I was shocked at what I didn’t know about nursing homes.
A couple of falls and hospital stays meant it wasn’t safe for my mum, Lesley, to live alone any more. In 2017, at 87 years old and a shadow of her former strong self, life was rapidly slowing down for her. One Monday in May she asked me to research care homes; by Friday she was settled in her new room.
Security codes to get through two doors and signing a visitor’s book made it feel like a prison but even that didn’t prepare me for what was on the other side that first visit. I was embarrassed at my ignorance. Afterwards I sat in my car, shocked by the smells, lack of privacy, blank stares, incessant noise and myriad institutional rules that were now my mum’s life. I felt ashamed that my four siblings and I couldn’t find space or time to care for Mum ourselves.
I’d been distant from Mum and the rest of my family for 30 years. We’d meet up a few times each year and talk on the phone but we weren’t close, not since my 11-year marriage ended in 1988 and I started living in the closet with a man. Having grown up in a conservative and religious family, I kept my sexuality to myself. Even when I came out eight years later it was rarely talked about.
In her early days in the care home, food was a challenge for Mum. The meals were bland and lukewarm. She asked for provisions so she could prepare her own breakfast. Her room soon had a small fridge and a modestly stocked pantry. I began visiting daily to make breakfast. Mum would eat. I’d clean up. We’d talk, just the two of us – something we’d rarely done before. Busy large families with an often absent father leave little room for one-on-one.
Every day over breakfast, Mum would start off with questions. We covered my marriage, my kids and the first relationship with a man that followed. For the first time, we spoke about the weeks that led up to Dad leaving the marriage and family home.
Here she was, inching towards the end of her life and the conversation was the most authentic it had ever been.
She told stories too, about a fellow resident who swanned past in his underwear, or the late-night distressed cries from the room next door. But it was the easy conversation we both seemed to enjoy. Her interest was genuine.
Looking back, I’d decided decades ago that Mum didn’t want to know much about my life so I didn’t say much. In those last months we caught up on years. As I opened up more, my mum became a confidante.
There were some bumps. Mum introduced me to one carer as “my gay son”. It shocked me. After they left the room, Mum explained that one of the carer’s sons was gay. My sexuality is not anyone else’s to disclose but I couldn’t say that to her. I heard her talk about my siblings in unfiltered ways too. There was an equality in her comments about us.
When Dad died in early 2018, Mum and I had a black laugh about that. I sensed his death gave her some closure. Their divorce, back in the early 1970s, had broken her heart but not her spirit.
Mum and I shared a love of cats. One day I surprised her by sneaking in Liz, one of my tabbies. Mum’s face lit up. Liz was perfect, snuggling and loving seeing Mum again. I held back tears as I watched them enjoy each other’s company. It would be the last time.
Mum’s final month was tough. After consulting with her medical team, she decided to end all medication. The expectation was that her body would give out quickly. It did not, making for moments of awful distress, but Mum dealt with it, as she had life.
In these weeks, we began to talk about faith. Even though she knew I left my religion in childhood, Mum talked gently and with conviction, of her heartfelt beliefs and what she looked forward to. I felt selfish finding that comforting.
On Sunday 29 July 2018 I made a small yoghurt and fruit breakfast, which Mum didn’t touch. I sat while she drifted in and out. Before I left, I put Songs of Praise on the TV, as I would each Sunday. Mum recognised a hymn. Her eyes opened and she barely mouthed some of the words before drifting off again. It wrecked me for the drive home. All Mum wanted by then was peace, which was proving elusive.
She died the next day.
The relationship that developed feels like a hug that is still present today. I learned more about Lesley Fletcher as a person in those months than in the whole time I had known her. I had found an unexpected friend and acceptance.
It was a year before I realised what a gift that last year had been. I woke one morning after having a dream about entering a nursing home as a resident. Words tumbled on to the page and a day or two later I had a first draft of a fictional short story.
When something funny or dramatic happened in our family, Mum would often say we should write a book about it, as if what happened to us was unique. My book Not Dead Yet! is not about our family or Mum but the short stories, all set in nursing homes, grew from seeds planted in those precious last year with her.
