All About My Mother

All posts in the All About My Mother category

Religion? Belief? Spirituality?

Published 11/10/2016 by damselwithadulcimer

I’m writing this a few hours before the start of the most solemn day in the Jewish religion: Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement. It is the last of the Ten Days of Repentance that begin with Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish New Year. These are days of introspection and repentance, a time when Jews the world over look back over the past year, examine their wrongdoings and look forward to the coming twelve months with every intention of being a better person. Depending on the level of orthodox or liberal belief, we are taught that these ten days encompass the period when the Book of Life is opened and those who will live or die in the coming year are inscribed on its pages. Yom Kippur commences at sunset on the previous evening and ends at sunset 25 hours later. During these hours we don’t eat or drink, and we spend the day in prayer.

This time of year also has a particular poignancy for me. My mother died two years ago on Erev Yom Kippur (the day before the Day of Atonement that begins with the evening Kol Nidrei service). One of the Yom Kippur afternoon services, known as Yizkor, takes place and provides an opportunity to remember those who are no longer with us. As my mother left this world the day before the Day of Atonement, and as this date is commemorated according to the Hebrew calendar, it means that I light a Yahrzeit (literally time of the year) candle in her memory. This is lit at sunset the evening before and burns for 24 hours. Although mum died on 3 October, the anniversary always falls on 9 Tishri (the day before Yom Kippur) in the Hebrew calendar

This morning I left home under a perfect blue sky with a glorious sun shining over my head. It was chilly, in keeping with an October morning, but it felt to me as if the candle I had left burning at home had been superseded by the sun reaching out to shine on me. In fact, I became quite emotional as I convinced myself of this, and consoled myself with the belief that my mother’s soul was reaching out to me.

This was merely the culmination of events that began a few weeks ago when I found a clothes hanger (that used to belong to my mum) hanging on the outside of my wardrobe. I have no recollection of putting it there. Then my daughter (who is very intuitive) told me that she was receiving messages from mum to be passed on to me. Finally, a few days ago I was aware of an aroma that immediately took me back to my grandmother’s (my mum’s mother) home. It wasn’t a food smell. In fact, I can’t describe or recreate it but I knew that I had last smelled it at Grandma Jenny’s, and she died when I was 16. By the way my eldest child was born exactly 10 years to the day after my grandma died.

Make of it what you will, I can only relate what I have known and experienced.

Memoires du Maman

Published 28/01/2015 by damselwithadulcimer

Shortly after mum became housebound my sister and I decided that we wanted to try to capture her memories, so we both used to take our laptops over to her flat and encourage her to reminisce as we recorded her recollections of a time before we were born. We called our transcriptions Memoires du Maman because they were her experiences; now that it is nearly four months since she left us I find myself remembering her in many different ways, often triggered by the slightest of events and places. It is incredibly hard to resist the impulse to phone her up just to chat about such and such or so and so, and I have to remind myself that she is no longer at the end of the phone although I can hear her answering in her distinctive manner ‘6066’. She never said hello, but always gave the last four digits of the number.

Clearing out her flat wasn’t as painful as it could have been, although I kept recalling snapshot images of her sitting in her armchair in the lounge, or the more poignant memory of her lying in her bed after she passed away. I’ve also found myself remembering her in my armchair, where she sat when she visited, or sitting in our garden. I even see her face sometimes when looking in the mirror, especially as my eyes are like hers, and that reawakens the image of death that was present in her eyes in the few days before she died.

Walking around central London recently brought her back to life in so many places where I had been with her, as well as the streets and areas she introduced me to as a child and as a teenager. Wardour Street was where she worked in the film industry as a young woman in the 1940s, and where I later found employment. Berwick Street was where she shopped for fresh fruit and vegetables. I too used to buy from the same stallholders, although it is much changed now. The stall where she used to buy mushrooms is no longer there, neither is the pub outside where it stood. The fish and chip shop (the Chinese Chippie as we called it) is still in situ, but the food is probably fried by different hands now, and I have no idea if it tastes as delicious as I remember it.

Not for away in Marshall Street I came across the newsagent where she once worked, owned by Monty, who was also my employer at a gift shop in a Piccadilly hotel. I had to remind myself that I would not be able to pick up the phone and ask her ‘guess where I was today?’ We could have enjoyed some marvellous memories if she had been at the end of the line. Mum loved London and could travel around in her mind, long after her legs refused to carry her on and off the buses that she enjoyed using. She once told me that she enjoyed sitting on the top deck and looking into peoples’ houses, much preferring that mode of transport to the tube, where there was nothing interesting to see.

A recent walk across my local park roused memories of the summer Sunday afternoon when we took her for a picnic whilst we listened to a brass band. Switching on the radio and hearing Bryn Terfel singing reminded me of when I took her to the Royal Festival Hall for a live concert given by the Welsh bass baritone. Mum had always loved classical music and especially opera. As her legs weren’t carrying her very well by then I drove her to the South Bank, where the disabled car park was full. So I dropped her off with strict instructions to wait for me, or to go to the box office to collect our tickets. When I arrived back after parking the car she was nowhere to be found. I hunted high and low through the foyers before deciding to look for her upstairs. As the lift doors were closing I caught a glimpse of her and dashed back down the stairs before again taking the lift up with her. By then the concert had started and I also realised that our seats were in the auditorium, which would have been difficult for her to reach. Luckily a member of staff found us an accessible box, from where we had a marvellous view and she could enjoy the music in comfort. Sadly as her illness progressed she lost interest in music, including her favourite radio station, Classic FM, or Classical FM as she called it.

