That night, before I left the hospice, Mum asked me to sing her a lullaby.
I did. And as I finished, she fell asleep. She looked so much at peace.
At that point in time, the Liverpool Care Pathway was still being implemented. The thought of Mum starving to death was one of the most difficult emotional things I ever had to watch. It was clearly evident that her body was shutting down and could not absorb any food, and therefore feeding her would only prolong her agony.
Dr Stevens honoured his word. Whilst not dying was not an option, he made Mum comfortable, restful, and calm in preparation of her peaceful passing.
The next morning, I visited Mum again. I walked in her room. She was still. Her eyes were closed. She was in a semi-comatose state. I saw her nose running. I wiped it clean. The tissues in the hospice had an rough texture. Thankfully, before I arrived at the hospice, I bought some ultra soft tissues. I used these tissues so her nose didn’t feel so sore.
I started to talk to her. Then her hand moved towards me. I sat on the bed while she was lying there. She felt my fingers and then she begun to pull them towards and into her mouth. She then started to suck my thumb. At this stage, I completely broke down in a shower of tears. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a piercing pain in my heart. I then realised that she needed her lips moistened.
I called the nurse, and she supplied a very small tray of water and some toothette swabs – small sponges on the end of sticks. I would dampen her lips. Mum enjoyed that.
11
Saying goodbye
Final weekend
Close family came round and visited Mum during the weekend. Her brothers and sisters said their goodbyes to her. She managed to tell them that she loved them.
Another beautiful and tender moment that will be with me until the day I die, was when Jenny saw Mum lying in her bed at the hospice.
Jenny decided to wear an emerald crystal pendant that Mum had bought her as a present over 50 years before. It had no monetary value, but its sentimental value was priceless.
It happened to be a beautiful summer’s day. Jenny was standing near the window in Mum’s room when suddenly, out of nowhere, the pendant caught Mum’s eye. As the weather was glorious that day, Mum could see it sparkling and glittering as the sun shone on it through the window.
Mum then took a deep breath and gathered all her strength. Her arm was too heavy for her frail bones to hold up. But she managed to raise her hand and point to the pendant hanging around her beautiful sister’s neck.
For a split moment, the world and time stood still for both of them. All the wonderful memories they had together as sisters over the years came flooding back.
Mum smiled, and not only with her mouth. She smiled with her eyes. With her skin. Her smile came from her heart and soul. The love between them as sisters needed no words. Communication between them was now at the most profound level, through their hearts. Mum was unable to speak, but she knew, through the emerald crystal pendant, she was forever loved by her sister. It was a moment of pure joy. Mum then closed her eyes. She looked at peace.
In the last few days of Mum’s life, she appeared to emotionally connect to one of the nurses in the hospice, called Mary. Mary was gentle, compassionate, and kind to Mum. She would sit and talk to Mum for ages and would not leave her side.
On that Saturday evening, Mary came in and was attending to Mum’s morphine medication and making her comfortable in bed. Mary managed to sit Mum upright.
Mum suddenly held out her arm. She then grasped Mary’s arm. Mary immediately leaned over the bed towards Mum. Looking at Mary straight in the eyes, Mum managed to open her mouth and said in a quiet, weak voice, “Sorry.”
Even then, when Mum was facing death, she was apologising for her illness and the trouble she was causing Mary. It was another very touching and moving moment.
Saying goodbye
The last two days of Mum’s life were traumatic, but filled with such imperturbable beauty at the same time.
On Sunday night, I decided to sleep in Mum’s room right next to her. As I arrived at the hospice, one of the nurses told me it was a beautiful thing to do.
“She is waiting for you to be by her side. She won’t go until you are there,” the nurse said gently.
I then asked the nurse whether she will die peacefully.
“Yes,” she replied.
Mum was lying there, still and peaceful. Her eyes were closed. Lying beside her, I cradled her in my arms. Then I slipped my hand into hers. Spontaneously, her hands moved. She held my hands tightly. She wouldn’t let it go. Her grip was so strong. I suddenly broke down in a flood of tears. This time though, my pain and heartache were indescribable. Like a nail driven into a tree, the pain once again pierced through my heart and soul. I felt so alone and so empty. I was completely rendered helpless. Suddenly, a nurse walked in the room. It was like an angel arrived, just at the right moment. She wrapped her arms around me.
She comforted me. “She knows you are here,” the nurse added reassuringly. “She is asking your permission to let go. She wants to know that you will be alright. That is the greatest gift you can give her right now, knowing that you will be okay.”
So I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I love you. You can let go. I will be fine, thank you for being my Mum.”
The nurse assured me that she could hear me. I don’t know if that was true. But I kept saying I loved her.
“By holding your hand, she is leaving you a legacy of love,” the nurse commented.
Then Mum opened her eyes. Even though they were fluttering, glazed and looking right through me, they were glittering with love. They were beautiful.
Mum moved her pale thin face towards me. She so desperately tried to say a word, but she simply did not have the energy or strength.
“Don’t worry, I know. I love you, Mum,” I responded.
