Chapter Thirty-five
DR CARNEY, THE consultant, had called them into his office, a spartan white room with two filing cabinets and a desk with a computer and screen and printer on it. They felt like three bold schoolgirls waiting to be admonished by the elderly medic as he sat back in his swivel chair.
‘I’ve looked at your mother’s file. As you know, we have done brain scans and an extensive range of tests, but unfortunately the results show there is evidence of a slight further bleed and indicated weakness of blood vessels in the vicinity.’
‘Can you do anything to stop it?’ asked Kate.
‘There is no question of surgery on someone in your mother’s condition. At the moment she is considered stable but I’m afraid there is not much else my colleagues or I can do for her here in the hospital.’
‘What do you mean?’ they remonstrated.
‘What I mean,’ he said slowly, ‘is that your mother’s prognosis is poor. Maeve is in need of high-dependency nursing care but she does not need for the moment to be in an acute hospital. We need to move her.’
‘Move her!’ exclaimed Kate.
‘Home, perhaps?’
‘But Mammy lives alone. I’m working in Dublin, Moya’s family are in London and Romy has just flown in from New York.’
‘I see, well then, a step-down facility, maybe a nursing home or the Hospice? Beds are difficult to find. I’m sorry but you must know the pressure there is on the hospitals these days with cutbacks and closures and bed shortages.’
‘When?’ asked Moya, fiddling with the pearls around her neck.
‘As soon as we can organize it.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘I can give you the name of two or three places in the county, there’s one on the Dublin side of the city, Ardnamone, and one in Tramore. The social worker Clare Maloney will know a few more.’
He stood up to signal that the meeting was over.
‘You do realize that your mother is not expected to recover but we do want her to be as comfortable as possible for the short time that’s left. I’m sure we are all agreed on that.’
Numb, they had sat in the hospital’s small coffee shop, sipping tepid coffee from plastic cups.
‘What are we going to do?’ sighed Moya. ‘What’s going to happen to her? If we lived closer I’d willingly have her.’
‘You couldn’t swing a cat in my place. Molly sleeps in the converted dressing room!’
‘Maybe we should go and see the place the doctor mentioned,’ suggested Romy.
They drove out to see Ardnamone, a modern purpose-built nursing home three miles from Waterford city. The door was locked so they had to ring and ring for admittance. The matron, in her nurse’s uniform, let them in. She offered to show them round. Small single rooms with a nice view of the garden and parking area, a TV positioned on the wall opposite the bed.
The dining area, where the residents came to lunch and tea, was a bright and airy room with a conservatory to one side; the large sitting room, filled with elderly residents sitting in an assortment of couches and armchairs, was dominated by a giant-screen television, which was showing a cookery programme.
They explained to the matron that their mother had had a serious stroke, and loss of function, was classed as highly dependent and would need a lot of nursing.
The middle-aged woman was at least honest with them.
‘I have three patients like that at the moment. I’m afraid with my staffing levels I couldn’t take on a fourth. Maybe in a few months’ time, but for now, I’m afraid no. We couldn’t offer your mother a place.’
She walked them to the door, wishing them luck.
Ardrigole, the old Edwardian house overlooking the sea in Tramore, was more like a hotel from the outside than a nursing home. Inside a warren of corridors and high-ceilinged lounges and a dining room with heavy dark furniture and an overpowering smell of cabbage greeted them. The residents seemed ancient, some wheelchair-bound, some strapped in special chairs.
‘We have a lot of Alzheimer’s patients,’ explained the young carer as she gave them a quick tour. The rooms were larger than in the previous home but were filled with a load of oversized shabby pieces, which looked in sore need of dusting. The thought of their mother abandoned and dependent in such a place drove them back to the car.
‘I don’t want Mammy ending her days in any of those places,’ Moya protested, almost in tears.
‘We’re just not used to seeing them, that’s all,’ said Kate. ‘I’m sure they look after the old people very well.’