There are so many memories that can be summoned up with very little prompting. Listening to all sorts of music often takes me back to occasions when she made comments, such as how the Beatles were a flash in the pan and pop music was a load of noise sung by men who could do with a good wash and a haircut. I can still see her getting to grips with The Twist, although she preferred ballroom dancing and loved her Cha Cha Cha.

I will never forget her. There are too many memories to be carried into the future. Even now they are far less painful and I can talk about her and some of her expressions and idiosyncrasies and smile. She was never perfect, but she was my mum and is still a part of me.

Grief and Mourning

Published 23/10/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

The Oxford English Dictionary defines grief as ‘intense sorrow, especially caused by someone’s death’. Yet even these words cannot sum up the strength and breadth of feelings invoked at the loss of a parent. After more than thirty years I am still grieving for my dad, and this is compounded by the passing of my mum barely three weeks ago.

We all deal with our sorrow and cope with mourning in different ways. No two people will experience the same range of emotions, distress and pain in the same way, and these feelings frequently change from hour to hour, day to day and week to week. Different societies and religions have their own rituals and practices for coping with bereavement, and the support of friends and family members can often be a huge comfort. We can ‘mark the time with fairest show’ as Lady Macbeth advised her husband when they were plotting their murderous deeds, but later on in the same play Macduff, after learning of the slaughter of his wife and children, is advised to ‘Give sorrow words; the grief, that does not speak, Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break’. Shakespeare was equally aware of the importance of displaying the pain of loss in order to begin the healing process, and I have been repeatedly told that tears are good and necessary.

Mum’s health had been deteriorating to the point where she became bedridden in the middle of August (about six weeks before she died) and this gave me an opportunity to think about the end of her life, her death and her funeral. But envisaging an event can never prepare you for experiencing it when it happens. I was upset when I visited her during her final days and was unable to hide my tears from her, much as I tried to turn my head away and dab at my eyes. She spotted my distress and asked why I was crying and her quick-thinking carer responded that it was hay fever.

I parted from her about 10 hours before the end. It was obvious that it was imminent and she was suffering a huge amount of discomfort. Her eyes were like those of a sick dog who is pleading to be put out of his misery and when she dozed briefly she muttered ‘take me there, take me there’ and a little later she opened her eyes and pleaded to be knocked out or put to sleep. Her cat also remained close to her during that final afternoon, so I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that she didn’t have long left. Yet life without mum is something I had never experienced and wasn’t something that I could imagine.

When the phone call came at 6 o’clock the following morning I was flung into auto-pilot. There was an urgency to be with her and to say more farewells and goodbyes, except that these would be final and not mere adieus. I would no longer be able to bid her to take care and do as she was told. Of course the tears flowed of their own volition, both whilst driving to reach her flat, and once I was there. They continue to find their own journey down my cheeks when I least expect them, but there are also glimmers of fond memories when I can talk about Mum without getting upset.

She had the Jewish funeral she had requested, with her eldest grandson saying Kaddish five times over the course of the day. Then she was laid to rest in the same cemetery as her brother, the person she had fallen out with before his own death, and with whom she had not made peace in their own lifetimes. The rituals were a comfort to me, as were the condolences and wishes of Long Life from friends and family.

But life goes on for the living and the days seem to follow in rapid succession. I can still mark the weeks since her death and the funeral in single digits, but the year is fading and then there will be the usual milestones where she will be remembered and missed. Although we are Jewish, Christmas was always an excuse for family get-togethers, and in later years was just lunch at our house with Mum always present, and exhortations from us to her to eat a little bit more. Next year will see Mother’s Day come and go without her (and the memory that she broke her hip two days before that day last year, scuppering our plans to take her out for lunch) and then her birthday in May, when she would have celebrated her eighty-ninth anniversary.

So how do we cope with the grief? The tears help, although there is often a perception that they won’t stop. There is a strong need to talk about her, her life and her final days, and in my case there is also a cathartic outlet provided by writing these blogs. I want to dismiss the memories of her last uncomfortable, distressing and distressed days, and of her lying at rest in bed at home, another feat we were able to help her to accomplish. She refused to enter a care home and I’m so glad she remained in her own flat, with a carer by her side during her final moments. I can take comfort from all of that, and from the reminders of others that we did everything that could be done for her, although there are still the nagging doubts that I could have done more, visited more frequently and reminded her of how much she was loved. But our family was not one to express our feelings although they were tacitly observed and understood.

The recent trips to clear out her flat have not been too harrowing either. I think it could be because we were with her there after she passed, we said further goodbyes, kissed her numerous times and I stayed with her whilst the Rabbis removed her for burial. Although she was finally at peace I don’t want to remember her face in death and would rather return to the photos I have of her that celebrate her life and vitality.

