The Monarch by Sharon Hayhurst
This is a story of what it’s like waiting to die, wanting to die, the reality of finding yourself for the first time in your life, removed from your home, facing up to the end surrounded by strangers. But it might not be what you are expecting. The characters Mum found herself living alongside became woven into the fabric of her last days, somehow becoming a new and unusual family. I have found myself asking, how I would cope in this situation? This is my Mum’s story, an extract from her last month of life. She faced it the way she faced life, with strength and stoicism, determination, humour, sharp as a tack and wicked with it, she was my Mum.
*****
‟Jesus, let’s get out of here,” gasped Mum, ‟Kelvin’s shit himself again.” This severed my melancholic mood instantaneously.
Parking the wheelchair next to Mum’s seat, I helped her in, noticing how frail and unsteady she was becoming, the changes had been rapid. I draped her cardigan over the back of the wheelchair, and grabbed a sunhat, water bottle, sunscreen and inhaler.
‟Someone will come very soon, spraying flowery scents down the corridor,” she added.
As I pushed the wheelchair out of her doorway, glad of the mask to block some of the smell, Kelvin in the room opposite, finally succeeded in getting his stereo going, quite a task when you are legally blind. As he pressed play, the theme from the Titanic blared down the corridor.
‟Flaming Nora,” moaned Mum.
I grinned, pushing Mum down the corridor as though we were sailing on the prow of a ship, a rather smelly ship. After signing out on the clip board and escaping past Prue’s eagle eye’s on reception, we stepped out into fresh air, we were free. With Covid-19 restrictions I was only supposed to stay for 30 minutes. But being rebellious, I knew once I got past Prue, there was no way of them enforcing the 30 minute rule if they couldn’t find me.
‟Thank Christ for that,” said Mum, breathing in great lungful’s of fresh air. ‟That flaming Kelvin shat on both toilets again last night, so I had to go all the way down the corridor with my walker. The nurses keep telling him to ring the bell so they can help him, but he doesn’t listen, he just shits everywhere. They really need to stop giving him fruit,” she pointed out.
I laughed out loud, my Mother was wicked, adjusting to being in a rest-home hospital had not been easy. But it had only been a week and if the doctors were right, she wouldn’t be here much longer. The quicker she was dead the better, so she kept telling us.
We set off under a radiant deep blue sky, the sort of day made for living, for carefree summer fun, not this. Walking past the bowlers, we said good morning, pausing to watch for a few minutes. Mum appeared lost in thought, her and Dad had enjoyed many years playing bowls together. Dad had been gone for three and a half years now, it hardly seemed possible. Carrying on towards the lake through the manicured gardens, I stopped the wheelchair periodically so Mum could admire the roses, breathing in their silky sweet perfume.
Reaching our usual wooden seat at the edge of the retirement village lake, I applied the brakes on her wheelchair, and gently wrapped a silky scarf across the back of her neck. After radiotherapy to her chest and brain, Mum needed protection from the sun. I popped her hat on her head and helped her apply sunscreen, before sitting her water bottle within reach. It was as though I was the Mum and she, my child. This thought made me sad. I chased it away. I wasn’t ready to deal with that.
Sitting next to her, I fished around in my basket and passed her an umbrella to keep the sun off. Pulling out some Hokey-Pokey biscuits I’d made, we shared them between us. She announced that they were perfect, high praise indeed. Mum had always baked us Hokey-Pokey biscuits, she was the feeder, the host, the carer, and now suddenly our roles had reversed. She munched contentedly, while we stared across the lake towards the hills in the distance.
A monarch butterfly floated effortlessly by. A black swan dipped its graceful neck beneath the lakes surface. Bee’s buzzed happily amongst the purple agapanthus flowers, joined by the occasional darting dragonfly. A curious pukeko approached us through the dry grass, blue feathers glinting in the sun.
Parking the wheelchair next to Mum’s seat, I helped her in, noticing how frail and unsteady she was becoming, the changes had been rapid. I draped her cardigan over the back of the wheelchair, and grabbed a sunhat, water bottle, sunscreen and inhaler.
‟Someone will come very soon, spraying flowery scents down the corridor,” she added.
As I pushed the wheelchair out of her doorway, glad of the mask to block some of the smell, Kelvin in the room opposite, finally succeeded in getting his stereo going, quite a task when you are legally blind. As he pressed play, the theme from the Titanic blared down the corridor.
‟Flaming Nora,” moaned Mum.
I grinned, pushing Mum down the corridor as though we were sailing on the prow of a ship, a rather smelly ship. After signing out on the clip board and escaping past Prue’s eagle eye’s on reception, we stepped out into fresh air, we were free. With Covid-19 restrictions I was only supposed to stay for 30 minutes. But being rebellious, I knew once I got past Prue, there was no way of them enforcing the 30 minute rule if they couldn’t find me.
