{ Motherless Daughters } uniting those experiencing motherloss

Our Stories

Kay's Story

I was 31 years old when I lost my Mother to the "Big C", and she was only 65 and way too young. That was ten long years ago, in September 1994. Yet sometimes it still feels like only yesterday.

My Mum was the backbone of our family and everyone was drawn to her because of her warmth; not just family but friends also, and sometimes even total strangers. She 'oozed' sunshine and compassion, and her smile was so genuine, caring and welcoming; it made you feel good just to see it.

BUT our world started to fall apart in December 1992 when Mum suffered a fairly decent stroke. Her speech and thought processes were the mainly effected areas. She could perform many of the day to day housekeeping tasks, but cooking was no longer easy for her. Mum could speak and have a conversation but very slowly, and she got her words mixed up now and then. "Cussing", or swearing, came really easily to her, but I think it was the frustration of not being able to do and be what she was previously.

As I was newly home from my O.E. in Sydney, Australia and was currently unemployed and living with my Mum and Dad. We lived in a small rural "hydro" town near the middle of the North Island of New Zealand, so jobs were few and far between, but in a way it was a blessing that I was not tied to a job at that time and I could spend as much time with Mum as was needed. So I took on the role of chief cook and speech therapy "buddy", which was of great help to her and Dad.

Then in Spring 1994 my Mum was suffering with what we thought was just a heavily congested chest. Then in the wee hours of one morning, she was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, so I remember propping her up in bed with two or three pillows. This helped but not for long and as this seemed like it was not going to rectify itself I made a phone call to the On-Call Duty Doctor in the neighbouring town, as our regular GP (whom Mum had seen the day before) was off duty and out of town. The doctor I did get to speak to listened carefully as I gave him all the relevant info about my Mum's condition. He suggested I call for an ambulance, which I did immediately.

Then I had to explain to my Mum what was about to happen, which upset her enormously. No way did she want to be taken to hospital, no ambulance, no doctor. She was adamant. But I had to be firm and tell her that they were on their way and hospital would be the best place for her. She cried and pleaded with me but I had to stand firm on my decision, and with Dad's support we calmed her down and she then accepted what was to happen. It was killing me inside having to be so 'pushy' and making her cry ripped at my heart, but I knew it had to be done.

Mum's lungs were full of fluid and they had to be drained, and it was when they tested the fluid that they found the cancerous cells. Yet it could not be determined where the cancer had started...she was pretty much riddled with it. We were informed of all this on "Daffodil Day", which in New Zealand is the nationally recognized day that the NZ Cancer Society hit the streets to fundraise for their cause, selling fresh daffodils. Ironic?

We were told that Mum had at best 6 months and at worst 6 weeks! This was devastating to us who had no idea how ill she had been all this time. Was the stroke two years earlier a warning of what was happening inside? To this day we do not know. Anger and frustration consumed me and I took a lot of it out on the nursing staff during my first visit after being told the horrendous news.

We got to take Mum home a few days later and I took on the role of 'nurse-aid' which was a totally foreign concept. But I got by and with some help from my Dad as well as other family and friends, Mum's last days were hopefully as comfortable for her as possible. Some of Mum's favourite meals were cooked for her and she battled her way through them as best as she could, whilst laid up in bed. Now and then she came out of the bedroom and managed to sit on the couch and watch some television, or receive some visitors.

A friend and neighbour, who had also lost her mother only a couple of years earlier to cancer, gave me the best advice possible at the time. She in turn had received it from a friend who had his mother to cancer also. This advice was to .... "Say everything you have always wanted to say to your Mum, and ask her everything you have ever wanted to and always wanted to ask her." I have always been so grateful to that friend as my mother and I had the most precious conversations in those last cherished days. Although Mum could not communicate as well as she used to before her stroke, she still managed to get her message across so well. I asked her about her youth and her courting days with Dad. Then we cried together as I apologised for not yet making her a grandmother. She understood and told me that it was okay and not to worry. That was precious.

One sweet memory I will always keep precious is helping Mum choose the clothes she would lie in state and be buried in. Together we picked out everything from outer wear to underwear to shoes, necklace and earrings. My mother was always so meticulous with her personal grooming, and especially when she would be 'out' or on show. So needless to say she was going to look absolutely fabulous.

One special moment I had whilst nursing Mum happened one night as we lay sleeping in the same bed. I stayed with Mum the whole time as she had to be on a nebuliser every 4-5 hours, even during the night, so I would set my alarm and we would go through the whole rigmarole in the middle of the night. But this one special night (three nights before she passed over) i woke up before the alarm went off, turned over and looked at Mum in the darkness. But Mum wasn't alone, she had 'someone' standing by her, glowing and shimmering in a silvery-blue haze. I remember feeling warm and unafraid, and thinking to myself, "Oh it's only Nanny", then i rolled back over and went back to sleep. The next morning Mum told me she had dreamt that she was going to die soon; that her time was coming soon. So I feel that what I saw was her 'angel', her messenger just letting her know that 'they' would soon be coming for her. Whilst on morphine, Mum had conversations with some of her relations who were already in the world of spirit, for example she had a very vocal disagreement with her father, who had died almost twenty years earlier.

We only got to keep her for three and a half weeks from the date of the diagnosis, as she succumbed to a chest infection which soon became pneumonia. I feel honoured to have been there to help her and care for her in a way she had once done for me when I was a baby and unable to fend for myself. It was like a reversal of roles, but so precious and felt the natural thing to do. While during the whole arduous time she never once complained , or even hinted of any discomfort or pain. We shared some special times, just me and her. Sometimes we didn't need to speak, we just knew, and just spent time together lying on the bed holding hands or cuddling. But during that time she and I bonded in such a deep, caring and, I believe, a spiritual way.

The initial grief I felt was like my heart being sliced in to pieces, literally. The anger finally left but the frustration stayed for a long long time. I (along with my Dad) visited Mum's grave every weekend for almost two whole years. The tears eventually became few and far between...during the day...but at night, when my mind was trying to wind down, was when the worst grief came out. Practically every single night for two years, I cried and cried whilst under the covers. Crying myself to sleep became just a natural bodily function to me. But as time progressed I later found I was lying there waiting and waiting for the onslaught of tears, and then some nights the tears never came. Maybe that wasn't healthy in some peoples minds, but I felt I could not hold it all in all the time. During the day I was "on", I was at work and had to get on with things. So the night time when I was all alone was the time for me to grieve.

Time helped me, but it didn't heal me. I don't think I will ever heal, not properly, not totally. The scars will always be there. But I don't want to forget the whole experience as no matter how painful it was/is it was special and precious in it's own way. The bond I shared with Mum was so close and so deep. She was the number one person in my life at the time; I had no child, I had no partner...just her. My relationships with my father and brother were and have never been that close. But I felt that speaking about the whole experience from start to finish has always helped. Whether it be to friends ( you soon know who your true friends are when you try to talk about a subject such as this) or family or a total stranger such as a counsellor. I found I got closer with friends who had lost a close loved one such as a parent. They could understand me and what was going on in my head and in my heart.

I think of Mum often, sometimes daily, and she pops up in a lot of my dreams. Now and then I re-live the awful day she died and the unpleasantness of it all...as she did not go peacefully, but I soon snap out of it and make sure I end with a loving memory. I know I will see Mum again, and I will feel her loving arms around me once again. For now I know when my turn comes she, and other loved ones I have lost, will be there to help me and guide me through the 'transition' from this world to the next.

Š Kay

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