Truffle hunters

I put the phone down and turned to face my two children. ‘Guess what? We’re going to Jamaica’, I said, sweeping them together in a hug. ‘Isn’t that fantastic?’ As we celebrated I caught the disapproving gaze of a nurse and remembered where I was. I lowered my voice. ‘Come on, we’d better go and see Grandma.”

Mum had been dying for three months. Twice, she had almost pulled it off, only to recover just before that last breath. The priest had been called and relatives summoned. Last Rites. A family in waiting. The only movement in the room, the rise and fall of her chest. And then she had gathered herself , her audience exhaling as she asked for someone to bring a cup of tea. With two sweeteners, please.

The doctors estimated she had about two weeks to live. The Ovarian cancer swelling her belly was the size of a plump thigh. Nothing more could be done. My sisters and I fell into a sombre visiting routine. I would visit in the evenings after work; Fiona went during the day; Sarah and Helen did the weekends. We said our goodbyes in the second week and then again in the third.

A new month arrived. White Rabbits for luck. Coats and scarves were dug out of cupboards; new shoes for winter found. The entrance to the hospice filled with dripping umbrellas. Afternoons became evening. Then Halloween. Huddles of cheery ghouls passed the hospice windows on their way to other front doors. The gardens were littered with spiky green husks and a rainbow of leaves; I was collecting conkers again.

It had been autumn when they took her away in the middle of the night once before. Lying in bed, sleep tugging at my eyelids, I heard the sounds of an argument and a vehicle door slamming. In the morning, I knew she was gone. A family blown apart with the explosion of accusations and betrayal. My seventh birthday a summer memory and Christmas on the horizon.

On our first visit to Severalls Mental Hospital, we were stopped in a corridor by a lady who wouldn’t have looked out of place arranging flowers in the local church; small and perfectly dressed. Could we possibly spare her a penny, she asked? My father offered one from his pocket. She snatched it, popped it in to her mouth and swallowed. She turned and disappeared through an open door. ‘Never, ever, give her a penny,’ one of the nurses admonished, ‘no matter how much she begs.’ But it was tempting, just to see her do it again.

The hospital gardens were a wonderful playground. The best conkers in the world were laid out for us to discover and we spent many hours collecting, comparing, squabbling. I was the leader of our little gang of sisters. Like truffle hunters beneath the trees we gathered bagfuls as darkness fell.

As the evenings drew in and it was too cold to play outside, we entertained ourselves in the lounges with the patients, while mum and dad talked. High-backed chairs with wooden arms and vinyl seats lined the walls leaving an intimidating space in the middle. A nurse worked the room from a trolley in the centre like a spider, moving from centre to edge and back again, distributing drugs and little cups of water.

My mother was somewhere on the edge but I couldn’t locate her. The stifling warmth of dead air fuzzed my brain. Eventually a familiar face came into focus. There she was. Clutching pens and drawing books I moved timidly along the rows of chairs until I reached her; an island to cling to.

Replacing the handset of the hospice payphone, I walked with my children along the corridor to find mum. Jamaica. I couldn’t believe it. My uncle had invited me to visit. He sounded pleased to speak to me. After 20 years of angry silence, I hadn’t expected such warmth.

Mum’s bed was by the far window. Five other beds before hers. She turned as we approached, conker-brown eyes in sockets framed by long dark hair. Each time I came I couldn’t believe she was still alive, that a heart could still flicker inside a body so decayed. Dead and alive at the same time. It was unbearable. Forcing a bright smile I leaned across the bed and kissed her hollow cheeks. ‘Hello mum, how are you?’

Her body had all but disappeared. Three months of dying had really taken it out of her. A few weeks earlier, I had waited by her bed as she was sick, holding the cardboard container for her, gently folding strands of hair behind one ear. She’s been drinking a lot of hot chocolate I thought, looking in to the bowl. Later, the doctor explained the cancer had obstructed her bowels and everything had to come up. Once she stopped eating it would no longer be a problem, he assured me.

Eating had always been complicated for mum. For a few years, she was hugely overweight. She was unable to move around freely and spent many weeks confined to her flat, disabled by mental illness and by her size. Two years before the cancer she joined Slimmers World and reduced her body mass considerably. Her life was slowly improving.

The hospice was warm and I longed for cool air on my face. The children grew restless quickly; I excused them after a few minutes and they went to watch TV. Mum smiled weakly at me and reached for my hand. ‘I’d like to talk’, she said, ‘really talk properly’. I nodded, not sure what she was getting at. ‘Ok, we can talk mum, if that’s what you want’. But she was tired already and she closed her eyes. Her lips were cracked and blistered with dehydration. She could only take the smallest sips from a child’s beaker; she hadn’t sat up for weeks. When she opened her eyes I offered her the cup and she drank. This was all she could do now. Eating was only a memory.

As I sat with her, I looked at the clutter of possessions laid out around her bed. In pride of place was a large framed certificate. I wanted to smash it through the window.
I had arrived one afternoon to find a woman I had never met before. Chirpy and neat in pencil skirt and kitten heels, she was all lipstick and smiles as I shook her hand. Then she explained that she had come to present mum with her Slimmer’s World Gold Award. Wasn’t it wonderful that mum had finally achieved her target weight?