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Chapter 8 Always - Mum

Chapter 8

Always - Mum

Peter! Your tea's on the table.

Peter, that's brilliant!

Peter, please share with your brother.

Have you done your homework?

Do you really think that’s good enough?

Where‘ve you been?

What time do you call this?

I’m so proud of you.

How do you think you’ve done?

I think you quite like her.

If Sean Gathercole’s mum ever tells me again that you and your friends have been unkind to him at school you’ll be in big trouble!

I was so excited! I can’t believe you won.

It’s your turn to dry the washing up.

I’d love to have had the chance to stay on at school.

Give me Sacha (Distel) or Burt (Bacharach) anytime over that racket.

Back by five! Don’t argue!

Need any help with your spelling?

What’s up? Is anything the matter?

You can invite her round for tea if you want.

I can still whup you at tennis

Here’s 20p for a snack.

Your grandmother told me nothing about boys or sex. I was clueless until I started work.

It’s in the wash.

Go and give your Dad a hand.

You can do it.

Well done!

Always there, always picking me up, always putting me in my place, always encouraging, always proud, always protective, always teaching, always firm, always loving, always, always…

Except suddenly out of the blue, over a few short months, ‘always' turns into ‘never’.

Our summer holiday in 1975 had been a bit odd. Mum had been feeling exhausted and not quite right so Dad and Jackie had done most of the cooking in the caravan. Unusually she’d not been keen on going in the sea and the cliff-top walks were quite short.

‘I’ll see the doctor again when we get home.'

We drifted into autumn. For me it was now the sixth form and full-on swimming. The parents from our side of town worked a rota to get the local swimmers to the pools around the City that were being used for the County Squad training sessions. Mum struggled to contribute with the driving share so increasingly I’d be responding to enquiries about her health with a standard ‘Just feeling worn out, thanks’ or ‘The Doctor’s put her on a different pills to help her get over it.’

As Christmas approached, it must have been evident to any adults, whether family or acquaintances, that Mum was in trouble. I’m not sure with whom Dad had shared the cancer diagnosis but clearly it was difficult for them all, knowing the situation and yet trying to keep things normal for us children. I think I’d put a mental “No-Entry” sign up in my mind refusing access to any morbid thoughts and was trying to just get on with things. It didn’t help that I’d been dumped by Helen Lovett, which was a bit of a blow. Although things weren’t really going anywhere I suspect her parents insisted she concentrate on her A-Levels as she had also simultaneously dipped out of swimming. Mum offered some emotional support: 'Plenty more fish etc.’ but I didn’t take the opportunity to reciprocate, even though looking back now, I know she’d have been happy to talk about the likely future outcome, her hopes and fears.

And fears it must have been, because it was clear early in the new year that the radical immunology treatment, involving regular drug cocktails, was not having the desired effect. In fact it was making life even more painful as the side-effects increased. This was before radiography and chemo’ became established treatment options and, at some point, the decision was made that nothing more could be done.

Dad shared this news with us one evening.

‘Kids, Mum’s not going to get better. She’s being incredibly brave but the doctors have said it might only be a few weeks.’

The ‘No Entry' sign had been ripped down. It wasn’t possible to mentally deny it was happening any longer and I retreated to my room in a fog of anger (Why us?), selfishness (How would we cope?) and self-consciousness (It’s going to be really awkward and embarrassing with friends).

The thing is, you can’t hide and the next day the routine dragged me along, so I just muddled through. Family friends were brilliant and helped where they could; mates were brilliant and just didn’t mention the situation and other adults behaved like adults and kept a security blanket around us. Our Bramcote swim coach, Paul de Feu, kept an eye on the three of us.

I don’t think I was much help to anyone. I was sixteen and not really ready emotionally to be included in adult conversations about pending events and consequences, but neither did I want to be treated like a child and be told everything will be okay (eventually).

I tried to talk with Mum but she was struggling to focus and our chats didn’t go deep. I didn’t really talk with Harry and Ethel, who were doing their best to help with both child-care and nursing and were understandably in an emotional mess. I didn’t talk to Jackie or Rick, other than sharing our ‘We’ll be okay’ mantra, and I don’t remember offering much support to Dad.

Dad surprised us with a colour TV for the start of the Innsbruck Winter Olympics but as we moved into February other events took over. Mum went into hospital for a full blood transfusion, which at least made her feel better for a few days before she returned home, and we moved a bed downstairs so she’d not be isolated. I’ll always recall helping carry her downstairs: despite the morphine she would be grimacing, trying not to share the pain. Meanwhile Rick had ended up in hospital with pleurisy for a few days and we always had one or another family friend constantly helping with the nursing, as Mum increasingly drifted out of it.

On Monday 9th February, my school day was interrupted at lunchtime by a message and I headed home, knowing what was to come. Dad was home, Rick was back after being discharged and Jackie arrived shortly after me so we were all together at the end as she slipped out of our lives.

The funeral was on Friday and the week was tough: a continuous stream of potentially-difficult encounters. Most were with family and neighbours who could clearly offer nothing other than the usual sympathies and support.

Two encounters however stick in my mind, both from the day after she died.

Robbo, Sally Smith and Mick P knocked on the door the next morning. ‘Sorry about your Mum.’ And we headed off to school with any awkwardness dealt with in that one sentence.

I’d also gone to the early swim session at 6:30am the next morning. This must have put coach Paul de Feu in a spot, as I guess he’d have assumed I wouldn’t be there and would have taken the opportunity to tell the other swimmers and parents the news. He dealt with it. ‘Anytime Peter, just ask.' And we got on with the session.

We moved on.

I grieved quietly - not crying, adapting, slowly realising as the months and years passed that ‘never’ would become an increasingly common word whenever thoughts turned reflective.

Never be nagged about homework

…..…. probed about my girlfriends.

….….. have my clothes chosen.

……… appreciate her cooking, cleaning and care.

……… share a celebration in school achievements and graduation.

……… enjoy holidays together.

……… hear her opinions on music, haircuts, TV viewing.

……… share my sporting successes and sympathy of failures.

……… be advised and guided in my steps into and through adult life.

……… meet Sue and come to my wedding.

……… play with her grandchildren.

And yet......