‟Thank Christ for that,” said Mum, breathing in great lungful’s of fresh air. ‟That flaming Kelvin shat on both toilets again last night, so I had to go all the way down the corridor with my walker. The nurses keep telling him to ring the bell so they can help him, but he doesn’t listen, he just shits everywhere. They really need to stop giving him fruit,” she pointed out.
I laughed out loud, my Mother was wicked, adjusting to being in a rest-home hospital had not been easy. But it had only been a week and if the doctors were right, she wouldn’t be here much longer. The quicker she was dead the better, so she kept telling us.
We set off under a radiant deep blue sky, the sort of day made for living, for carefree summer fun, not this. Walking past the bowlers, we said good morning, pausing to watch for a few minutes. Mum appeared lost in thought, her and Dad had enjoyed many years playing bowls together. Dad had been gone for three and a half years now, it hardly seemed possible. Carrying on towards the lake through the manicured gardens, I stopped the wheelchair periodically so Mum could admire the roses, breathing in their silky sweet perfume.
Reaching our usual wooden seat at the edge of the retirement village lake, I applied the brakes on her wheelchair, and gently wrapped a silky scarf across the back of her neck. After radiotherapy to her chest and brain, Mum needed protection from the sun. I popped her hat on her head and helped her apply sunscreen, before sitting her water bottle within reach. It was as though I was the Mum and she, my child. This thought made me sad. I chased it away. I wasn’t ready to deal with that.
Sitting next to her, I fished around in my basket and passed her an umbrella to keep the sun off. Pulling out some Hokey-Pokey biscuits I’d made, we shared them between us. She announced that they were perfect, high praise indeed. Mum had always baked us Hokey-Pokey biscuits, she was the feeder, the host, the carer, and now suddenly our roles had reversed. She munched contentedly, while we stared across the lake towards the hills in the distance.
A monarch butterfly floated effortlessly by. A black swan dipped its graceful neck beneath the lakes surface. Bee’s buzzed happily amongst the purple agapanthus flowers, joined by the occasional darting dragonfly. A curious pukeko approached us through the dry grass, blue feathers glinting in the sun.
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‟What will you come back as after you’re dead to give us a sign?” I questioned.
‟A monarch butterfly,” she replied.
‟Well how’s that going to work,” I questioned, ‟they’re every-where, how is a monarch going to stand out as a sign?”
‟Well I won’t be anywhere, cause dead is dead,” she responded matter-of-factly.
‟No it isn’t,” I argued, ‟and when you find out I’m right, you have to get me a message.”
‟Guess what else happened last night?” said Mum, infuriatingly changing the subject.
‟What,” I asked, sighing at the unanswered question?
‟Gladys followed me back to my room after dinner, and on the way down the corridor she stopped to admire the fire hydrant, she thought it was a beautiful painting. Christ, I’m the only one in here with my marbles. I just got ready for bed and pretended she wasn’t there.”
‟What was she doing?” I asked.
‟She was fussing around, tidying my tray and dresser like I was her child. Then she wandered into Kelvin’s room and stood at the end of his bed, staring at him lovingly like he was her son. But because he’s blind, and the light was out, he couldn’t see who was there, and she didn’t say anything. He could just sense a body in his room.” Mum paused to laugh out loud. ‟He started to scream for help and shat himself again. Oh my God it was so funny.”
We both laughed at this, as I pictured it in my mind.
‟Did you go to Bingo yesterday?” I asked.
‟Yes and I won’t be going again,” she stated firmly.
‟Why, what’s wrong with Bingo, you love Bingo?” I answered.
‟I won every single game and all the chocolate prizes, flaming ridiculous, the others were all gaga. Mae got angry because she didn’t win, and tossed her cards on the floor half way through the game. That sticky beak Mavis got sent out and the rest were practically in a coma, I’m not going again,” she declared.
We wandered back to her room, walking the long way, down a shaded track, stopping to inspect what was growing in the raised vegetable gardens. After signing in again, sterilising hands and getting past the ever vigilant Prue, we headed down the long corridor towards room number 65. An industrial fan in the corridor tried to blow away the stench of Kelvin’s latest incident.
‟Could you bring me in some air-freshener tomorrow?” Mum asked, wrinkling her nose.
As we walked, I checked the name plates on each door, making sure everyone was present and correct. A missing name meant the worse, another one gone.
Suddenly the corridor was filled with the sounds of gun fire, Kelvin was watching his favourite Mafia movie, and being deaf as well as blind, he had it on full volume.
‟For goodness sake, I would like to put a bullet through his TV,” muttered Mum.
