Mum and me...

My blog was quiet for a very long time. I wanted to write about Mum's death, but I got stuck. 

I couldn't get it right. 

So I didn't write anything.

But there's no right way, is there?

I had waited until she was hooked up to the drip bag for her 123^rd dose of antibiotics.

Forty-nine still to come.

 ‘Love you, Mum. See you on the iPad.’

That’s what I said as I leant in to brush her cheek with my lips —our family is like that, lingering hugs and heartfelt endearments rare.

My words were breathy, snagging on the ropy ache of farewell.  

And I left her seated in that now-familiar curtained corner of a shared ward, both of us having lost the battle to remain dry-eyed.

I gave Mum an iPad for her 80th birthday and it rapidly became her constant companion. So I sent photos with my message from the Dubai transit lounge, even though her Messenger account had been inactive for 17 hours.

When she still hadn’t logged on by the time we cleared passport control at Heathrow, I was concerned.

I knew something was wrong when her account was still inactive after my devices reconnected to our home Wi-Fi. If, as planned, she was ensconced in her freshly made bed, finally surrounded by her own things after a month of hospitalisation, she would have told me. 

Something had happened.

Something had gone astray and our trans-global life-line was lifeless.

                                                        * * * * *-

Mine was not a cuddle-filled childhood, but I never doubted that I am loved.

I worshipped my dad. I realise now that I probably shouldn’t have, but ours was the stereotypical family of the 1960s. He was the breadwinner. Mum treated him as the lord of the manor; he treated me as his special girl.

All I did, I did to please Dad. To gain his approval. One of his catch cries was ‘There’s no second prizes’. He’d worked hard for all his success and expected the same from us. And yes, I think his attitude has messed with my head in multiple ways throughout my lifetime. But I adored him.

Mum fulfilled the conventional roles of supportive corporate wife and mother of two with style. I don’t recall ever seeing her flustered. Or truly angry. At least certainly not in the way that my children have witnessed my meltdowns and moments of near-spontaneous combustion. 

I didn’t worship or adore Mum. 

I just loved her.

And took all that she did and was for granted.

That’s how things just seem to go with mothers... isn't it?

She was Mum. 

She was always there, calmly making my life more secure and successful.

I wore Mum's little hat to the Cup Eve dinner

Everything about me was OK by her.

Nothing special.

That’s just how mothers make you feel... right?

                                  * * * * *

For a month I lived in her unit at the retirement village, taking her place at social functions, answering concerned questions and accepting heartfelt wishes for her recovery.

While there, I scrubbed walls and floors, renewed furnishings, filled the freezer with meals, updated the technology and refreshed the pot-plants. I added non-slip bathroom and kitchen mats, a shower-seat, a frame around the loo and organised home-nurse visits and deliveries from the chemist. 

And spent countless hours by Mum's side.

All the while, Mum battled infection and illness. At times almost unrecognisable —frail, childlike, she barely made an imprint in the impossibly high bed and could not remember what had happened. On occasions, her resilience and pragmatism greeted me as I arrived. And sometimes, she was cranky, dissatisfied and uncomfortable.

Mum's gorgeous besties at the Cup Eve dinner

Our roles were reversed.

I was mothering her —administering sympathy and care, bolstering her confidence, bringing her treats, growling at her to eat her meals and do the exercises that she hated. And on cranky days, reminding her that the nurses were busy and she was not the centre of their universe.

But she was the centre of mine.

A  few weeks in, I told her I was proud of how she had battled her way from that frightening intensive care bed to the casual rehab ward. But I had to remind her that her fight was not over. She would have to continue her efforts even at home as she would still be connected to that omni-present anti-biotic drip for two more weeks. 

She assured me she had decided to do whatever it took. 

And she made me promise to return to London at the end of the month as planned, on the same flight that my son had been booked on some six months earlier.

By the day she was due to be released, no cobwebs dared haunt the corners of her unit — her sparkling flowery nest. But, as had happened so often before, the date slipped without explanation. She was now going home on the morning after our midnight flight. 

Reluctantly, I organised for my sister-in-law to collect Mum and taxi her home.

