This is what my brain transmits: not only is Bel attempting to imitate Mum’s voice, she’s openly mocking her. That’s how I’m hearing it. Whatever she’s doing, it stopped being funny a long time ago. My face is clear about that.
‘Come here, my boy, and give Mummy a massive hug.’
Her arms are about to embrace me. Touch me. The room narrows.
‘Shut the fuck up, Bel!’
I know I shouldn’t have roared directly into her face. I know I shouldn’t have lost the rag. I shouldn’t have shoved her on to the
bed. And I’m sorry she whacked her head off the headboard. I know all that.
It wasn’t hard. Honestly, it wasn’t. I wish I hadn’t done any of it, but I have and I can’t take it back. It wasn’t hard though.
I grab my bag and shoot out like a cannonball. I don’t know how much hurt I’ve caused or if her head has marks. Have I left bruising? Not the foggiest.
I’m sick with shame. I hate myself for how I reacted. Tough to explain exactly what happened: as if this whirlwind came out of nowhere and enveloped me. Swept me up. Gave me no option other than to lash out.
It was only a push, a violent push though. Some carer!
*
Roddy drives us in this dirty white clapped-out minivan. I stare out of the window and watch the urban world transform into the rural. I play out the whole Bel incident again. And again. And again. Devours my entire brain mass. Thing is, we’ve had loads of arguments in the past, really serious ones too, ones where we’ve been trying to see who could stab the deepest, who could sling the thickest mud. Real touching-the-bone stuff. But never before have I felt such a swell of anger, nor lashed out like that.
While excited voices clamour around me I mobilise my thoughts. I should be bang in the middle of the fun, orchestrating or just laughing along, but here I am, sitting irritated and isolated, the remnants of my anger sucking away the positive atmosphere instead. Talk about guilt. I twiddle my phone in my hand, leaving sweaty prints all over it. Nobody questions my mood; pretty sure they think the worry on my face is to do with Mum. I clean the wet print marks from the screen. Without thinking too much about it, I set my fingers to work.
Bel. SO SO SORRY. Cnt express how bad I feel. Please dnt hate me …
The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Page 14