I also find that my religion, lapsed as it is, is somewhat of a comfort. My belief in God, or a greater, supreme presence, has been strengthened. I believe that death is not the end and that Mum’s soul is now in a more beautiful, peaceful place, where she is reunited with her family and loved ones and that I will also be with them one day. In the meantime I have been to Shul once to celebrate Simchat Torah, joining in with the songs and prayers that I remember from my childhood. That afternoon the words of the song ‘Shalom Aleichem’ (Peace be upon you) that we had all chorused so joyfully kept running through my head and I found myself singing it out loud: the first time I have felt able to sing anything over the last few weeks. The next morning I was looking out into the garden and I saw a flock of doves flying backwards and forwards beyond our fence.

Life is for the living, but the dead remain in our hearts; nobody can erase our precious memories whether they invoke tears of sorrow or joy.

‘May the Almighty comfort You among the other mourners for Zion and Jerusalem’

Published 15/10/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

How on earth do you plan and prepare yourself for the funeral of a parent? It’s a rite of passage that has to be worked through, but you’ve never done it before and nobody has given you a blueprint or a template.

For years Mum insisted that she wanted to be cremated as she was confident that nobody would visit her grave, and she even pre-paid the Coop for a funeral, making sure I knew exactly where to find the papers. However Jews somehow usually return to their roots, especially where death rituals are concerned, and around the turn of the year Mum decided that she wanted a full Jewish funeral.

This was a little problematic. Many Jews (even secular ones) belong to a synagogue as the membership includes a contribution to a burial society. Mum had resigned from her local Shul quite a few years ago as she argued that the membership was too expensive. On making enquiries I was told that the funeral she wanted would probably cost about £16,000 so I contacted her local synagogue, and the United Synagogue Burial Society to re-enrol her. They were able to trace her original membership but were a little vague on when she joined and left so we agreed on a lump sum that would cover the missing years, with a moratorium of six months. All that was then left was to make sure she stayed with us until the end of July. Obliging mother that she was, she added on another couple of months.

She also kept insisting that she wanted to be buried with her parents and grandparents in an East London cemetery that is now closed. Although we frequently reminded her of this, she kept reiterating her wish. Eventually she agreed on a compromise: she would be laid to rest in the same burial ground as her brother.

As the months wore on it became apparent that Mum’s health was deteriorating and this gave me an opportunity to think ahead and to try to imagine how the funeral would be. In my mind I was trying to rehearse my farewells, but nothing prepares you for the time when it arrives.

On the morning that she died I was very aware that the Burial Society needed to be contacted before we could proceed beyond the issuing of the Death Certificate. When a local undertaker was appointed to us we made it clear to him that we are Jewish and would make our own arrangements, whilst liaising back and forth with the Society and arranging a date. We always bury our dead with as much haste as possible, but the following day was both Yom Kippur (the most solemn of Jewish festivals) and Saturday – the Sabbath. The logical step would have been to arrange the funeral for the Sunday, but my eldest son had arranged to fly back home from South America on that day. Mum had always made him promise that he would say Kaddish (the prayer for the dead) for her so we had to delay until the Monday.

I must have been on some kind of auto-pilot that day. I had to get to the deli to collect the food that had been ordered. We always celebrate, or commiserate, with victuals: fish balls, cake and beigels with smoked salmon, cream cheese, egg and onion and chopped herring are served with gallons of tea. As a child I remember Mum insisting that tots of brandy and whisky were also available for the men when they returned to the house of mourning. I also had to call at the synagogue to collect the mourners’ chairs (the next of kin sit on low chairs in a house of mourning) and the prayer books.

The other preparations include covering mirrors, making sure a pair of candles are ready to be lit before evening prayers, and keeping a Yahrzeit or memorial light burning.

My sister arrived with one of Mum’s eldest friends, who had made the journey from the south coast to say her farewells and the three of us prepared the food and left everything ready for when we would arrive back home.

The funeral was at 3 in the afternoon on a drizzly miserable day, but at least the rain stopped by the time we reached the cemetery. Usually my first sight of a coffin is enough to make the tears flow, but somehow it didn’t happen this time, probably because I’d been with Mum after she died and had said some of my farewells to her then. The first thing to happen was that Kriah was performed. We had a cut made in our clothes, after which we recited a prayer and then tore the cut with our hands to express our grief.

Following on was the first part of the funeral service (where men pray separately from the women in the Orthodox manner), after which my mother was laid to rest. My sister and I were offered soil from the grave and we each took three hands full to throw on the coffin. Then any males who wished to were invited to fill in the grave with spades full of earth.

The service concluded with a return to the prayer hall where my son recited Kaddish twice and the other mourners were encouraged to pay their commiserations to the two of us as we sat on the low mourners’ chairs. My son read the eulogy I had penned for Mum, and added a few words of his own from the grandchildren’s perspective as he believed mine were not a sufficient expression of what she had meant to us. He reprised this again after evening prayers, and I’m including the full text at the bottom of this blog.