‘God, some of the patients looked about ninety!’ joked Romy. ‘Please shoot me before I end up anywhere like that!’
They sat on the almost empty seafront, in utter silence.
‘I think we should bring Mammy home,’ said Romy, staring at the waves.
They were all in agreement. It was what their mother would have wanted, what they all wanted. The problem was the mess of their lives and the commitment needed. Moya knew Patrick was already complaining about minding the children in London, and Kate was trying to get Patterson’s to give her more time off work.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here,’ volunteered Romy. ‘I’ve no husband or children.’
Moya and Kate looked at each other with relief, knowing that their mother would die in dignity in her own place, her own home. They would organize agency nurses, carers, whatever was needed for Maeve and would help care for her as much as they could.
‘Romy, do you know what you’d be getting yourself into? Maybe you should think about it.’
‘I don’t have to think about it. I’m not putting my mother into one of those fucking places to die. I understand you’ve both got kids, jobs, whatever, but I’ll manage. I told you I’ll do it!’
‘Romy, are you sure?’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ she promised.
Chapter Thirty-six
THE STONE HOUSE was unchanged. The paint around the windows weathered from the sea, the front door creaking, sand hidden in the crevices of the red and white tiled floor. Pale roses clambering round the porch and terracotta pots of blazing geraniums around the step. The house was quiet and still as Romy moved from room to room. New couch covers and a fancy reading light, a bluebottle dancing in the living-room window. The dining room hushed and bright. She went through to the kitchen: sunlight streaming in across the patio doors and warming the wooden presses and huge pine table, the teapot still on the table. She rinsed it out under the tap of the Belfast sink. Then along the hall to the glass sun-room – wicker chairs and couches and green plants wilting in the stuffy atmosphere. She opened a window before turning to her father’s old study, where the large map of Ireland was still hanging on the wall.
‘The only geography you need to know is your own country.’ He’d said it so often, jabbing at a river or the mountains, trying to ascertain where new roads were being built.
Memory hung in the silence as she looked around her. In her mother’s absence the tall grandfather clock in the hall had stopped and Romy reached for the silver key on the ledge. Moving the hand to the correct time she gently wound it, waiting for the comforting sound of the timepiece before going upstairs. Her bedroom, small and perfect with a view of the sea, she’d always loved it. Her cork noticeboard was now covered in pictures of dinosaurs and dragons and a painted rainbow. Flip-flops and a baseball cap flung on the bottom of the wardrobe.
She moved from room to room. The library books beside her mother’s bed unread and overdue. The Royal Horticultural Society Garden Book, her mother’s bible, left where it always was. From the back of the house she could see the orchard at the bottom of the garden was gone, the apple trees cut down, a high wall separating their garden and the tiled roofs of the new infill development. The land sold three years ago, time moving on.
She looked around. They had two days to ready the house for her mother’s homecoming.
The ambulance men had been kindness itself, treati
ng their patient, Maeve Dillon, like she was made of porcelain as they lifted her across the driveway and step, into the hall, Kate directing them into the dining room. They had stripped it of the chairs and big dining table and transformed it into a sunny bedroom with french windows to the garden.
‘Isn’t it wonderful to be home, Mum, and able to look out into the garden?’
Fergus and Liam had lifted the heavy double bed into position in front of the french windows so her mother had a magnificent view of the herbaceous border and the purple bursting hebes and buddleia in the shrubbery, with the path leading to the vegetable garden only a yard or two away.
‘We moved your bed down here so you will be able to see everything instead of being stuck upstairs,’ Kate said, pulling back the bed sheets and covers as the ambulance men shifted her mother from the stretcher bed onto the mattress.
‘Now you’re home,’ she said, suddenly overcome with emotion as her mother’s head flopped against the pillow. ‘Here, let’s see if we can make you more comfortable.’
Moya carried her mother’s handbag and the small weekend case with her few bits of clothing in her arms, trying to decide where to place them.
