My mother became seriously ill back in May. As she was 95 this was a real concern and of course my sister and I immediately thought that this must be the beginning of the end for our mother.
My mum had packed an overnight bag and phoned for an ambulance herself after she started haemorrhaging. After waiting in A&E for several hours she was eventually misdiagnosed as having an infection. High doses of powerful antibiotics were then pumped into her intravenously for the next ten days, the back of her hands a mass of angry bruises from all the cannula inserted into them.
It wasn’t until after ten days that a doctor – she saw a different one every day – decided that as the antibiotics seemed only to be making her worse, she might not have an infection at all. He sent her for an internal scan which revealed she had suffered an internal rupture that had caused the haemorrhaging. The rupture had however begun to heal itself and consequently, though she was very ill from the effects of the antibiotics, she was discharged. It looked very much like she had been sent home to die.
The antibiotics it turned out had damaged her stomach and intestine and had seriously impaired her kidney function. Her own doctor took her off all medication to give my mother’s body a chance to heal itself. It seemed an unlikely prospect given her age and condition. By this time my mother was tired and weary of the whole process and prepared herself to die. She willed it on, in fact, unable to cope with the pain and the failure of her digestive system. When I visited her, she spoke a lot about wanting life to be over.
She was realistic about the life she had had, feeling that overall it had been good – though it was not without problems and heartache – and said she would have liked it to continue a little while longer. She was ready though to embrace oblivion and willed herself not to wake up each time she fell asleep. She made peace with her death, which to some extent helped my sister and me come to terms with it too. All the same, I couldn’t believe this was the end of my mum, a significant and loving presence in my life for all of my 71 years.
I tell you all this to emphasise just how a non-believer faces their extinction. Not with pleas to a God who isn’t there but realistically, unsentimentally, stoically. I could only admire my mother’s bravery and hope I’ll show the same courage when my time comes. The old saw that there are no atheists in fox holes is just that: a meaningless and vaguely offensive cliché.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My mother didn’t die. After a few agonising weeks she began slowly to recover; very slowly. Her doctor’s gamble and her own deep-set determination allowed her to turn a corner. She began to eat again; an extremely limited diet and a trial and error process that often made her ill again, but gradually she began to put on weight again. Eventually she became mobile again; limited to be sure, but a start. She began to take an interest in the world again and to watch TV. She said though that she was worried abut recovering because she couldn’t face going through the process of dying all over again.
I stayed with her for 3½ weeks last month so my sister who lives nearer her could take a holiday. My mother began to make her own breakfast and lunch again and to take small walks outside. The steely resolve that had prepared her for death and also helped her recover, now set her on a course of regaining her independence again. This is where she is at now, making progress still, pushing herself to do more. How much time she has left, no-one knows. Of course it’s likely to be short, given her age, but it will be a gift however long, however brief. And I suspect she won’t have to go through the process of dying again. But more on that next time.