A nurse dashed past the bullets into Kelvin’s room, shouting at him to turn the volume down. Mike in the neighbouring room, hammered on the wall and yelled at Kelvin. Gladys wandered gracefully down the hall, stopping thoughtfully to admire the fire hydrant.
‟If I’m in here much longer I’ll go round the bloody twist,” grumbled Mum, as I helped to transfer her back to her lazy-boy chair.
The effort of the movement took her breath away, she gasped, sucking air in and out, as I passed her inhaler and water, while she got her breath back.
I busied myself changing the water Mum’s flowers were in. I had been bringing in flowers from my garden most days. Kelvin switched on some opera, Mike yelled at him, Gladys entered, doing a quick sweep of Mum’s room before leaving again, slim and elegant, you could tell she had been a beauty in her day. Her face now held a hauntingly vacant expression.
‟Mae and I are helping Gladys eat her dinner at night,” Mum explained.
‟Do you know last night she stabbed every mouthful of food on the end of her knife and ate it like that, I thought she was going to cut her tongue off, but Mae and I clapped when she finished,” said Mum. ‟The caregiver I don’t like, tried to make me wear a ridiculous bib at the table, I told her where to stick it.”
‟Mum, I hope you weren’t rude,” I sighed, imagining Mum’s usual lack of tact.
The clinking of glasses in the hallway signalled the arrival of the `happy hour’ trolley. Fiona, the bubbly occupational therapist, popped through the door with a generous measure of Sauvignon Blanc for Mum.
‟Oh goody, cheers to that,” greeted Mum, smiling.
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*****
The next morning while I was getting ready to go and visit Mum, a message came through on our Facebook family chat from Mum.
‟Good Morning, it was quite a night here last night. Mavis thought she was back selling fish in the markets, she kept yelling out the same sentence over and over, up and down the corridor, trying to sell fish, until the night staff got her back to her room and calmed down. Mike of course shouted at her to shut up, he’s such a moaner. I opened my door wide so I could watch everything. It was better than what was on T.V.
‟And then I found out the catch on the toilet is a bit dicey. Kelvin walked in while I was on the throne; just as well he is blind. This morning he’s laying back in his lazy-boy playing good loud music, beating the hell out of the arms of his chair, tapping away and whistling, he would make a good D.J. I’ve been whistling too, we are a happy family this morning. Don’t forget the air-freshener, will you?”
‟Good Morning, it was quite a night here last night. Mavis thought she was back selling fish in the markets, she kept yelling out the same sentence over and over, up and down the corridor, trying to sell fish, until the night staff got her back to her room and calmed down. Mike of course shouted at her to shut up, he’s such a moaner. I opened my door wide so I could watch everything. It was better than what was on T.V.
‟And then I found out the catch on the toilet is a bit dicey. Kelvin walked in while I was on the throne; just as well he is blind. This morning he’s laying back in his lazy-boy playing good loud music, beating the hell out of the arms of his chair, tapping away and whistling, he would make a good D.J. I’ve been whistling too, we are a happy family this morning. Don’t forget the air-freshener, will you?”
*****
‟Flipping heck,” I commented, as I walked into Mum’s room.
There she was sitting in her lazy-boy with her feet out. I stared in amazement. Written in gigantic black marker pen across the bottom of each stockinged foot were the words, `Jill, Room 65.’ She looked like she was wearing prison garb.
There she was sitting in her lazy-boy with her feet out. I stared in amazement. Written in gigantic black marker pen across the bottom of each stockinged foot were the words, `Jill, Room 65.’ She looked like she was wearing prison garb.
‟All our clothing needs to be labelled,” she explained, ‟and the laundry lady who does it is taking too long, I’ll be dead before she gets round to it, so I’ve done it myself.”
‟Perhaps you could have been a tad more subtle with your labelling,” I suggested.
‟I’ve got a note here for you,” she responded, ‟wet-wipes and dry shampoo. Can you sniff my hair, I’m sure it stinks, we only get three showers a week?” she added, frowning. ‟You know the purple facecloths they give us? The laundry lady told me they’re for our bums, I‘ve been using the bloody things on my face,” she laughed.
After sniffing her hair and announcing it stink free, I started unloading bits and pieces from my basket. While I put them away, Mum whispered the latest going’s on.
‟Kelvin is annoyed, can you hear him muttering to himself, he can’t get his music going. The caregiver shouted at him for having his music too loud earlier. Next thing it was turned off. He’s now busy poking around with his stereo trying to fix it, but because he’s blind, he doesn’t realise the caregiver unplugged it at the wall,” Mum giggled mischievously.
‟Let’s get out of here,” I suggested, and quickly got Mum sorted for an escape to our seat by the lake.