‘Here’s your handbag, Mum,’ she said, placing it on the bed in reach of her mother’s fingers, noticing her mother’s eye turn in the direction of the precious bag. ‘If you want we can look at it later when you feel a bit better.’
Kate fussed around getting towels and pointing out the beautiful John Rocha vase filled with tall blue delphiniums positioned on the sideboard, which now, instead of wine carafes and silver dishes and bowls and plates, held an array of family photos and her mother’s favourite ornaments, including a papier mâché pig made by Fiona.
‘Do you like the room?’ Romy smiled, sitting on the bed beside her. ‘We tried to do it the way you would.’
Agitated, Maeve Dillon tried to signal her approval.
‘I think you do like it!’ Kate smiled, pleased with their efforts. ‘You won’t be lonely or scared here, Mum, because with the door open we’ll be able to see you from the kitchen.’
‘We’ve got a phone there beside your bed and a radio and the TV if you want it, but maybe you should rest quiet for a while.’
Their mother looked exhausted, a smaller, shrunken figure in the bed, forcing herself to keep awake.
‘Romy will fix us all something to eat.’
They could hear Romy clatter away in the kitchen singing as she washed and peeled and chopped, banging away at the pots and pans.
‘She used to work in a restaurant, waiting tables mostly but sometimes cooking. Can you imagine Romy being a chef!’
‘I heard that!’ laughed her sister. ‘Might I remind you it never does any good to slag off or upset the cook, or God knows what you might find in your food.’
‘Temperamental too,’ whispered Moya, imagining she could see signs of laughter in her mother’s eyes.
They ate off the small side table in the room, potatoes and finely cut strips of chicken tossed with tomato and green beans. Romy had mashed up her mother’s potato with milk and cut her meal into tiny pieces, adding a smooth gravy to make it easier for her to eat.
‘Nothing like home cooking, compared to hospital food,’ she teased.
When they’d finished eating, Kate switched on the news headlines, the three of them sitting in silence watching the flicker of images.
‘Mummy, Nurse Reilly, Brigid, is coming tomorrow morning to help wash you and look after you and make sure everything is all right.’
Maeve nodded her acceptance.
‘But tonight I’m going to sit up with you and take care of you so Romy can sleep. Anything you want or need, you know we are all here for you.’
Kate looked around the room: it was warm and cosy, filled with flowers and mementoes of a fulfilled life, pictures of her mother’s childhood, and girlhood, her wedding to handsome Frank Dillon and photos of her with her children and grandchildren. So different from the crowded dining room set up for Sunday dinners and entertaining and parties, with the carpets rolled back to dance.
Her twenty-first, her parents’ silver wedding anniversary, her father’s funeral, Molly’s christening. She looked at her watch. Derry was probably getting their daughter ready for bed, putting the toys away, getting a picture book out to read, brushing her hair, making sure she’d gone to the toilet and washed her hands and face and brushed her teeth. She picked up the phone and dialled. Derry answered immediately.
‘We’re home from the hospital and Mum is tucked up nicely in her own bed,’ she said softly, when Derry had filled her in on the day’s events. ‘Is Molly still up?’
She could hear the giggles and laughter as Derry put her three-year-old on the phone, the shyness in her voice when she first said ‘Mummy?’
‘It’s Mummy, pet. I’m just phoning to say goodnight and see how you are.’
Molly took a deep breath and began telling her every detail of the day from the minute Daddy couldn’t find any clean pink panties for her to wear, to spilling orange juice on her new cardigan, to the boy who sat beside her being a cry baby because he couldn’t match all his shapes on the board, and the new baby ducks she saw in the park after playgroup when Derry collected her.
‘There were six, Mummy. Six ducklings and they were so beautiful with their mummy duck.’
Kate swallowed hard – even the mother duck was with her ducklings. She felt guilty for leaving Molly, but relieved that she would soon be going home.