Her sheer vulnerability stripped everything away to reveal the love within her soul. I understood, for the very first time in my life, the core of what it is to be human. The ultimate truth of Mum’s life was love. She then closed her eyes. She moved her hand towards me. Mum gripped my hand for about three hours. Clasping onto each other, my arm was aching.
I attempted to slip my hand away, but she wouldn’t let it go. She grasped my hand even tighter. My touch and my presence were the only comfort I could give her at this moment.
I comforted her, saying that I will always be here. Suddenly, around midnight, Mum completely loosened her grip. In a matter of seconds, her arm relaxed. I laid her arms on her chest. Her breathing got shallower as the fluid mucilage of the secretion rattled in her windpipe.
“She is relieved. She knows that everything is safe now. She can let go,” the nurse remarked quietly.
I knew instinctively that Mum was entering the final few hours of life. The final separation was now inevitable. Mum’s body was transitioning.
From now on, communication between us would not be based on words, but on physical touch.
When the nurses came in the room, they started to change her. I subsequently left the room. When I came back, I saw a tear had formed in her right eye and rolled down her cheek. I wiped her face. I immediately called the doctor. She agreed that Mum looked in distress at being changed. The doctor apologised and assured me they would be more careful the next time when they changed her.
I made up my bed next to her. All night I was talking to her. Her breathing was becoming longer. The secretion noise from her body was getting louder. The nurse reassured me, however, that Mum was not in any pain.
The nurses came in three times during the night to keep a check on her medication and to change the morphine syringe driver.
I didn’t sleep that night; I felt rough. I left Mum at about 8:30 am to go home. As I left the room, I knew Mum was now physically, emotionally, and spiritually ready to go. It was just a question of hours now.
Last day
On the last day of Mum’s life, I drew upon and te
sted my faith as I never had done so before.
My faith allowed me to confront my own personal anguish in such a way that gave me hope and allowed me to forgive. It was not going to protect me from the reality of life.
I was fortunate, as I had a mature understanding of death. I recounted to myself what Marcus Aurelius (who was the Roman Emperor from 161 AD to 180 AD) said:
“Pass then through this little space of time conformably to nature, and end thy journey in content, just as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature who produced it, and thanking the tree on which it grew.
For death is part of nature.”
As I was sitting with Mum in silence, a nurse walked in the room and introduced a trainee nurse.
“Can you please remove the trainee nurse?” I contested angrily. “This is a private moment.”
The nurse apologised.
As Mum’s body was in the process of dying (at this stage she was in a comatose state), I asked for Paul, the hospice chaplain to enter the room. He was wonderful. He provided me with immeasurable solace and comfort. He prayed for Mum. Afterward, he said a prayer for me.
There were no tears, just tranquillity and peacefulness in the room. Silence does not lie. There was pure divine acceptance of Mum and her soul.
Mum’s stillness was beautiful. As she first saw me take my first breaths entering this world, she allowed me the privilege and profound honour to witness taking her last breaths departing the world. Seeing Mum lying there, I knew that her natural death was nothing to be scared of. It was part of life.
As strange as it may sound, the precious few hours I spent with Mum, I can only describe as full of pure beauty. There we were, just Mum, Paul and myself in the room.
There was something deeply profound witnessing the sheer vulnerability of another human being, who happened to be my Mum. Through the purity of her love, I could feel the integrity of her soul. I knew her soul was leaving her body. I knew however, her soul would be very much alive in my heart. Through the silence and stillness, I felt a divine presence.
As her son, in my heart, I had to let her go. I needed to hand her over.
Through my love for her, I accepted, it was now her final journey to take alone. I was also aware of the consequences of not letting her go at that moment, as my heart might as well have stopped beating in the room too. I understood, however, it was her time to depart from the world, and not mine. I knew I had to keep on living.
Nevertheless, it felt like I lost half my heart that day. And even today, it still feels that way.
I repeated to Mum that I loved her and thanked her for giving me a wonderful life.
“Your mum is nearing the end,” the nurse whispered to me. “She has only minutes to live.”
I consciously decided not to be in the room when Mum took her final last breath. It was her time to take death’s hand. That was between her and God only. I advised the nurse of my decision. She agreed it was a good decision.
“Your mum will not be awake when she takes her last breath,” the nurse told me. “She will not recover from her unconscious state. She won’t know she will be taking her last breath, it will just happen.”
So I decided to wait in the waiting room to be told the news. But no one came round to see me.
Six o’clock came, seven o’clock passed, and Mum was still alive.
By 7:30 in the evening, I had a sudden thought in my mind. Every half hour, I would go into Mum’s room, kiss her on the forehead, and say that I loved her.
So I did. Eight o’clock. Eight-thirty.
Then, at nine o’clock in the evening, as I went to walk into Mum’s room, the nurse stopped me.
“Has she gone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
The nurse then gently held my hand.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
“Yes,” the nurse replied.
The nurse physically held onto me as I walked into the room.
Mum was still and motionless.
For the final time, I told her that I loved her, and I thanked her. I kissed her on the forehead for the very last time.
