Unfogettable, that's what you are

This time 9 years ago I was sitting by my Mum's bed in Queenscourt Hospice. At 11am I had taken a call from my brother. It was the last of many emergency calls I'd taken over the previous few weeks/months. I don't remember what was said and it may well be that there was no need for words. By then a phone call during work hours could only mean one thing.

And so once more I drove like a bat out of hell to reach Mum's side. The first time this happened (6 weeks earlier) Mum had rallied and emerged from her coma like sleep. We'd been able to chat and gossip - we even discussed what she wanted to wear when she was finally laid out, not really a conversation you want to have with your mum. But more importantly the chatting allowed me to tell her I loved her.
People who know us may be surprised that I'd never said this to her before. We were and still are a huggy, tactile family. Nobody looking in from the outside would doubt the depth of feeling we all have for one another. And yet we'd just never done the whole 'love you' every night before bedtime. Typical British upper lip I guess. But I'm so relieved I finally got the chance.

So this time when I arrived at the Hospice I knew there was little hope of another such rally. Mum had declined into a coma like sleep once more. We sat around her bed for the rest of the day watching and waiting. Mum had always said 'don't treat me like a watched pot' and here we were doing exactly that.

Watching anyone go through the final stages of cancer is awful and to watch a loved one suffer in this way is magnified by a million. Ironically enough it isn't the cancer that kills, it is the drugs that are given as a cure. In effect, my mum died as a drug addict with her system pumped so full of pain numbing drugs that the body and vital organs started to shut down. As the body does this, the limbs start to twitch and react to the morphine. The twitches become full on jerks and spasms. The Hospice staff had done there best to prepare us for this. But to be honest, you get to the point where you can't take anymore information. Instead you sit there watching every move, flicker and reaction. I lost track of the times I drifted off and then jerked back awake to check she was still breathing.

Having sat there for hour after hour, it got to the point where Dad and my brother urged me to get some sleep in the other room. The Hospice think of everything and have a bedroom set up for family members who need to snatch a few minutes rest.

Unfortunately, my few minutes turned into a couple of hours and the next thing I knew was a nurse waking me to tell me she'd gone. I ran through but of course I was too late. At 5.30am on April 27th my Mum's long and dignified battle with cancer had finally come to an end and I hadn't been there for it.

For years this has bothered me. For years I've suffered dreadfully with insomnia because of it. For years I have never mentioned this to my dad or brother. For years I have been angry with myself for letting her down. I've been to counselling sessions and written page after page in journals to try and face this recurring nightmare. And now, finally, writing this blog seems to have set me free. I no longer feel I should hide away the hurt, it's nothing to be ashamed of. This blog has set me free in a way I didn't think possible. And for so many reasons...

Mum was such an incredibly strong woman and facially I'm very, very like her. Before she died everybody always told me how alike we were but after she died nobody ever mentioned the resemblance. This probably sounds odd but part of me felt as if I had died too. It was as if people didn't really see me Jude, they had only ever seen me as Carol and now she was gone. Plus so many people had told me how proud she would have been because I was coping and being so strong. I'm sure they felt they were doing the right thing and helping but the reality is somewhat different. What choice did that leave me? I HAD to be strong, couldn't break down, couldn't cry in front of people because if I did I'd let her down. Thankfully, I've come to realise how unhealthy this was. I had every right to cry and scream, to shout and weep. I'd lost my mum, to cancer and I was only 26, if that isn't a reason to cry I don't know what is.

Nothing will ever erase the pain of mum's death. Nothing will make me forget those last few hours. Nothing will take away the nightmares that still haunt me from time to time. Nothing will ever bring her back. But equally nothing will ever take away the many happy and wonderful memories I have of her.

In the words of Nat King Cole she really was Unforgettable and it was a fitting tribute that this was the final song played at her funeral. An unforgettable song for a truly unforgettable lady and a lady that I was lucky enough to call mum.