Back home to comforting cups of tea and the food we suddenly realised that we needed by that time of the afternoon. A few people returned home with us and eventually we were left alone until the mourners and the Rabbi arrived for 8pm prayers. On both occasions I was concerned that there would not be a Minyan (the requirement for ten men to be present for orthodox prayers) but friends, family and my husband’s Masonic Lodge all rallied to the cause and we had more than enough. My son was called on to recite Kaddish a further three times, so Mum had her wishes fulfilled fivefold. And I was deeply moved when I watched the back of my cousin’s head bobbing up and down as he prayed for mother’s soul.

Of course there were occasions throughout the day when the tears fell of their own volition, but friends and family encouraged them. The kindnesses of everybody, the instinctive understanding that nothing more nor less than a long and loving hug was needed, and the words of comfort from those who had previously experienced the same bereavement and grief were solace in themselves. If I were more orthodox in my Jewish beliefs I would even have wanted to join the congregation of the Rabbi who conducted the funeral service, or the one who attended in the evening.

We only said prayers on the one occasion and didn’t sit Shiva for the full week. Our family is now so small that there wouldn’t have been enough people to visit every night, but part of me yearns for that week long indulgence. It’s a way of coming to terms with your loss, of mourning the dead, and of letting life and grief flood over you before you feel the need to start to return to the real world with all its mundane duties.

The Eulogy

Phyllis Frankel, daughter of Simey and Jenny nee Angel, entered this world on the first day of the 1926 General Strike; her Uncle Jack often used to relate how he had to cycle to see his sister, Jenny, at Mother Levy’s, the Jewish Maternity Home in Whitechapel. Mother and daughter returned home to live at 39 New Road, a place Phyllis frequently returned to in her memories.  Before her dementia became too advanced she would recall running up the steps, through the front door and then down to the basement kitchen, where her grandmother, Rebecca Angel, would be sitting or preparing food. Phyllis had an older brother, Albert, and a sister, Doris, who died of meningitis before her younger sibling was born.

Phyllis’s first school was Myrdle Street, then predominantly Jewish and now a Muslim girls’ school. Her Grandma Becky could see into the school playground from her house in parallel New Road and would often throw her an orange.

A change of address saw the family running (and living above) the Crown and Dolphin pub at the corner of Cannon Street Road and Cable Street, where Simon was registered in the Phone Book for 1934, and then moving a little further north to run businesses in Wood Green and Edmonton. When Simey suffered his first heart attack Phyllis insisted on leaving school to work at the Post Office and contribute to the family finances, but her furious father insisted that she enrol at Pitman’s College to learn shorthand and typing, after which she went out to work as a secretary. Some of the longest enduring of her female friendships date back to those days. This was also the period when she started to smoke, much to the disapproval of her parents.

During the war she worked for a seed company, which was classed as war work, so she never entered the armed services. However it was during the war years that she first met her future husband, Bob, at the Royal Tottenham. Theirs was a very on/off relationship, with him frequently going AWOL so that he could see her, and with her throwing engagement rings back at him and being forced to choose between him and whichever other boyfriend was pursuing her. She eventually agreed to marry him, flying to Dublin for their honeymoon in August 1947. Their first home was again over another Hackney pub that Jenny (by now widowed) was running with her son Albert. She gave birth to their first daughter, Sandra, in January 1952.

Phyllis and Bob migrated south over the River to Forest Hill and then to Catford, where daughter number two, Judith, was born in June 1955. The family remained in South London, moving first to run a sweet shop in Tulse Hill, and then to Phyllis’s dream house in Streatham, whilst she also returned to office work. However the dream was shattered when the marriage ended in divorce in 1968. She carried on with her independent life working variously as a legal secretary, an employment agency manageress and a typing pool supervisor. Yet she kept a secret hidden for many years: she had a gambling habit. Everybody thought she worked at two jobs (at night she would undertake bar work or cashier in a restaurant) to save enough to buy her own home, but she was spieling most evenings after work and crawling to bed in time for a few hours’ sleep before heading back to the office. Eventually she accepted her addiction, joined GA and curbed her habit. But she still couldn’t resist the lures of the National Lottery.

She then lived variously in Putney, Richmond and Barnes – always remaining close to her beloved River Thames and refusing to move back to North London. After retirement she wasn’t content to sit in a rocking chair and knit clothes for her four grandchildren – although she frequently got out the wool and needles for her own children when they were small. Despite gradually becoming disabled with arthritis and COPD she still insisted on shopping in Kingston once a weak, hailing a Com Cab at Richmond station on the way home, courtesy of her Taxi Card. She also enjoyed her weekly outings on the free bus to ASDA at Roehampton, when she had the opportunity to chat and laugh with friends, thanks to the helpful bus driver who secured their tartan shopping trolleys. She loved Tony Bennett, opera and classical music and often had to turn down Classic FM in order to hear phone callers.

