I apologise in advance for the length, and lack of funny.
Okaaaaay…

There have already been a couple of similar posts. I’ve been holding off a bit, but here goes.

I recently turned 37 – a ripe old age, compared to some of the whipper-snappers on here. Every year I get older, I am reminded of my own mortality and how I shouldn’t take getting older for granted. But I do. I expect to be around for a while yet, all things willing.

Back in the early 90’s, my mum was having some problems with one of her eyes (I forget if it was the left or right now) and took herself off to the doctor. “It’s nothing” they repeatedly told her, “it’s an infection / irritation caused by the environment you work in. Here’s a prescription for some eye drops. Now fuck off and stop bothering me with this insignificant little complaint”. Etc. And ad infinitum, each time the eye drops were finished and the problem still hadn’t got better.

This went on for about 6 months, until her boyfriend lost his rag and demanded that they stop pissing about and make an appointment with a specialist. Which happened, although begrudgingly on the medical practice’s part. Off she went for a few tests, and the usual wait ensued.

Now, at this point in time I had moved away from home, and had just got my first job at the then DSS. Actually, that isn’t strictly true, my first job on leaving college was working in a factory for two weeks, packing *ahem* ladies’ things. Anyway, because I had settled about 50 miles away, I was no longer travelling back to the homestead every weekend, and so was kept up to date with happenings either via telephone, or sporadic visits. One night the phone rang. It was mum, telling me that she had the results back, and she had cancer.

Shit.

A vigorous regime of radiotherapy soon followed, which made it easier for me to see her as she was hospitalised in Newcastle – a mere 20 minutes from where I had settled. This was good from my perspective, but not so for my family, who had the long slog of a 120 mile round-trip to look forward to nearly every day. Radiotherapy didn’t work, so a course of chemotherapy followed, during which she lost all her hair. However, it seemed to halt the spread of the cancer, which by now was hitching a ride on practically every cell in her body. Yay, we thought, we can have mum back (we being me, my brother and sister). And for a short while all seemed to be OK, until she was readmitted and it was found that the cancer hadn’t actually been stopped, but it had instead spread into her bones and was literally eating away at her from the inside.

More treatment followed, and my trips back home whenever she was allowed out of hospital became more frequent. But then, I got a phone call from her. “I can’t do it anymore” she said, “I’m not getting any better, I just want to be at home, and I’m discharging myself tomorrow and stopping the treatment”. This was a Thursday, so I made arrangements to go back home after work on the Friday. When I got there, her brother, whom none of us had seen for years, had come over from Germany. It was a bit of an emotional weekend, and I remember on the Sunday night, giving her a kiss on the cheek before I went to get my train back. “See you next weekend, mum”, I said.

Mum just smiled, and replied “Goodbye, son”.

The following Tuesday morning the phone rang. At 7am. Mum had died in her sleep at around 3 that morning. I can’t begin to describe the numbness I felt – it was expected, but not this quick. Me and the ex both took the day off work, and went up together. We got to the family home, where the atmosphere was as you would expect, and I hugged my younger sister and brother, and my mum’s boyfriend. She was already in the chapel of rest, and I wanted to say goodbye one last time, so me and the ex went down there.

Unfortunately, by that time they had closed the coffin, but kindly agreed to open it again if I wanted. Yes, I did, very much, I didn’t want to remember her as a pain-riddled, fragile woman, I wanted to see her at peace. So they told us to come back after an hour, and they’d have everything ready.

Now, some people don’t like the idea, but I’m glad I insisted, as I was faced with not a dead body, but my mum, looking no longer riddled with pain and cancer, but looking like she did before she got ill; happy, and at peace with herself. It wasn’t a maudlin experience, and I was able to give her a kiss on the forehead and echo what she had said to me the previous Sunday. “Goodbye”.

I was 21 at the time. My sister was 19, and my brother 14.

Mum was 44, 7 years older than I am now. That really fucks with my head sometimes, I tell you.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:04, 7 replies)

when a post begins thus
I don't read it. Sorry.
(frankspencer, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:17, closed)

Sometimes wish I'd went to see my mum
but my dad told me she had asked him not to, as she had had a bad experience viewing her own mum. Apparently though she looked very calm and just like her old self.

Aha! That's reminded me.....
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:21, closed)

Holy Mackerel, Davros!
That's horrible. When I was 21 my Mum nearly died, and I don't think I've ever been so scared... I dread to think how I would react in your situation. I fear actually having to deal with it, so kudos to you, sire, because I don't think I could have.

I find these weeks quite inspirational in a weird kind of way. It's still so hard to click though...
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:24, closed)

*click* and *cuddle*
I know honey.
Shall we break our beer-fast & toast her tonight? x
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:34, closed)

Bloody hell Davros
That was a hell of a writeup, if it's any consolation (probably won't be) but it feels like I have an idea of the special mum she was to you all.

She was taken from you too early - no mistake there.
(Lurkaloid awarded wanking black belt on, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 17:43, closed)

That's a year older than me...
And I'm full of life and raring to go. I've been blessed with a family on both sides that have and will live till a ripe old age and I guess that I will follow suit. Fingers crossed!
( girlinthehole, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 18:19, closed)

Sounds very familiar...
I was 19 when my Dad died of cancer (as I posted earlier) at the age of 47. He did look very much happier once he was dead though, although as another poster said of his Dad, quite a lot like a waxwork of Abraham Lincoln. Especially strange since he didn't look much like Abraham Lincoln when he was alive.
(gordonjcp, Thu 28 Feb 2008, 21:09, closed)