My Mother, Myself

‘Mother’s in hospital. She’s had a fall. Just thought you ought to know.’

My sister’s voice on my mobile was full of concern, but calm nevertheless. She urged us not to cut short our holiday. There was no immediate urgency.

A few days later, I sat with the patient in hospital. Normally, Mother is – even at 90 – in full control of her very independent way of life, a keen bridge player and involved gardener, always quick to speak her mind authoritatively and perennially impatient. Now, recovering from two fractured ribs and infected cuts, she felt helpless. But she was still impatient, this time to be home. She was also bored and lonely. I felt sad for her, wrestling at the same time with our life-long and still unresolved power struggle, and wondering how to comfort her as any relaxed intimacy between us does not exist. It was a relief to find that the doctors had decided she was well enough to return home. I paid her a visit there the next day.

To my dismay, I found her lying on her bed retching uncontrollably, complaining of diarrhoea and almost too weak to go to the bathroom. It was Saturday and her doctor was not available. I called the ambulance and was advised: ‘Take her yourself. It will be quicker.’ Taking my mother’s hand in mine, I said as gently as I could, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. You are too ill to stay here by yourself. I shall take you back to hospital.’

She glowered at me in silence for a moment, hating my words, before flopping back on her pillows, resigned to this most unwanted turn of events. Soon she was resting in the hospital Emergency Ward. As there was nothing I could do, I left, my mind in a tumult. Over ensuing days I visited her while her condition was diagnosed and treated.

For the first time, Mother began to contemplate a different future as she battled the indignity of enforced dependency. She still complained impatiently of boredom and loneliness. She appeared newly weak and fragile. I encouraged her to think of some respite care before returning home. She looked at me directly and said acidly, ‘I suppose you think I’m a nuisance?!’

Startled, for the effort of caring for her on top of my already busy life was becoming difficult, I declared stoutly, ‘No, Mother, you’re not a nuisance. But I am very worried about you.’ The atmosphere had become suffocatingly tense. I made some small talk and left promptly. That evening when I called her, her voice had softened. Now she spoke with acceptance of the idea of further care. I sighed with relief. At least we could still dialogue at some level.

Her condition, however, deteriorated further. Doctors had detected fluid in her lungs, a consequence of her fall. As soon as that was treated, her condition and emotions began to return to normal, including her low threshold for boredom and her impatience to get on with life. But the doctors advised her to stay in hospital for a few more days. When she asked for my opinion, I agreed with the doctors. She sighed regretfully. At the end of my next visit, she walked to the lift with me, putting her arm around my waist for support. I put my arm around hers, though reluctantly as such closeness was almost more than I could bear. The staff, noticing us, smiled. I kissed her awkwardly on the cheek and stepped into the lift.

Mother was moved to a private hospital to spend a few days gathering strength. She requested that her make-up and some better clothes be brought to the hospital. ‘It’s alright for family and women friends to see me looking dreadful, but I need to look my best for my men friends when they visit,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s vanity.’ I was careful to say nothing. I had been taken unawares by this unexpected confession of a characteristic that has long been common knowledge to my family. I drove away, collected the various items requested and delivered them to Mother who was by that time, enjoying entertaining a male friend. I left discreetly.

The next day, Mother ‘phoned me, saying she would be going home in a few days. I expressed concern that she should not rush back to normal life too quickly as I felt she may be much more tired then than she anticipated. She dismissed my fears, but she agreed she might need to use a walking stick from time to time.

Some days later, Mother called me early in the morning. ‘I’m ready to go home now. Can you come and get me?’ I was dismayed at the imperious note of expectation in her voice and could only politely point out my day was already very full, but I would come the following afternoon. Unwilling to wait one moment longer than she had to, Mother enquired if B, my husband, could come instead. Alas, he too, had other engagements. Finally, we settled on the next day.

I arrived at the hospital to find her sitting up dressed and ready, surrounded by her possessions in the guests’ reading room. ‘I’ve been here since 10.00 am,’ she said, smiling sweetly. I swallowed the rejoinder that rose to my lips and assisted her to get in the car before packing her luggage in. We set off. Conversation was difficult as Mother doesn’t hear as well as she used to and my voice is frustratingly soft. She asked the same question several times and I gave the same answers. Tension mounted.

Finally, she was home. I made some tea and sat with her for a while. Conversation was sporadic as I was now quite wrung out with the continuing stress of such intimate relating to the mother I hardly know and yet know so well. When she had finished her tea, I left.

I called the next day, concerned for her welfare. She had spent the night in the retirement village respite care facility, but had already been out driving again, doing some shopping, weeding and watering the garden, talking to friends and arranging bridge and social outings for the following week.

‘I won’t need any extra care’, she said cheerfully. ‘I feel quite normal again.’ Her voice had its familiar clear, matter-of-fact and authoritative tone. I could only wish her well and put the ‘phone down slowly. I was completely exhausted. I reached for the ‘phone and made an appointment for professional help.