The Beginning of the End
Created | Updated Feb 14, 2008
May 1995
It was a beautiful day with a blue cloudless sky and summer in the air. She had an appointment with outpatients. When I took her to hospital they did an internal examination. My Mum was 86 by then. Four children she'd had but never an internal - I suppose no man had ever looked down that end - not even her doctor. So she was mortified when this young lad - he looked about 18 - donned his gloves and began the examination. I was holding Mum's hand across the table, and I knew by the look on his face that things weren't good.
Now he was the one looking uncomfortable. He mumbled something about needing a second opinion and shuffled out of the room with his head down.
Mother just lay there with her eyes closed, wishing it was over.
He returned minutes later with another, older man who introduced himself as Mr something or other. He donned his gloves and took up where young man had left off. Mum gripped my hand.
You have a growth, Mrs P, but don't worry, at your age, we won't put you through an operation.
Mum never flinched; I think she was so embarrassed by the whole thing, she had disappeared inside herself and didn't hear a word. I looked at him.
Take your mother home dear and nurse her, there's nothing we can do; just give her plenty of TLC.
I think I stopped breathing for a moment as I looked into his eyes, just to check he wasn't pulling some stupid joke - but this was neither the time nor the place for jokes. I looked from one to the other, but there was no ifs, buts or we can maybe ... There was nothing but that pitiful sincerity.
They left us alone.
I helped Mum to get dressed, and it soon appeared obvious that the conversation had passed her by.
Thank goodness for that, she said, I don't have to have an operation.
Her mind had obviously latched onto the 'good' news while ignoring the other stuff; I was kinda relieved.
I was in shock, numb. I looked at her and saw some flicker that told me she'd heard and understood everything but had chosen to ignore it. I returned her smile.
I drove us home and Mum was chirpy as ever on the way, she couldn't hear me screaming inside. She was all I had, you see, my Dad died when I was six, so she had filled my life completely with all the love of two parents. I was the youngest by a long way, and I loved her with all my heart.
When I was just a kid, my Mum had all the answers. She kept our house nice and was a great cook; she was brilliant at looking after us when we were sick. Now my heart ached, knowing that we'd be watching her sicken and fade.
When we arrived home, my brother was mowing the lawn. The sun was shining, it was very hot and he'd removed his shirt. The air was full of that just-cut grass-smell. He was covered in a greenish glow caused by flying grass and honest sweat.
I got Mum into the house and made her a cup of tea, then went outside to the garden to answer the question in his eyes - the question he was frightened to ask out loud.
The consultant says it's a growth, there's nothing they can do, we just have to look after her.
He just said "Oh well", and went on mowing the lawn. Tears ran down his face, cutting a track through the grime of hard work, but he never sobbed or cried out, just went on mowing and mowing.
