Christmas Day
Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Next of kin? asked a triage nurse, as I stood swaying with nausea. I was having an allergic reaction to prawns, one week after my mother’s death. It was close to midnight on New Year’s Eve. Next of kin?
My mother died at 8 p.m. on Christmas Day. For all the years I’d put her name down, automatically, on all official documents. I could no longer do that.
B, my partner, is my next of kin. I’d responded with a full sentence to reconfirm and sound it out in my head for the first time – my mother was dead. My father, and every other remaining relative, lived in England. I felt more than orphaned. I felt the weight of my mother’s death rest again on my chest. Motherless.
I supported my mother with my physical presence as she died. I prepared her Tibetan chants for death (on CD) with a mantra placed over her heart, as advised by a Tibetan Buddhist nun, Thubten. My mother took refuge in the Buddha in the last year of her life, which is a ritual similar to baptism for Christians.
I touched her one last time. Holding her head next to mine: cheek to cheek. You can go now, Mum. I love you. I kissed her warm forehead and felt her short curly hair. To look at my mother was like looking at a part of me – I knew her better than any other human being.
Two hours before my mother’s death we’d taken a break at a coastal lookout. The sun was setting and a flock of birds was returning home. Tess took a photo of B and me sharing a kiss; it’s still on our fridge. On the drive back to the hospital an ultra-real glow of burning orange illuminated the inside of our car as the sun finally went down. Every moment in that car trip back to her bedside felt like levitating. I was encased in a film so otherworldly that any question directed at me was muffled, as if it was spoken through a thin wall.
I entered Mum’s room expecting her to be in the same position. She wasn’t. A nurse had set a sheet so that it no longer rested upon her body, but over the bed’s sidebars. The nursing staff had turned Mum onto her right side. Music was playing, not hers, but the nurse’s. The room was cocooned. The curtains were drawn, the lights turned low. I stood as close to Mum as possible, searching her face for her presence, my chest wracked with sobs. My mother was dying, the time had come, and I was scared.
A nurse came up behind us and said something about making her comfortable. It was a clear message that my mother was going. The nurse stepped delicately into our grief and out of it.
At that stage I only wished for Mum to die in grace, something she’d wanted. I didn’t think of what it meant to no longer share a cup of tea or hear her voice.
The last year of my mother’s life was a real ‘journey’. Heather, what cleansing! Thubten had said in response to the year’s difficulties and the awareness Mum brought to her impending death. To which Mum had playfully responded, Yeah, great. What’s Buddhism ever done for me?
I sat in a chair next to the bed, staring directly at Mum’s mouth and face. B was next to me and Tess was on the other side of the bed, watching Mum’s ribcage. We kept vigil, remained silent and didn’t touch, as in Buddhist practice.
Breathe in. The sound was audible as her life force struggled in one of its last remaining activities. She was Cheyne–Stokes breathing: her ribcage would expand in a deep breath then deflate like it was sinking to the bottom of a pool.
Breathe out. I sighed with relief as my mother’s lungs kept working.
Breathe in. I didn’t capture her on video for her future grandchildren.
Breathe out. My mother was still in the room with me.
Breathe in. The gap between in-breath and out was growing.
Breathe out. Mum’s face was white and still but her presence was warm.
Breathe in. Her grey-black curls framed her face gently. She appeared peaceful.
Breathe out. I wondered if she knew where she was.
Breathe in. Mum had taken refuge in the Buddha from a Tibetan high priest. Was it helping her to leave life?
Breathe out. All financial loose ends were tied up.
Breathe in. Mum knew I had a wonderful partner, whom she’d dubbed the golden boy.
Breathe out. She was a great mother.
Breathe in. Where are you going, Mum?
Breathe out.
Tess and I looked up at one another and half-smiled in recognition.
My mother was dead.
She was so brave. It was easy to focus on the complexity of Mum’s emotions and panicked fears in her relationships with men, but when big stuff happened she was calm; she was strong. She died with dignity and grace, as she’d wanted. I was so proud of her.
Worrying: am I on the right path?
It’s okay to keep hearing your worries, so long as you
stop talking to them. Shun them like a double-crossed Quaker.
Imagine how quiet it would be, like shutting off the droning ocean.
That’s how our parasites must feel about our hearts.
What a racket, all that pumping. shut up shut up
Jennifer Michael Hecht, ‘My Hero’
If only I could shut up this gnawing doomsday script in my head. After I finished my cancer treatments and I was given the all clear, I flipped from I’m cancer free to My chances of remaining cancer free are low anxieties. I had a whirly rumination track that repeated conversations or thoughts
