Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [48]
That was what I couldn’t get over.
Time is a great healer, they say. That may be true, but time doesn’t explain anything. I had so many regrets about Mum’s death. More than thirty years later, they’re still with me, every minute of the day.
The thing is, no one ever told me my mother was dying. I’ve thought about this many, many times over the years and I can’t find it in me to blame my grandparents. They were doing what they thought was best. I was a child. Any responsible adult would have done the same thing. They were trying to protect me from the horrors of death. They could never have known that I’d been living with the spectre of mortality for years. In a way, the horrors of life had been far, far worse.
Whenever I think of the time I spent at the side of her hospital bed, I cringe. I’d seen Mum comatose so many times it wasn’t an event anymore. I’d lost count of the times she’d been unable to answer simple questions. On those days I just went out and played and returned when she’d perked up. Because she always perked up eventually. Not this time.
I felt almost embarrassed for not realizing what was going on. I’d looked at Mum’s limp and bloated body, grunting occasional utterances, and thought she was getting over a night out. In fact, her body was going through the final shutdown. One by one, her faculties were switching off. And I didn’t notice.
As the news of her passing began to sink in, I couldn’t believe how bored I’d been. If I’d known they were her last moments, what would I have done differently? I don’t know. But I would have felt different. I wouldn’t have been desperate to escape. I would have stayed, like Granny, holding her hand until the very end.
As it was, I never got to say goodbye. That was the hardest blow of all. When I’d skipped out of the ward, I hadn’t looked back. I just assumed she’d be there the next day. I couldn’t even remember my last words to her. I’d probably said them when we were still together at home. I was probably on my way to school or looking for my shoes, something mundane like that. Had I told her recently how much I loved her? I couldn’t remember. I should have done. I should have told her every day. I loved her so much, and maybe she never knew.
I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye at her funeral either. Again, as was customary at the time, because of my age, I wasn’t allowed to go to church for the cremation service, although, as an adult, I have never missed visiting her memorial on the anniversary of her death. My last memory of Mum is her lying there, bloated and incoherent in that hospital bed. I wish I had closure, I truly do. I wish I remembered her in better times. But that was it. That’s the image that stayed with me for so long afterwards.
Three times I went to see her in hospital. Three times, and for a grand total of maybe a couple of hours. That was all the time I could spare. And she never did eat that bloody cake! That was something else that made me angry, illogically so. But it’s something I can smile about now. I can’t say that about many things from those days.
I was so stunned by Mum dying that it was a day or two before I asked how. I don’t think children contemplate causes of death that much. You’re either alive or you’re not. Knowing what killed someone doesn’t make their death any easier to bear. It’s a healthy way to think, actually. I wish adults could hold on to that simplicity of thought for longer.
Granny told me Mum had died from the cold. She’d been out, poorly dressed for the chilly spring night, and was found shivering and ill. She’d been taken to hospital and that’s when my grandparents had been called. She’d lasted two weeks.
I couldn’t work it out. I’d seen Mum cold many times. We’d both sat, freezing, in various flats and bedsits. I’d seen her breath come out of her mouth and her nails turn blue in our lounge. I’d never known that cold could kill people. Now I knew differently. Or so I thought.
I was eight years old when my mother died on 30 April 1978.
My father