Those last 49 hours before Mum died, her death, the days since

The days and events surrounding Mum’s death were up until a few days ago replayed over and over in my head.  I guess I was just making sense of a profound little season of history.  I have found that as a funeral celebrant, until I went through the loss of one of my own parents, I didn’t really ‘get’ that style of grief.  Ordinarily, I’m not one to compare griefs — it can be very unhelpful!

Even though we as a family had been given a range of one to four days to expect Mum would pass away in, there was still something in my mind telling me we had more time.  From the time we were told Mum would start palliative care to the time she passed was 49 hours.

I’ll never forget the call I got from Dad at 10:10 or where I was when I received it to alert me that the hospital could do no more for Mum.  I was over two hours away in a regional town inspecting tyres on a fire appliance, and that feeling of being psychologically ambushed I’d not had since 2014 or 2003.  It was the familiar feeling of a panic attack, but not quite as sharp as what I’ve experienced in the past.  I was in a place and a location that I didn’t want to be in!

I immediately advised my manager and told the staff I was working with the situation.  Then I was on my way back, making hands-free calls where I had signal.  A strange calmness fell over me between bouts of tears and praying.  I returned the vehicle to my workplace and immediately made my way to the hospital.  Family were already there.

At one point, I asked one of my aunts to take a photo of Mum, Dad, and us three boys.  The palliative care team took us aside while the nurses were tending to Mum, and we advocated for Mum from a position of disbelief.  Surely, she could make it through this time as she’d done so many times in the past two years.  I bargained with the palliative care doctor, “Can we get one more month,” and the doctor said that that was ambitious (unrealistic).  The palliative care doctor and nurse attended Mum with us family there, and those details are private.

Soon Mum was unconscious as the treatment started.  The following morning, though Mum looked comfortable, it was clear that Mum’s condition has worsened — my eldest daughter was stellar in updating all of us family throughout the week from her experience as a nurse and discussions with the doctors.

That day basically the entire family sat in vigil with Mum as she slept in comfort with her body dying.  I stayed that night with Dad at Mum’s bedside, a family member to support him.

At one point early in the evening, the nursing staff re-positioned Mum and it was clear that she was anything but comfortable.  I rang the nurses and needed to advocate for Mum.  “She could get bed sores,” the nurses said, and I quipped back, “Mum’s dying, bed sores are the least of her concerns.”  They re-positioned Mum on the side she always slept on.

Early in the morning Dad left briefly to have a shower.  When Dad returned I waited until about 9:45 when more family were there, and I left for the hour trip home to freshen up and be back later in the day.

As I approached home, my phone rang, and it was a sister-in-law, and I knew immediately what was happening.  “Steve, Mum’s passing...” and I turned straight back to the hospital, in a state of surreal disbelief.  Over the 50-minute trip back to the hospital, I had about five bouts of sobbing and a few bouts of simply praying for Mum, thanking God for her life.

As a family we spent time with Mum and each other in the hospital.  She had passed away in a peaceful and very graceful way with several family around her, Dad, two sons, a daughter-in-law, and a granddaughter.  As a family we then gathered with Dad for a few hours to take stock.

We left mid-afternoon to take our son to a birthday party he’d been looking forward to, and something really horrible happened.  We were shutting the boot of the car before going into the party and it came down on top of our son’s head and he screamed in pain — like shutting a child’s fingers in a car door.  We were suddenly all in tears again.  Those few hours were the most horrible hours almost in living memory (I’ve actually had far worse to be fair) as we were all upset at a celebration of life.

I struggled in absolute shock of Mum’s passing for two days, and an immense state of feeling alone in this world came over me.  That night was hard, waking in the morning was hard, but I did wake with a sense of purpose to gather together several of Mum’s photo albums together to take down to Dad where us brothers were gathering.  It was a good day, and the entire week of planning Mum’s funeral was one of Dad and his three sons and their families being together and working together for a beautiful funeral for the best Mum any child could want, and the best woman any man could be blessed to have by his side for 60 years.

The shape of my grief has changed over the past two weeks.  In the past few days, being back at work, I’m filled with more purpose, but thoughts of Mum never leave, but the pain has morphed into acceptance relatively quickly.  I’ll never not miss my Mum.  I accept that.  But I think the abiding sense of gratitude fills my heart because Mum truly was an exceptional Mum.  Her memory lives on in her husband, sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, other family and friends.

Mum, for who you were and are always, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

So dearly loved, endlessly missed.