Most friends and family (many of whom are now no longer with us, are too infirm or live too far away to be here today) probably recall a strong-willed, bull-headed (she was born under Taurus), judgemental, tenacious and fiercely independent lady clacking around on her stiletto heels. She told it as it was, was quick to criticise others, and did not care who she offended or upset. Friends sometimes feared for her outspoken tongue when she was out in public, but her diminutive stature (all four feet eleven inches of her) belied what her GP recently referred to as ‘her indomitable spirit’. And this spirit kept her fighting until the very end. She should have given in peacefully weeks ago but fought to stay with us, although longing to be reunited with her beloved Grandma Rebecca and adored Auntie Ettie. Eventually the COPD and Vascular Dementia won and Phyllis is probably looking down on us now, criticising these words and making remarks about the clothes some of us are wearing. And if you are there Mum, thanks a bundle for dying Erev Yom Kippur and making Judith and Sandra pull out all the stops to make the necessary arrangements in time. You always did things your way.

Final Days

Published 12/10/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

Before I visited Mum after our return from holiday I phoned my sister to ask what I should expect. She thought I might notice a deterioration, but I wasn’t prepared when I went to see her on the Monday after we came home. I hadn’t seen her for two and a half weeks, but she had declined rapidly. I had been told that she had become even more demanding and that her carers were remaining with her constantly during her waking hours, which tended to be at night as she was sleeping a lot during the day. I had also been informed that she had a pressure sore at the base of her spine, which was being treated and dressed, but which was causing a lot of discomfort as she was propped, or was lying on her back most of the time. The carers were turning her and trying to move her onto her side, but she wasn’t comfortable in that position.

When I walked in to her room on that Monday her carer was trying to feed her; before I went on holiday she had always fed herself. I was terribly distressed to see her eyes: her beautiful green eyes were heavy, lifeless and sunken and I was struggling to hide my tears. Most of the time I was there I sat next to her and held her hand and she returned the grasp as firmly as she could.

The District Nurse had visited that morning and diagnosed another infection, which I was assured was causing much of the confusion she was exhibiting. I collected her prescription from her GP, took it to the pharmacist, and then back to the GP surgery as the wrong medication had been prescribed. Firstly they tried to fob me off, but I stressed the need for Mum to start on her tablets immediately, whereupon I was told that there should be a prescription for antibiotics at the chemist’s shop, but there wasn’t and the pharmacist had to contact the practice again before he dispensed the correct pills. Once back at her bedside with the medicine she had difficulty swallowing, and the carer had to request dispersible tablets, which arrived before the end of the day.

I visited again on the Thursday and was equally upset to see her. The nurse’s notes implied that she was a little better, but she seemed worse as far as I was concerned. Once more her carer was trying to feed her some soup with bread, but she just didn’t want food. She frequently asked for sips of her drink, interspersed with requests for a cigarette, although she had been unable to inhale for some weeks. Ever the polite, well-brought up lady, demands for anything were always suffixed with the word ‘please’. Frequently she was unable to speak, either from lack of breath and strength, or because the dementia was robbing her of language. She was dreadfully uncomfortable and her carer and I tried our best to settle her. Thanks to the hospital bed we were able to raise her head and shoulders to different degrees, plus to prop her with her pillows, or to turn her on her side to take the pressure off her lower back. She urged us to sit her up and then gestured with her hands if she needed to be higher or to be lowered.

Again I sat at her bedside and held her hand as long as she wanted me to. She seemed to drift from time to time, but never managed to fall into a proper sleep. At one point she appeared to drowse and asked audibly to ‘Take me there, take me there’. A while later she opened her eyes and pleaded with me to ‘Knock me out. Put me to sleep.’ I was unable to hide my emotions and she asked why I was crying, at which point the amazing Emma responded quickly ‘It’s hay fever’ and I rapidly improvised, pointing out that it was early Autumn and something in the seeds or the air was affecting me.

During that last afternoon I believe that her cat was aware what was happening and what was going to happen. She stayed close, at times on the bed (with mum caressing her with one hand and holding mine with her other) or under it or on a chair in the room.

The weather was bright and gentle that day, although I’ve been aware over the last few weeks that the year is starting to draw in and it has provided an apt analogy for Mum’s life moving towards its close. There have been some perfect autumnal days, the sort of time of year Mum would have called ‘Yom Tov weather’ as we often have an Indian summer around the time of the Jewish High Holy Days in September or October.

I must have fallen into a very deep, if apprehensive, sleep that night and missed phone calls on my mobile in the next room. I was suddenly dragged from my slumbers by the sound of the telephone ringing in our bedroom. It was still dark and I fumbled around the room, minus my glasses, groping for the phone. It was 6am and the voice at the other end was my sister’s urging me to come to Mum’s. Obviously she realised that I hadn’t understood and had to break the news that Mum was no longer with us. Nobody had tried to contact me on the landline and my sister had fully expected me to be at the flat, or on my way.

The two minutes spent brushing my teeth seemed like an eternity when I wanted to be on my way. I hurriedly dressed, no time for contact lenses, which would probably not stand up to the tears I knew would flow, grabbed a box of tissues and left the house. As well as still dark, it was also misty and I couldn’t drive off until my windscreen was clear. After a few minutes I realised I was dreadfully thirsty and blundered into an open shop for a bottle of water, not stopping to wait for my change, and then dropping my purse in the road in my rush to get back into the car.