Even more reluctantly, I said my goodbye.

      * * * * *

Moon over Canary Wharf the morning Mum died

By the time we reached Greenwich, Mum was in an induced coma.

She fell getting into the car.

Her head cracked against the curb.

She never left the hospital grounds.

A doctor was awaiting my approval to disconnect her from the machinery.

My mother was gone.

I was 26 when my dad died. I was devastated. Of course. But I don’t think I mourned him for very long.

I missed him. 

I still do. 

I ached to talk to him again. 

I still do. 

But at 26 I was self-absorbed: I had a new job, an exciting social life and the world was full of promise. I was making my way alone, headstrong and independent.

Mourning Mum is different.

More painful.

More prolonged.

Not just because we shared 23 more years — 23 of my adult years. 

Not just because she loved and was loved by my husband and children — who Dad never met.

Nor even because I wasn't there with her at the end.

It's all that plus more.

Much more.

She was my Mum.

She was always there.

She loved me unconditionally.

Even when I didn't deserve it.

Coz that's what mums do, isnt it?

"I'm not racist, but..."

I don’t remember what prompted me to comment about Australia. I don’t even remember what I said. But I do regret that I said it… whatever it was…

We were in the staffroom at The Old Royal Naval College — some twelve of us, mostly volunteers — awaiting the morning briefing. 

Non-volunteers go by the exalted title of Ambassadors. Basically, they do the same things as we non-exalted volunteers, except that they get to Ambass around with a two-way radio. 

Well, that and they get paid an hourly rate for Ambassing.

That morning was my first session with the Education team, none of whom I’d met before. All of whom know each other. I’d never been to a morning briefing either and am always always anxious and uncomfortable with unfamiliar places and people.

A feeling that was not relieved when everyone turned to look at me as I came in through the door, but only one person greeted me.

Artist's impression of Chris the Ambassador

So, anyway, I made my totally forgettable comment about having recently returned from a trip home to Australia —an inept attempt to join in the conversation, which was probably about the unseasonably warm morning. And one of the Ambassadors (let’s call him Chris, because I think that’s actually his name) commented,

‘Oh, we’ve had a lot of Australians in the Painted Hall this week.’

That’s nice, I thought, he’s noticed. I spoke to a few Aussie couples in there this week too.

But before I could respond with an anecdote or even acknowledge that he’d spoken to me,

‘That’s why our takings are down this week, you know,’ Chris snorted. ‘Australians are cheap. They’re all keen to do the tour until they find out they have to pay. Then they just complain it’s too expensive and walk away.’

Dramatic recreation of  gobsmacked volunteer

I was gobsmacked.

Affronted.

Stunned.

How to respond to that?

It struck me as a pretty unorthodox way for an Ambassador to make a volunteer feel like part of the team.

I’ve met plenty of other stereotypes about we Aussies: we’re crude, we’re uncultured, we’re drunks. We’re naïves who drift around on an island at the bottom of the planet unaware of the way the rest of the world functions.

In fact, I recently happened upon this in an article about Agatha Christie:

Christie relies on certain stock traits for her characters of different nationalities. The French are hotheaded, Scots are thrifty, and Australians are simple.

http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20180907-agatha-christie-shaped-how-the-world-sees-britain

Ignorant. Maybe.

But cheap?

Really?

I find that hard to swallow.

A British boar

Let's face it, those simple skinflints from Downunder have paid not insignificant airfares to travel from the other side of the globe for a holiday, and then come to see Christopher Wren-designed buildings of British cultural significance.

I’ve met plenty of native Londoners who’ve never in their London-lived lives made the 10-kilometre journey to Greenwich to see those self-same buildings.
It's also kind of weird because the people I talk to are in the Painted Hall on the tour they're too tight to fork out £10 to do.

But I didn't say that.

I didn’t cripple Chris with a witty retort or slay him with a sarcastic comeback.

I merely responded with something disappointingly limp.

And polite.

Then I slunk off to the briefing feeling both conspicuous and uncomfortable.

Wishing I hadn’t spoken.

But the question remains: are Aussies cheap?