Ill Temper

It is 6.23 am. The phone rings.
‘We think you should come in.’ the voice says simply. No one says anything good before 8 o’clock, I’ve decided.

When we arrive, breathless, my siblings-in-law are already there. Sitting in a side room. Talking to doctors. The urgency of the call and the pain hanging in the air do not bode well. I fear we are too late. No one puts us out of our misery. We have to ask.

“Well?”
‘She’s quite poorly.’ Understated a nurse. ‘She’s deteriorated sharply. We think you should be with her.’

I find this compassionate vagueness infuriating. I need detail to make sense of what’s going on but this is no time to be forensic. The eyes of the family are already red-rimmed. The sound of their hearts cracking escapes in sobs. It feels as though the nurse has clothed us in lead as we leave the antechamber. We shuffle through the otherwise sleeping ward to the curtained off bed.

We’re all slightly surprised to see her sitting up, alert and awake. It feels pleasantly cruel to have our fears superficially assuaged. In spite of her perilous state, she still manages to be bad-tempered. Bizarrely, it’s one her endearing characteristics. As her strength ebbs away, she’s reduced to writing her reprimands on a special pad.

‘Oh no! Does that look like a fleece?’ she barks at her daughter-in-law who instructed to bring something warmer to wear.

‘Too loud.’ She complains as we sat around her bedside.

She pulls her hand away as we try to stroke it.

‘Just two.’ She demands as her family huddled round.

‘Two!’ She scolds when only her three children remained.

‘Get out.’ She says finally when just one holds vigil.

Her typical and reassuring curmudgeonliness clashes painfully with our desire to comfort; her ruthless denial jars against our own need for consolation. She reduces us to tears as each is shooed away. Stubborn old woman. Why can’t you let us be with you? Why can’t you help us deal with it?

We exiles find solace in banishment as our numbers grow. We weep and eventually laugh together at the injustice of it.

‘It’s when she starts being nice, we need to worry.’

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Have you ever thought that as hard as it is for you (well, maybe not YOU, but her kids) to say good-bye that it's even harder for her?

Dying is a series of letting go. Letting go of things, places, and finally, people. Maybe pushing you all away is how her mind copes with it: if SHE lets go, than you'll all have to.

[Mrs RW]

the above was from the memoirs of Mrs RW, former hospice nurse...

[Carlton]

Wise words, Mrs RW. Thanks. c

[Mrs RW]

I really am sorry that your family is going through such a hard time right now. Please give my bestest thoughts to T; I'm thinking and praying for all of you.

[LondonGirl]

Absoutely you need to worry when she stars being soft. And I find with bristly people that they're often the most caring - they just don't know how to show it.

I hope T gets better. And it's not too hard on you all.