‘Granny’s here beside me. Would you like to talk to her?’
Molly adored her grandmother and Kate could hear her screaming ‘Granny’ excitedly as she held the phone to her mother’s ear, seeing her lopsided smile as Molly rambled on telling about the baby ducklings.
‘Blow a good-night kiss to Granny,’ she instructed, and heard Molly making all kinds of noisy efforts to send kisses down the phone line.
Laughing she replaced the line, squeezing her mother’s hand, realizing how important the link between generations was to all of them.
Romy had washed up in the kitchen and put some washing on. She looked tired. ‘Why don’t you go to bed? You look bunched. We’ll be fine down here.’
Romy had shifted the big armchair and pouffe from the sitting room and placed them on the far side of her mother’s bed. A pile of magazines, books and photo albums were thoughtfully left on a small square coffee table she’d also brought into the dining room.
‘I’ll be nice and comfy here for the night.’
Romy came in and flung her arms around their mother, kissing her cheek, her mother’s eyes lighting on her face.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said.
Maeve struggled to try to say the word ‘Good-night’.
‘Good-night, sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite!’ grinned her daughter, the same as she’d said it most nights when she was a child.
Chapter Thirty-seven
MAEVE DILLON WAS happy to be home, ensconced in bed, surrounded by her three devoted daughters and the things she loved, with a view of the garden. The nurse had come and washed her and checked her and cheered her up with her easy matter-of-fact way and kindness.
The peace of the afternoon was disturbed by the arrival of Vonnie Quinn to see her sister; she brought a bunch of bright red roses and a light-as-air carrot cake with lemon icing on a big plate.
‘This looks good,’ admired Romy.
‘It’s Maeve’s favourite. Run in and stick on the kettle and we’ll all have a little slice.’
‘She’s asleep,’ whispered Romy.
‘There’ll be time enough for sleep. I’ll go in and wake her.’
Out of the corner of her eye she watched her aunt sit on the side of the bed, gently calling her mother’s name and stroking her hand.
‘C’mon and wake up, Maeve, I’m here to see you.’
Her mother’s eyes slowly opened and her mouth grinned as she said, ‘Lo, Vonnie.’
&nb
sp; Romy was amazed that over the years the bond between the two sisters had never changed and they still always found something to talk and laugh about. The two of them hugged crazily as her aunt went into a long tirade about the queues in the local Spar shop, the greenfly having a field day with the roses, and the latest twists and turns in her cousin Conor’s on-off relationship with his girlfriend Anita Murphy. A one-sided conversation, it made no matter, she could see her mother was delighted to be treated normally by Vonnie who’d always been the chatterbox of the family.
‘Why don’t you girls go out and get a bit of fresh air, have a bit of a walk while I’m here?’ suggested her aunt. ‘Maeve will be fine with me.’
That sounded good. Romy was in sore need of exercise and oxygen and Moya had been complaining of a headache all day.
It was warm and sunny outside and in a few minutes they were ready, and running down the driveway.
‘Where to?’ asked Moya.
‘The beach!’ shouted Kate and Romy, as they crossed the main road and walked down the narrow lane bordered by bracken and tall cow parsley.
Rossmore Strand was all but deserted, and Romy kicked off her trainers and buried her toes in the sand, walking barefoot. Kate tied her sweater round her waist as they followed the shoreline, jumping to avoid the waves, kicking seaweed out of their way as they messed with each other. They walked for half an hour and then sat in a heap on the sand looking out at the waves rolling in. It had been a long time since they had been together like this, on their own.
They talked like they hadn’t talked for a very long time and Kate admitted how lonely it got sometimes on her own with just Molly for company and the sacrifices single mothers had to make.
‘Though I wouldn’t trade her for a billion dollars, I sometimes envy you, Moya, having a husband like Patrick.’
Moya looked strained.
‘Whatever you do, Kate, for god’s sakes don’t ever bother envying my marriage.’
The Stone House Page 25