The radio alarm by the bed suddenly came to life and John Humphries assaulted my confused mind with an aggressive question about Government policy. As his victim began to answer, I heaved a great sigh, and Jane did the same next to me. It wasn’t going to be a good day. We were to visit Jessie, my Mum, today.

It was a drive of three hours or more to get from our home to the south coast village where Jessie was resident in a nursing home, and had been for about nine years. Normally we’d drive down in the morning, see her after we’d had something to eat, then on to a sister an hour away for the evening meal and to crash in the lounge. Home, then, the following day. Today, though, we’d not have the space in what we liked to call “our busy diary” to stay overnight so the round trip had to be done in one day – well over three hundred miles all told. It was a trip we had to do: Jessie had contracted pneumonia, and the doctor had said it was “almost certainly terminal.”

She had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for getting on for twelve years: her first examples of odd behaviour happening soon after George, my Dad, died. She forgot things, convinced herself that he had left her (and was therefore still alive): on one occasion she had gone to the local Police station to report me missing, nearly forty years after I had left home. As it became obvious she could no longer look after herself properly, and with all her children having children of their own in crowded houses, arrangements were made for her to move into a care home. Contrary to received wisdom from the media, hers lived up to its name, and her time was spent in an environment where she was well looked after and where everything was done to keep her mind as active as possible.

She had grown progressively less able to do anything for herself, and had disappeared from the world completely over the previous twenty-four months, needing 24-hour care – she could do nothing for herself. She had continued to eat well and had therefore lasted long enough to be the senior resident in terms of longevity at the home, if not in terms of her age. Now the inevitable had happened: she had contracted an illness that due to her great frailty she was not going to be able to beat.

We got through the quotidian tasks of any morning and checked out of the house, loaded with a stack of CDs for the journey, and were on the road before the rush hour began. Apart from a feeling of dread at what we might find at the end, it went well, with no holdups or disasters, and we pulled up outside the nursing home before the end of the morning. With no time for hesitation, we were out of the car and signing the visitors’ book, then on to find the duty sister.

“How is Jessie?”

“She’s not very well, I’m afraid. The Doctor saw her yesterday and he’ll be back at the weekend. We check her every hour and try to get her to take at least some fluid each time. You can look at our records when you go up to her room.”

“Is she still sharing a room?”

“We’ve moved her roommate out for the present – you won’t be disturbed, apart from staff visits. Go on up.”

So we did. Jessie was in her high bed, with the sides up so she wouldn’t fall out, propped up in a pile of pillows. Despite her condition, her hair had been brushed and she looked washed. Her breathing was regular, but very shallow and with a catch at each indrawn breath. We both kissed her and gave her a very gentle hug, saying hello: there was no reaction. Up to now, for the last couple of years, if we achieved any eye contact from her, or a reaction to what we’d show her (old photos, cards or pictures of the family) we’d consider that a good visit because it didn’t always happen. Getting no reaction was nothing new – today, though, she almost seemed to be concentrating all her mind on continuing to breath. Or was that my overstretched imagination?

We usually talked to her about the family, what we’d been doing, our plans – without getting any reaction, but maybe she heard and understood, at least some of it. Today, though, it was harder than ever and the temptation to talk about her was overwhelming. The carer came in to make her observations, offering us a cup of tea when she was finished. Having taken the pulse and seen to the other medical record-keeping, she took a small stick with a sponge on the end, dipped it into a cup, and presented it to Jessie’s lips. Jessie sucked, and the process was repeated until she turned away from the sponge. The amount of fluid in the cup was noted and an entry added to the record of fluid intake.

“We do this at least every hour,” the carer told us. “It’s the only way she can take nourishment now. The fluid is very rich in nutrients, specially made for people in this position.”

We looked at the record. The observations continued night and day. Jessie had taken little for a couple of days previously, but today the intake was up significantly. Good news.

We’d been there for more than an hour now, and had run out of things to say to her and to each other. It had been a long morning, and we needed a break.

“We’re going to go and get some lunch, Mum”, I said. “We’ll be back a bit later to see you again.”

I looked back as we went out of the door. The way she was propped up on the pillows had aimed her face towards the door – it looked as if she was looking at us, watching us go. Impossible to tell, of course, whether she was any more aware of what was going on around her than she had been for the past six months, or even conscious: but I smiled goodbye anyway, and closed the door.

It was a run-of-the-mill chain pub, not far away, with a predictable menu and a clientele consisting mainly of retired types like us, or business people in twos or threes working over lunch. We found a table and sighed as we sat down, relieved to be out of the nursing home and with “normal” people again. There was a lively hum of chatter in the room, and we could see people waving their hands as they pressed home a point, nodding sagaciously at an opinion well expressed, laughing, or leaning back as the last mouthful was finished, well content. We soon added to the hubbub: it was somehow easier to talk without Jessie in the room, although we still only talked about ordinary things: our children and their children, plans for next week, what we might do next year.

We tucked into our food with enthusiasm when it arrived; the early start and the long drive had given us both an appetite. It was an enjoyable interlude.

Lunch in the pub took about an hour, then we were back at the home. In the meantime, Jessie had been turned onto her side, so she was facing away from the room. Her breathing was still shallow, but not particularly laboured. She seemed comfortable and relaxed. We stayed for an hour more; I stroked Jessie’s hand and Jane and I talked quietly about our holiday next month – would we have to cancel it to deal with the aftermath? It all depended whether, and how long, Jessie would survive. We were due to go to the USA, and had no idea how long it took between the death of someone close and their funeral, nor of how simple or complex or urgent would be the arrangements regarding her will, and the clearing up of her affairs.

We agreed we did not know exactly what the doctor had meant by using the word “terminal.” Sometimes, we knew, terminal illnesses lasted for months: she could still be with us next year, though we knew that was very unlikely. Maybe she would last for a month, anyway, until we got back. The worst scenario would be to receive a call once we had reached the USA, and have to fly home.

Four o’clock. It was time for us to begin our journey home, if we were to get there not too late in the evening. I said goodbye, leant over her and kissed her cheek.

“We’ll see you before too long.” And, quietly, we left.


……………………………………………………………………………

We always check the telephone messaging service when we get in. There was a message from my sister asking me to phone her when we arrived. I did this, ready to report on what we had found, and reassure her that our Mum seemed comfortable.

“The home phoned me earlier,” she reported. “Mum passed away at about five o’clock today.”