The Last Day - April 1994

A. Ann Winning

1994

The last words my mother ever spoke were a lie and the last thing to which she responded was not my voice or my touch, but the sound of her dog barking. Nevertheless I remember the day with sadness, but no bitterness.

When I first woke at 6am, I knew she was dying. Her breathing, which I monitored on a baby alarm, had changed, which is probably what had wakened me. It sounded as if something had broken; something which was unlikely to be fixed. However, it also sounded pain free, and very much asleep. 6am - Do you ring for an ambulance to take a 95 year old woman who is probably dying on a seventy mile journey to the nearest hospital? It seemed a bad idea, and I decided against it, going back into a listening sleep for another hour.

At 7am I tried to rouse Mother, but although she responded slightly, she was not for waking, and it seemed unkind to force the issue.

At 8am I rang the doctor and asked if she would come in before morning surgery, not because I really believed she could do anything, more because I felt that she was professionally entitled to know what was going on.

She came, shook Mother gently by the shoulder, and said, 'Kay, Kay, are you awake?' She received a mumble in reply, so she persisted.

"How are you feeling?"

This time, the reply, though blurry, was unmistakable: 'Fine, thanks.'

That this was a lie was demonstrated when the doctor continued: 'Are you still in pain? Would you like another injection of morphine?' and was answered with a very definite nod. I mean, what do you say when you are asked such a question in such circumstances? In my mother's book, it would be crass and embarrassing to say, 'Well, actually, no. I think I'm dying.' Although perhaps ironically her answer was true at the deepest level - as a person, she was, truly, fine in the proper sense; not just 'O.K.', but as the dictionary puts it: 'excellent; refined, sensitive.'

So the injection was given, and the doctor asked if I wanted her to call an ambulance and send Mother to hospital. I explained my previous thinking, and she agreed with it. She acknowledged that something had gone badly wrong, but exactly what didn't seem very important. If Mother came through it, well and good, but it was unlikely, and all she and we had ever wanted was for her to die peacefully in her own home. Let nature take its course.

All morning, I worked spasmodically, keeping an eye on Mother, and half hoping that this was just another TIA , like the many she had had since her stroke five years previously, and that she would sleep it off and rally once again. But around noon, her breathing changed again, becoming quieter, but also shallower. I might have thought she was sleeping more naturally, but for the change which came over her features at the same time. You read about it in Victorian novels, but I had never really understood what it meant. And it's almost impossible to describe - a pallor, a stillness - and a deep sense that something irrevocable had happened and from now on there was no going back. I knew then for certain that Mother would die soon.

I sat beside her and talked about all the things we had done together, not least the trip to Paris to celebrate her ninety-second birthday and the one to New York to celebrate her ninety-fifth. I told her how proud I was of the way she coped with having a leg amputated, and reminded her of the outings we had managed in the few weeks since she got home. I told her how pleased I was that we had been out together just the previous evening, and how sorry I was that when she had complained of chest pains when we got home, I just gave her anti-indigestion tablets, until around half-past eleven I became sufficiently worried to call the doctor, who had given her morphine to help her sleep.

About four in the afternoon, Mother's Jack Russell, Cutach, who had spent the day curled up on the bed, barked. Mother's hand tightened so very slightly on mine; it was her last movement. A friend had come to ask if I would like her to sit with Mother for a while, but I couldn't possibly leave her at this stage, so I asked Lesley if she would take the dogs out instead. She was happy to do so, and collected my three mutts. Cutach, however, refused to budge, so Lesley and the rest went off without her.

As I sat there, Mother's breathing gradually slowed right down, until about half-past four she gave a little gasp, followed by a sigh, and then nothing. Cutach got up, shook herself, and jumped off the bed. Her job was over, and she wanted her walk.