I hadn’t expected there to be so much traffic on the road at that time of the morning and I have no idea how I managed the fifteen mile drive; it all seems rather hazy now. Arriving at the block of flat there was typically no parking space close to the front so I had to drive to the back, acknowledging the police car parked by the entrance. Rushing inside I was advised to take my time by the police officer in the lobby, and entering the flat I was confronted by the carer who had been with Mum at the end, her boss and another police officer.

Dee, who runs the care agency, was amazing to have left her bed at that time of the morning just to be at Mum’s, and she offered to cancel her appointments and stay with us (we declined as she has done so much and still had a business to run). The carer was visibly shaken to have encountered her first dead body, and the WPC was equally supportive, despite having lost her own father a few months previously. The police were called as Mum hadn’t been seen by a GP for some time and had died at home. An ambulance team had also attended before I arrived and taken a heart trace, confirming that it had been slowing down during the hour prior to death.

I don’t know how we got through the day. In an order I can’t even remember the Community Matron arrived to comfort us; the GP phoned to offer condolences and promised that she was sending the Death Certificate to the Coroner; we telephoned and spoke to the United Synagogue for guidance on what should happen next; a local undertaker arrived and advised us of the order of proceedings, although we were insistent that Mum was having a Jewish funeral so that his involvement would end there. My sister had to be firm with the Registrar’s office as we needed them to issue us with the Death Certificate and the Green Form on that day. It was tight as it was not only Friday, and the eve of the Jewish Sabbath, but it was also erev Yom Kippur, the day before the most solemn festival and fast in the Jewish calendar, and we knew that the relevant offices would close well before sunset.

We divided the hours between phone calls, official as well as to friends and family, and emails to family overseas. We said our goodbyes to Mum. I sat with her for some time, desperately trying to warm her up, and brushing her hair. She looked peaceful, although much older, but the puffiness had gone from under her eyes and her face was relaxed. I stayed with her after my sister had left for the Registrar’s office, massaged her hand through the sheet, convincing myself that it was getting warmer. I didn’t want the Rabbis to come from the Burial Society, although I knew their arrival was imminent. I kissed her forehead several times, refused to leave the room while they wrapped her in a sheet, and insisted that they were gentle with her as she was so tiny and frail. I watched while they carried the stretcher to the waiting ambulance and then she was gone. And then I threw myself onto her bed with my head on the V pillow where she had lain until a few minutes previously, and cried and cried for my mother who has now left this mortal world and is finally enjoying the peace she so desperately needed.

Should I go or should I stay?

Published 22/09/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

 

The stresses and strains of the last eighteen months have taken their toll of my sister and of me. A few months ago Peter suggested that we take another holiday as it was apparent that I needed a break and an escape from life at home. Mum’s gradual deterioration, as well as the touch of pneumonia that was diagnosed a few days before our intended departure, had me in two minds. Sarah, the Community Matron, advised that I needed a holiday. I knew that I would be able to jump on a plane back from Italy if necessary but I was still ambivalent. It was only 48 hours before we were due to leave that I changed my position from ‘if we go on Friday’ to ‘we’re going away at the end of the week’.

A little more than two days travelling to Italy’s Ligurian coast provided the start to our late summer holiday. We were unable to locate the satnav and this navigator took her eye off the map a couple of times so we meandered a little more than we should have. The route wasn’t supposed to include a drive through the centre of Brussels with its many tunnels, nor did we intend to cross and re-cross into Germany, but we found an excellent little hotel with a very good restaurant in the Rhineland Palatinate. At journey’s end, with the car unloaded, we located the satnav under the suitcases and have no idea how it got there.

The best thing to happen was an email from my sister, informing me that mum has now been granted NHS Continuing Healthcare and funded Nursing Care. I’m not exactly sure when this will all kick in but at least mum will be taken care of in her own home with no further financial burden on her own savings, so that’s another worry lifted from my shoulders. We are both so thankful to Sarah and her efficiency in taking care of the situation and making mum’s needs so urgent and imperative.

So now I can return to enjoying what is left of the holiday. Just two more days in Italy where it appears that the unsettled, overcast weather has finally come to an end. Two days lazing by the pool under a blue sky are just what the doctor ordered and I intend to make the most of them. Here’s to la dolce vita.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the Old Man’s Friend Came to Call

Published 10/09/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

The Respiratory Team paid one of their routine visits to mum at the beginning of the week and were concerned enough to feed straight back to the Community Matron. Sarah put in an appearance later in the day, listened to mum’s chest and diagnosed the beginnings of pneumonia. Luckily we had antibiotics and steroids in the flat just in case of such an eventuality, but one of the inhalers had run out over the weekend, so Sarah set off to the GP’s surgery to make sure that the relevant prescriptions were issued and that mum’s doctor knew she was unwell.

Having smugly congratulated myself on producing the standby medication so promptly I was surprised and worried to find the box of Amoxicillin was empty… I made a further frantic phone call to the GP, sharing Sarah’s earlier frustration at having to go through various menus, to ensure that a script was sent direct to the pharmacist and then despatched to mum before the end of the day. Trust me to choose that day to visit without my car.

