How my mum Lis died
Life as a married person was exceptional, but it only lasted four years. My somewhat clumsily made film ‘Vivi-Mari in a Day’ gives a little glimpse into our life together. At that stage, I didn’t want to dwell on my disabilities too much. I loved the companionship, I really did. We were basically joined by the hips for five years, which was an amazing experience. It was also wonderful to allow someone else to deal with life’s practicalities. But at the same time, I became dependent, and when Martin died, I suddenly had to gain a footing in society. I didn’t know how to pay the bills, let alone how to arrange for a funeral! People who knew Martin came to my help, but they quickly disappeared when they felt their task was done. I regret having relied on other people but I really had no choice, and I can only say I was grateful for whatever help I got. After the funeral, only a couple of friends remained, and one of them sadly passed away a few years later. I had to make new friends, and I made an effort to get out of the house even though my health conditions made it difficult. I grieved for about four and a half months, and then pulled myself together and put the house on the market. I went through Martin’s belongings and was glad that the council allowed me to leave bin bags full of rubbish on the street. I started packing up the house, and this was no simple task. I had done quite a bit of thrifting because I was keen on all the decorative Victoriana that you could find in this country, but now that I no longer had a partner to share these things with, I had to try and get rid of most of it.
My mother Lis, who was living in Finland, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the day before Martin died. She had major surgery in the spring and then chemotherapy. Things seemed to be going okay and she went home to recover. When I called her on Skype one day in early summer, she barely managed to respond. She wasn’t feeling well. In fact, she was dying right in front of my very eyes. I panicked. I tried to call the 112 European emergency services in Finland but this didn’t work, and an English man answered instead. He suggested that my mother should try and knock on the neighbour’s door. I called a hospital in Finland and asked them to send her an ambulance. I was told they could not send an ambulance just because I asked! My mother managed to slowly drag herself to the corridor in the block of flats where she lived. A little while later, I saw the neighbour entering my mum’s flat. I could hardly believe that someone had been home in the middle of the day, let alone wanted to open their door! I watched while she called an ambulance, and I spoke to the paramedics via Skype. She was just about to enter septic shock.
My mum remained at the hospital for three weeks, and in the meantime, I started to plan her relocation to Wales. This was not easy. A few friends and acquaintances in Finland helped my mum prepare for the trip while I managed to locate a man who would empty out her flat for a reasonable fee. I booked her a plane ticket and spoke to a doctor at the airport about her condition. A kind lady helped me organise a taxi and a wheel chair and accompanied me to Manchester air port when my mum arrived.
These four photos of her were taken soon after her arrival in Wales. She was very poorly indeed.
After many twists and turns, she was finally in my care. Thankfully, she had quit smoking and drinking after her surgery, and never went back to her old habits. Under my care, she picked up and even went from diabetic to pre-diabetic until she started to buy chocolate in secret. She lived for two years, even enjoying swimming and art with the help of some kind local ladies. Everyone seemed to like her, which was great. I was very grateful for being able to have those years with her although it was also much too exhausting for me. She was able to look after her own basic needs such as dressing and washing up until a few weeks before the end. I started to flag because of the stress of being a full time carer. I’m ashamed to say I had a couple of fits of rage because I was too exhausted to deal with some of the accidents that occurred. I was being erratic because one day when we had gone for an outing to a cancer charity, she only had coffee to drink, and threw up in the car. I’m not sure how I got a hold of the situation but I did. I parked somewhere where I was able to clear out the worst mess. And I was not angry in the slightest, only compassionate.
Generally speaking, the health professionals were incredibly taciturn, even at the end. No one even suggested that she could have a wheelchair until she had struggled needlessly through the endless hospital corridors on her own feet at Bronglais when we went there for CT scans and check ups. In the spring, we were told she was in an advanced state, but not what it really meant. I should have realised the end was near when she lost her appetite, but I pushed her and tried to get her to admit that she wanted to live. Poor mum! She did want to live. One day when she was no longer able to get out of bed and had become largely unresponsive, I called the doctor who came and had a look and admitted her to the local hospital. She died a few days later. At this stage, I was completely burned out.
While mum was in hospital:
All things considered, things went relatively smoothly. That is to say, things could have been a lot worse. My mum could not speak at this stage, but I could tell she was not comfortable so I asked her to blink if she wasn’t, and she did. A nurse was rather unpleasant about her morphine patch, which had fallen off. It was difficult to get them to give her the pain relief she was accustomed to. Even in her last days! A McMillan nurse came by, but she hovered awkwardly next to me and disappeared in a jiffy. I thought it so rude not to sit down and show compassion and respect.
Once my mum was admitted to the local hospital, my own GP who had admitted her, said nothing whatsoever to me. Another GP kindly offered me some thoughts about the way the body starts to shut down, and how the kidney goes first, and this was helpful to me. My mum’s fingers were already purple at this point. When some of the night nurses came in, it was like the sun had come out, but all in all, the empathy was not always there when you expected it. Why did staff think I didn’t need to know what was going on and how close my mum was to passing away? It mystifies me.
A friend of mine said she could drop by with some food, and I foolishly agreed, but lived to regret it. The food was sour and it gave me indigestion, but that wasn’t the worst part. She was a lively person, and she also brought her child and her dog. All the surplus energy in these guests completely drained me of mine. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she disappeared from my life about a year later when my hyperacusis started and I could no longer participate in her choir. So when I got to the hospital that afternoon, I was finished. The hospital chairs were awful. At night I was so tired, I had to go home to bed. Of course my mum passed away while I was gone, and I got a call at four in the morning about her death. Thankfully, the hospital was really close by so I was able to go there at once. A rose from a bunch of flowers a friend had brought was placed on her chest. I thought that was a thoughtful gesture. I had been crying for a few days, but it stopped, and I felt a sense of liberation. Our relationship had been quite intense, and I had always been worried about her. But years later when I had gained a perspective on the past and had time to read old letters and reflect on our life stories, the bereavement resurfaced.
While my mum lived with me, I had my own things to deal with also. My mum was wonderful support when I was widowed, and I miss her company so very much, and can’t help but harbour some regrets. I wish I had spent more of our time together talking to her about her life, and about life in general. I was a bit too busy making the house into a home and trying to have a life of my own. A lot of things happened, and in 2016 I also managed to squeeze in a trip to Finland to see my dad for the last time. It was a rather amazing trip, but possibly the last.
A year after my mum’s death, and in an effort to socialise, I attended a comedy festival in town. How I wish I had followed my inclination to only attend the first day. Instead, I also attended the next day when the set up was smaller and more intimate. I was sat quite close right in front of some badly managed speakers, and was hit by a tremendous sound wave when one of the comedians from South Wales decided to shout into the microphone. I went home knowing something very bad had happened to my ears. And sure enough, my ears were busted. I had sustained an ear injury called hyperacusis. It’s extreme sensitivity to sound. The accompanying tinnitus is also excruciating. But more about that later.
Photos from our life together in Wales. A kind friend sent her favourite crosswords and I was able to buy Swedish language books online for her to read. When I got some money, I bought her a smartphone, but by then, she was really too poorly to use it much.