Outside, the sunlight was glaring, the heat intense. Sprinklers noisily sputtered water across the grounds. Without warning I veered off the path onto the grass and pushed Mum straight under the sprinklers. She erupted in screams and curses, followed by laughter, as drops of water dotted her skin and clothing. The gardener looked up.
‟Morning ladies, bit hot are we?” he called out, grinning. I looked sheepish.
‟Get me back on that path,” admonished Mum.
Once settled in our usual spot, Mum continued.
‟We had a nice ending to tea last night, I pointed out that the dining room music was like Funeral music, and what we needed was a bit of ABBA or Rock n Roll. An old dear at the next table had an I-pad, took her awhile to type it in, but next thing on came Rock Around The Clock. The chef came out of the kitchen and danced for us, rocking and rolling, while we all tapped on the table, Gladys enjoyed it. And, I was given a serviette instead of a bib,” she announced, a look of triumph on her face.
‟Speaking of music, do you have any death-bed music requests?” I asked, subtle as a sledge hammer as usual.
Mum thought for a moment before coming up with her death charts.
‟Boney-M and Bay City Rollers,” she announced.
‟Far out,” was all I could muster, in response, along with raised eyebrows.
As we returned to the care centre, a beady eyed Prue looked up from her desk, glanced at the clock, and frowned.
‟Afternoon Prue, lovely day isn’t it,” I called out, as I whisked Mum off down the corridor at the speed of light.
*****
Later that night, Mum came on Facebook to chat.
‟Gladys is very fired up tonight. I’ve been trying to help the nurse aids with her, even Kelvin allowed Gladys in his room, and was pointing stuff out to her. He took her hand too, but she was just past it. He said to her, `this is my home, I live here,’ he seemed to be trying to get her to understand that this place is her home too. Poor Gladys, I guess I will be like that soon.
‟Oh and the night nurse tried to make me get into bed and take my sleeping pill early. I think she had had enough after the carry on with Gladys. She stood there watching till I took it, only when she left I spat it into my tissue, it was under my tongue the whole time.”
I laughed out loud, so my Mum was a bit of a rebel too.
*****
It was the beginning of March and I was alone, drifting through Mum’s house, strangled by the suffocating silence. Looking around Mum’s house, her desktop diary was still open on the 4th of January. There was a notepad in the kitchen, with her list of jobs for the day. On that day Mum had cooked fish from her neighbour and beans from my garden for her lunch, this was crossed off, complete. Next job on the list was to take down the Christmas tree. This was never done.
There was the stupid Christmas tree still standing in the corner where it always stood, a scattering of cards on the wall unit, filled with warm wishes for a happy year ahead. Staring at that tree, I knew that Mum’s hands would never again put that tree up. She would never again receive Christmas cards from treasured friends. I needed to get out of there, it didn’t feel like Mum’s house anymore, it was just an empty shell, the life and soul had gone out of it, grabbing my keys, I fled.
As I reached the car, a monarch butterfly effortlessly floated past me. I shook my head with annoyance, why couldn’t Mum have listened to me.
‟What use is that to me as a sign, they’re flipping everywhere,” I muttered to myself.
*****
Driving home, hands wiping angrily at tears, I relived the last few weeks in my head.
Leaving Mum’s house that day in an Ambulance marked the end of her life. Mum had 47 days left to live and sadly none of them were spent in the home that she loved. Hospital tests had revealed Mum’s lung cancer had spread, there were tumours in her brain. Her medical team assessed her as needing full time hospital level care. Time was short.
What followed was 47 days of having her independence taken away from her piece by painful piece. Her dignity withered, but her sense of humour and spirit would not be quashed. At the hospital and later at the rest-home there were many, many laughs. Her interest in others drew in a cast of quirky characters readily available on any ward. Our hospital visits were peppered with the life stories of other’s, carefully extracted by Mum on her daily rounds, life stories that became briefly entwined with her own. There in the hospital, human nature came to the fore, in a time of fear and uncertainty, complete strangers, sought comfort in others, drawing together, reaching out. And Mum was that person, listening.
I remembered the day an orderly had brought Mum back to the hospital ward in the wheelchair. She had informed everyone that he had taken her for a tattoo on her boob. The ward nurse was incredulous, and laughingly told the rest of the staff that Mum and the orderly weren’t really visiting radiotherapy, but had been going to a dodgy tattoo parlour down the road.
Hearing her say that, I had suddenly realised who I got my sense of humour from, it was my Mum. Incredibly, this had never dawned on me before. I just assumed my humour came from Dad’s Irish side, but listening to her saying the most outrageous things to make others laugh, and seeing the oddballs that she attracted into her sphere, I was hit by a sudden epiphany. Shit, I am like my Mother, I am her. She is me.