Whilst I was worrying about the missing antibiotics I decided it was time to move the furniture in the bedroom. We had been advised that the bed (with its rubber mattress) should not be alongside the radiator, so Emma, the carer, and I emulated Pickfords removal men whilst we dragged chairs and chests of drawers out of the room in order to swing the bed around. Initially we placed it facing the wrong way, where the telly would not be visible, so we had to disturb mum again, much to her annoyance. After plugging the mattress and the control pad back into the wall we found that the pad was doing nothing at all and the mattress was flat. Cue more complaints and moans from the patient. The light was on but it was completely unresponsive at 5.10 in the afternoon when Medequip had gone home for the day. The emergency number that was supposed to be on the equipment was not there and googling for it was impossible given that the flat is in a mobile phone black spot. Although I had no car I at least had my mobile WiFi so was able to get online, find a number and make the necessary call. It was all so simple once I was told how to rectify the problem, but why on earth weren’t those instructions delivered with the bed?

The next day was spent trying not to worry about mum and hoping that she would respond to her medication as the alternative was hospitalisation and we were fully aware that she would not want to go there. I know now that she is doing better, so that’s another mini crisis averted.

Sarah was also concerned that mum has generally deteriorated over the 10 days since she last saw her and that her COPD has worsened so she delivered an End of Life Pack, containing the necessary injectable medication for making mum comfortable when the time comes. She also informed me that she is making an application to the local council for continuing funding. Whether we get it will be another matter, but we are keeping everything crossed. We have been using mum’s personal savings to fund her care and the money is disappearing rapidly; it would be a relief not to have to fret about finances too.

So for now we can wave goodbye to the Old Man’s Friend and hope that the funding is approved and that mum remains stable.

Dementia isn’t just forgetfulness

Published 05/09/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

My mum’s dementia sometimes means that she forget things, especially in the short term. She can ask me several times an hour what day it is; her memory banks are entirely erased between the questions. She once saw a photograph of my father that was taken on their wedding day and she didn’t know who he was. She has even asked me (on more than one occasion) if dad is still alive, even though she went to his funeral more than 30 years ago. At other times she has asked me what he died of, or if he was killed. (He died of kidney failure after suffering another heart attack.) She insisted that a cousin of my father (who also died some years ago, and whose funeral we attended) brought her home from a family funeral a few months ago. She has repeated this scenario at least twice.

She gets confused about money, sometimes handing over 30p when it should be £30. Before she became bedridden she would have a couple of sleeps a day. Often she would wake up and be surprised to see me sitting on her sofa, although I was there before she took her nap. And yet when I visited this week and reminded me that it would have been her brother’s birthday, she immediately knew it was 4 September.

There are other changes that aren’t related to memory. Last year when she became housebound after breaking her hip she stopped wearing a bra, gave up applying makeup and refused to look in the mirror. She always used to be smartly dressed, insisted on wearing supportive foundation garments (bra and corset), never went out without applying slap to her face, and wore shoes with heels even though she had an arthritic back and legs. Above all she used to have a daily bath before dressing. Although she needed an electric seat to lower herself into the tub and then to lift her up again, she had difficulty using this after hip surgery, but eventually managed to get to grips with it again as long as she had assistance.

Over the last few weeks since she became bedridden she can just about get out of bed (again with help) to use the commode in her room; the bathroom is too far for her to manage now, even with her frame. As she doesn’t drink enough fluids, she rarely needs to empty her bladder. Sometimes she tries to get up, sits on the edge of the bed, and then just has to lie back down again.

In addition to these alterations, her personality is changing. She has round the clock care because she gets anxious when left alone. She may say that she doesn’t want somebody just sitting in her room with her, but if I leave her for a few minutes, believing she has nodded off, she soon calls for me and tells me that she needs somebody to be there. If she is left alone for a few minutes after her daytime or night time carer leaves and the next one hasn’t yet arrived, she frequently presses her alarm to call Careline.  Whilst she is awake there is very little to talk about now as she doesn’t have a great deal of interest in what is going on in the world. I often don’t have a lot of family news and wonder if it would be insulting to keep covering the same ground as I’m not sure if she remembers what I’ve already told her.

She also gets very impatient with me. If I need to leave her – perhaps to take a phone call or to send an email – I can hear her shouting and complaining in the other room. In her opinion I have come to visit and it’s rude to leave her to do whatever I need to do, or to make a fuss of her cat (as she often believes I am doing). She has been rather nasty with me on occasion, particularly when her hospital bed was delivered and she didn’t want to get out of her own bed. She told the driver to throw me on his van and get rid of me; likewise she made the same sorts of threats against me and my sister when we called for an ambulance a few weeks ago and the paramedics tried to persuade her to go into hospital as they were concerned about her. Life can be so cruel.

The independent, feisty Phyllis of old is a different person. I manage her financial affairs, make sure her bills are paid, and collect her Attendance Allowance. It wasn’t that long ago that she would take the money from me and put it in her purse, and she always kept her bag with her, whether in the lounge, in the bedroom or on the bed. Now it lies on the floor at the foot of her bed and I put the cash into her wallet. She is removed from the world and obviously has no idea that we are using her savings to fund her care. What the future may bring is anybody’s guess and I am in touch with her social worker to find out how we will be able to manage when the money runs out, or if they will be able to put the same amount of support into place once her money falls to the level at which they would help to finance her care. Life can be so cruel.