I experienced a peace and transcendent serenity that passed beyond my understanding. I knew that death would not separate us.
The woman who had brought me into the world looked at peace. I was comforted by the fact that I was there at the very end. Nevertheless, there was a suddenness about it. Mum’s passing happened much more quickly than I expected. But what really struck me, was the finality of death. Mum’s life was now over. I left Mum’s room and walked back to the waiting room. The design of which was both beautiful and breathtaking. It had an elegant, contemporary feel to it. It was full of light due to its soaring glass ceiling and large window panels.
While it was just after 9 pm, it was still light outside. As I looked up to the ceiling, I saw a single tree. I could see the wind roaring through it as it swayed from side to side. Every leaf was battling to survive to stay on. For ten minutes, I just couldn’t take my eyes off this particular tree. And then suddenly, the wind dropped, and the leaves were safe again.
Before I left the hospice, I went back to see Mum. The door was open. I stood outside the room as the nurses attended her. They were in the process of wrapping a towel around her head and jaw. I said goodbye to her and repeated the Lord’s Prayer.
I was calm. I was not crying. I simply felt profoundly honoured. I have witnessed an event of pure beauty that even the words in this book cannot fully describe. And nor should they. There are certain times in life where meaning and words are simply inadequate. I felt something within my heart change.
As I slowly walked back to the waiting room, I called Mum’s brothers and sisters. It was now pitch dark outside. I looked up to the glass ceiling again. The weather had suddenly changed. I could see a thunderstorm brewing.
I left the hospice at 11 pm. It was eerily quiet. As I walked out the door, a gust of wind blew into my face. It was now raining, windy, and cold. I felt Mum was with me as I walked home that evening.
As I arrived home, I went straight to bed.
I woke up in the middle of the night. It must have been around 3 am. I felt restless. I then started to play some songs on my iPad.
Somehow, for whatever reason, my Internet connection had crashed. Usually, I would just reset the connection. That evening, however, I was too exhausted to do even that. So I just decided to look for tracks that I could play without the connection.
But out of around 300 song tracks on my iPad, I could only play five songs.
Those five songs, however, were precisely what I needed that evening. They comforted, resonated, and spoke deeply to my heart and soul.
I am not going to reveal these songs, but merely ask you: what five songs would you have chosen if you were in my position that evening?
Before I fell asleep, reality hit me. I knew when I woke up the next morning Mum would not be there.
Next days
It was hard to explain how I felt when I woke up the next morning.
Knowing that I would never see her again, I felt shocked and numbed. I realised it was a new chapter in my life.
That morning I took a shower and had breakfast. Then my mind went into practical mode. I looked at my charter for one final time before I took it down off my bedroom wall. It had served its purpose. “Take one day at a time,” I reminded myself.
I was aware nevertheless, I had to register Mum’s death at the local register office. But first, I had to collect a form from the doctor in the hospice. That morning, I walked into the hospice. The nurses were so tender and caring towards me. I knew Mum was still in her room. It felt strange. I felt her spirit within me.
“Do you wish to see her?” a nurse asked tenderly.
“No. Thank you,” I replied.
I knew deep within my heart that I had said my final goodbye to Mum the previous night.
To see her body again would not be right, and it would spoil the spirituality a
nd preciousness of the moment last night.
I collected the certificate and immediately took a bus to the marriages and deaths registrar office in Kensington, London.
The registrar examined the document and advised that the certificate was incomplete.
While the time of Mum’s death was recorded, the doctor at the hospice failed to record the last time she saw Mum alive.
I argued with him. He eventually rang the hospice. Thankfully he spoke to the relevant doctor and accepted the certificate.
The registrar then gave me the death certificate and a form (known as the Green Form) to take to the funeral directors.
Mum discussed her funeral wishes beforehand with me. She didn’t mind what happened to her. She preferred cremation, simply because it was cheaper. “Don’t spend too much money on me,” she used to say to me.
Paul guided me on the best course of action to take. He persuaded me to cremate Mum and then at a later date, I could intern her ashes where her mother has been laid to rest.
I agreed to have a church service. There was something inside me that could not accept Mum being cremated. So once the church service was over, I decided that I would walk out and leave Mum in the church. Paul would then accompany Mum to the crematorium. Her ashes would be held by the Funeral Director, until such date, I felt emotionally stable to intern her ashes.
I received beautiful condolence and sympathy cards from family, friends, and neighbours. Their words were heartfelt and so comforting. So much so, I have kept them to this day. But at the time, I simply could not comprehend that the cards were for me. Why I am I receiving them? I have never received sympathy cards in my entire life. Surely there was some mistake. Seeing them lined up on the windowsill seemed so surreal. Then one afternoon, I crumbled to my knees as the reality hit me right between the eyes. It was then I fully understood—yes, Mum has died.
Funeral service
I agonised over the funeral service. I arranged the service on Tuesday, 16th June 2015. The Saturday before, I completely broke down and convinced myself I was not going to attend. I just couldn’t handle it. But somehow, I pulled myself together. My eulogy was short and simple:
Peaceful Breeze Page 9