A week ago today, I found my Mum’s body in her flat.
I see her every Tuesday with my daughter, F. We’ve done this routine ever since her brother died last August. Mum saw Eric three times a week and they spoke on the phone every day. Sometimes more than once. So when he suddenly passed away, Mum was devastated.
The grief never subsided. She picked up a bit before Christmas, but then seemed to regress again after the new year. The shitty weather in this country – months of cold, damp, dark, grey days – does not help. She had two spells in the psychiatric ward as she was struggling so much and her psychosis seemed to be causing her ongoing problems. They discharged her three weeks ago, handed her care back over to the normal mental health unit. In my opinion she was worse after this than she was when they admitted her the first time.
I had tried to call Mum on the Monday, but she hadn’t answered the phone. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to face up to it. She wasn’t really well enough to leave the house as she had become physically very weak and had a severe tremor that had worsened over the last 6 weeks, leaving her unsteady on her feet. I told myself she had been readmitted to the hospital and hadn’t yet remembered to call me. However, with hindsight I was just postponing the inevitable.
When we arrived on Tuesday morning, she didn’t answer the buzzer at the communal door. I was about to call her when another resident came out, so he let us in. We went up to her flat and I put my arm out and pushed on her door. It was like part of me knew what to do. The door opened – she had left it on the latch.
I walked in and called her name a few times. It’s a one room flat with a small kitchen and bathroom, so after passing the kitchen and looking in the lounge/bedroom I was about to leave. I thought maybe she was better than I had thought and had walked across the road to the shop to pick up some food. Failing that I thought I’d go back to the car and call the hospital and maybe go and see her there.
I was about to leave. I passed the bathroom and noticed the light was on. The door was almost closed. I called again, “Mum?”
I pushed the door a fraction, not wanting to disturb her if she was on the toilet, or feeling unwell, but also certain that she wasn’t in there because she would have heard me calling. Then I saw her legs in the bath.
As soon as I saw them I knew immediately that she was dead. She would have answered my call. I said “Oh,” out loud, catching my breath.
I had to be sure what had happened. I pushed the door a little further and stepped half into the room, holding F back so she didn’t see anything. The bath is behind the door and I had to lean around it. She was lying in the bath, slightly to one side, her face just under the water. She looked like she was sleeping… except as I tried to look and and not look, my eyes scanning the scene as fast as possible so I didn’t have to see the detail, it was immediately obvious that she had been there for some time.
I called the police. They came out really quickly (it felt like forever while we sat in the lounge/bedroom). They were brilliant, cannot fault them at all. More police came, and then CID, and then eventually they decided it wasn’t a crime scene. They called the undertakers and two big men with iron handshakes, dressed immaculately in black suits came to take Mum to the hospital. They left her rings on the side, and she was gone. It took three hours in total.
The police all left, and we were alone. I went into the bathroom and rinsed the bath out as I couldn’t leave what was in there to dry. Then I drove Francesca home. The rest of that day, and the next are a bit of a blur. I collected the boys at the end of school, drove to my brothers but couldn’t find him, so drove to Dads. Then I drove home again. I got the kids into bed and then stripped off, and scrubbed myself down in the shower as all I could smell was Mum’s flat and the strange, sweet, rotting metallic odour from the bathroom. A week later and I still catch it multiple times a day.
I got three hours sleep the first night, between 1:30am and 4:30am. I had to leave all the lights on because I was terrified mum was going to come and get me, all bloated and dripping and angry, for allowing her to die that way. The next day I did everything on autopilot, still in shock and utterly exhausted. I drove down to her flat with the intention of starting the clearing out process (it’s rented and I have four weeks to empty it), but all I did was sit on the bed crying while F watched children’s TV.
I couldn’t eat, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen.
Piecing it all together
Gradually, I have rebuilt her last few days. I saw her on Tuesday and arranged for a GP to call her about the tremor. On Wednesday she went to the GP to collect a form for a blood test. I spoke to her that evening. On Thursday her friend Ted drove her to the hospital for her blood test. I called her that night. On Friday a man came in the morning and cleared away an old fish tank and a cabinet she no longer wanted from her flat. She also had a meal delivery I had just arranged for her. Then Ted took her out for a coffee. They said goodbye in the afternoon and I spoke to her at 4pm. She sounded sad, hopeless, and angry about her health and NHS waiting times. It was a week before she had another call with the GP and would get her blood test results. We spoke for less than four minutes and despite my attempt to convince her that we were going to get it all sorted and she just needed to wait until next week to get results and we could go from there, she sounded dismissive. I signed inwardly. And I asked her, “What can I do to help Mum?”
“I’m alright,” she said after a long pause. “I’m alright.”
We said goodbye. After that she ate dinner, ran a bath, and never got out of it.
She’d been dead four days when I found her.
Life doesn’t stop when someone dies. It carries on with all its noise and mess and laughter and chaos, oblivious to the enormity of your shock and grief. After four days, I slept properly. After five days, my appetite started to return. A week on, and I have already removed two car loads of stuff from her flat and I am feeling better. I have lots to do. Lots to keep me busy. Plus of course the kids – nothing waits.
I don’t know if I will regress, but I already feel like I am healing. It’s like an old wound is finally closing. I have written thousands of words in my journal and lengthy emails to my closest friends. I have realised, with surprise, that I actually lost my Mum when she moved out, back when I was fifteen and my brother was nine. I can still see her walking up the road, brown suitcase in hand, heading to the station. My brother crying so much. She was never the same after she left. We grew apart, I couldn’t find common ground. She behaved in ways I coudn’t understand and no longer seemed like the mother I’d know from days long gone. She had always been distant and unaffectionate, but she was somehow more normal when she was married.
I have grieved the loss of my mother for 28 long years. I have wanted her back, and wished things were different for almost three decades. I could never bridge the gap that her leaving opened between us. She cut off all her hair, moved in with a woman I didn’t much care for, got new animals I hated (a screeching parrot and many dogs that wee’d everywhere in the house). She became something I couldn’t relate to. While I was striving to get my degree and start a career, she seemed to drop out. Then her health deteriorated and the psychosis became a problem. I lost her so long ago. Her death feels like the end of a period of black grief that has overshadowed my entire life, especially in the years since I became a mother myself.
It’s getting late and I need to sleep, so I’ll stop here for now.