How do you reason with somebody who has dementia?

Published 30/08/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

When the Community Matron visited mum she made a few suggestions and recommendations, one of which was to provide a hospital bed. Mum eventually agreed and said bed was delivered this week. I knew I would also have to dispose of the double bed that was already in situ and arranged for it to be collected by a charity shop, with the proviso that the mattress bore a fire safety label. The first problem was to get mum out of bed long enough for somebody to locate the tag, which proved impossible. I assumed that the necessary information was there as the mattress was only a few years old.

Problem number two was to coordinate the collection and delivery so that mum wouldn’t have to spend too long out of bed. This was further complicated when the hospital bed was delivered a day later than it should have been, meaning that the switchover would happen on the same day. Delivery was promised for some time between 10am and 5pm and the collection was to be during the afternoon. I agreed with one of the care agency staff that she would stay with the carer until I arrived, except that I was held up by a few minutes. That gap was when the people turned up to collect mum’s bed, and she flatly refused to vacate it. When I turned up they had been unable to wait so mum was still tucked up cosily.

A few minutes later the man from Medequip appeared with the new hospital bed. How do you convince a tired, frail person that she must get out of her bed so that it can be removed and replaced with another one? More than that, how on earth do you argue with somebody who has dementia? It’s impossible to reason with a person who doesn’t appear to understand what you’re telling her. We played the same loop over and over again: ‘Who decided I should have a hospital bed?’ ‘You agreed to the nurse’s suggestion mum.’ ‘No I didn’t.’ And so we went round and round in circles as if we hadn’t already had the conversation. She told me to go away, to go home, and she told the van driver to throw me in his vehicle and get rid of me. Ever conscious that he had other deliveries to make I kept pleading patiently with the patient. Eventually I persuaded her to leave her bed; the carer and I each took one arm and we eased her across the room and into her armchair.

Her old bed then had to be taken apart and stored in the lounge while he brought in the new one and assembled it so that we could make it up and get her into it. I was so thankful that he was able to stay long enough for me to convince her of what needed to be done, and also that he helped move the old bed into the other room. Unlike Blanche Du Bois I don’t often depend on the kindness of strangers, but I was certainly grateful for it then. More than anything I was determined that she would be transferred to the new bed and that his time wouldn’t be wasted.

Of course there was still the problem of disposing of the old bed, which was now taking up a great chunk of the lounge. The charity I contacted to collect it the following day declined it when they saw the stains on the mattress as mum has managed to upset so many drinks in bed. However I phoned her local council who have charged me an older person’s fee to dispose of it next week when they come to empty the bins. I will just need help to get the two sections of the divan, and the mattress outside and then we will be able to get back to some kind of normality.

More than anything else I cannot believe that I have actually imposed my will on my mother. She has always got her own way and has never done anything she hasn’t wanted to do. I have never before stood up to my mother, argued with her or answered her back. I wonder if I’m finally growing up.

When Mary Poppins came to visit

Published 21/08/2014 by damselwithadulcimer

Once mum had been bedridden for more than a week we began to get seriously concerned and made contact with the GP, who acted swiftly and put one of the Community Matrons in touch with me. Two days later she visited mum to assess her needs. We also decided that it was time for mum to have round the clock care and organised a roster of known and trusted people to stay with her overnight, whilst seeking out a new care agency that would be able to provide continuous daytime cover.

This was all in place when Sarah visited to carry out her assessment. She swiftly took charge, insisted mum mobilise to the bathroom and gave a few pointers to the carers. Mum will now be prompted to take in more fluids, as she is obviously dehydrated, and will be encouraged to try to eat a little more. Food will be given to her, rather than her deciding that she only wants bread and butter. She will also be encouraged to get out of bed, with lots of help. I was amazed when I watched Sarah escort her (plus Zimmer frame) along the hall as I was convinced that she was far too weak to manage. The difference between a health care professional is that they can employ the firmness that a daughter, who has been brought up to be obedient, cannot. Just like Mary Poppins, Sarah is firm … but kind.

Sarah demonstrated her skills and training when she told me that she would be in touch with the GP to ask for a home visit, would contact social services on our behalf, would arrange for bloods to be taken and would also contact the domiciliary podiatry service to arrange a visit. She has also ordered a hospital bed to be delivered next week, so I need to arrange for collection of mum’s double bed. Sarah is a far cry from Hattie Jacques’s matron in the Carry On films, but every bit as capable, knowledgeable and caring.

To complement her input there is also the new care agency. They carried out a thorough evaluation of mum’s medical needs and medication, a risk assessment of her home, wrote out a detailed daily care plan (which was also augmented with Sarah’s suggestions) and asked me about mum’s interests and the work she had done before she retired.

I’m feeling far more optimistic and reassured. Some of the weight and anxiety have been lifted off my shoulders thanks to Sarah and the girls from Insta Care