‘Visiting hours don’t apply’ are some of the words in the English language that no-one wants to hear. You know something serious is happening when a nurse slowly walks up to you and utters those words. Before that they were strict with us. Only two people allowed by the bed 3-4 pm and 6.30-7.30 pm. Outside of that there was no visiting whatsoever.
Those words were uttered about 2 weeks ago. My Nan went into hospital with a broken hip three months ago and deteriorated ever since. She had five bouts of pneumonia and ended up on Oxygen, a drip and having her lungs aspirated twice daily. She went eight days without food until they put a line into her stomach and pumped her with nutrition, she then weighed just over four stone.
As a family you enter the twilight zone of impending death. Nothing seems real. Conversations are had over a body lying in the bed occasionally waking and acknowledging who’s around. Nan could no longer talk by this point; she had to write everything down. Each word drawn from her like a weightlifter pumping iron. She’d write ‘pain’ or ‘thirsty’ and we’d smile and do what we could.
I could always make her laugh, she’d put her hand in mine and I’d ask if she wanted to arm wrestle. The laugh wasn’t a huge belly laugh but a little grunt. I knew she was laughing. I’d tell her I was taking her out to go jogging and get the same response. One time after making a little fun of her she wrote ‘could you put me on the bedpan’, which left me shaken as I’d never even seen her half naked, never mind going to the toilet. I said ‘of course’ and prepared myself to be embarrassed, she pointed to the pad where she’d written ‘only joking’, and went back to sleep.
I visited every other day and each time she was getting worse. There were little comebacks when she beat pneumonia but it didn’t last long and the pneumonia would come back only stronger. She spent days crying as her body wasted away. They issued her with as much medicine as possible but none seemed to work.
She was made nil by mouth and given a spray to keep her mouth moist, the problem was she also had a spray for angina only to be issued in an emergency. On one occasion she’d been asleep all day and we thought the end was near. To make her more comfortable I thought I moisten her mouth but I made the mistake of giving her three sprays of the angina medicine and she woke up like a flash. Her cheeks were flush and her eyes bright. The nurse commented how amazing she was at waking up when I came to visit. I’m sure I did no harm.
The next thing to come out was the pink sponges on sticks. I hate those things. It always implies the end is fast approaching. One time she was so thirsty she bit the sponge off as I wiped her mouth. I struggled to get it out, thinking that death by sponge asphyxiation wouldn’t go down too well.
She stopped writing about ten days ago, too weak to lift the pen. I went to see her last Friday and she picked the pen up again and wrote those three words that are said too much, ‘I love u’. She used the ‘u’ to save energy and went to sleep again. I’ll keep that small piece of paper in my wallet for the rest of my life.
On the Saturday there were more scary words uttered by the doctors, ‘morphine driver’. They took out all the tubes and attached a morphine drip which continuously pumped the drug direct into her veins. She opened her eyes a few more times and gave a few thumbs up to people around her, then disappeared into a drug induced haze. She had my mother by her side, the constant companion, sleeping in the chair night after night.
She didn’t wake up on the Saturday and I decided not to visit because I didn’t want to sit and view a dying loved one. She died at 7.20 on Sunday morning, mother’s day. I suspect she knew it would make the day even more significant In future years.
I went to the ward at about 8.30 to see if my mum was still there, She’d left and gone to my step Grandfathers. The nurses said I could go in the room and say goodbye. I said ‘no’ because I didn’t think I could handle seeing my beloved Nan all cold and stiff. I wrote a card for the nurses saying ‘they were all angels’ and thanked them for doing their best for my Nan. As I walked out to leave I was gripped with the thought that I was never going to see her again. I turned round and asked to go in.
The nurses led me to the room; I paused, took a deep breath and entered the room. I was immediately shocked to see her frozen body, eyes half open and lying with her head slightly cocked to the side. I swallowed and approached the bed; she was still a little warm. I closed her eyes and kissed her forehead repeatedly. I gently brushed her hair with my hand and loosened her hands so they looked more comfortable. I put my fingers in hers and kissed her beautiful hands. I must have tried to leave the room about five times but couldn’t. I half hoped some miracle would occur if I spoke to her enough and she’d wake up and give me a hug.
She didn’t, she was gone, her body just a vessel.
I finally left the room and walked out the ward tears pouring down my face. I haven’t cried in a long time. I walked passed people with my head down and hands covering my eyes. I made it to the car and was inconsolable. She was gone; the last icon of my childhood had left me. I only hope she is enjoying the long sleep and dreaming of a place where she was happiest. Life is difficult, fun, and sad. Woody Allen said there are two certainties in life – ‘sex and death, but at least after death you don’t feel nauseous’, I hope that’s the case.
Rest in peace Nanny Sybil.