Fifty-eight
The next day was the last day of February. Pat was working, and Don planned to make his own way to the hospital.
However, some time before he needed to leave home, he received a call to say the staff were finding it difficult to wake his mum, and her breathing had changed. She had begun a stop start rhythm that was often a sign the patient was deteriorating. It was strongly suggested to him he would do well to get there as soon as possible and not wait for visiting hours.
‘But … she was better. She was awake yesterday. She spoke to us.’
‘Sometimes patients have what we call a last hurrah, Mr Campbell. I think your mum had some goodbyes to say.’
In a blind panic, Don rang Beth. She was way over the other side of town, they agreed it would be best if she drove herself. He also attempted to get a message to Pat at work.
Driving to the hospital, oblivious to anyone else on the road, he arrived in record time, and made it to his mum’s bedside before either of the others. Sitting alone, he glanced at the doorway every few seconds, hoping for some company.
In the bed next to him, Nanna breathed slow deliberate breaths. Every so often she stopped breathing for what seemed like ages, but was maybe a minute or so, before beginning her routine, once more, with a laboured breath. The silence in between was eerie. Don held her hand. He thanked her for everything she’d ever done for him. He told her she was the most amazing woman in the world, and that no one else had ever had a mum like her. He told her she was loved, and he stroked her fine hair away from her face. A nurse came and pulled the curtains around the bed to afford him some privacy, assuring him she would lead his wife and daughter straight to him as soon as they arrived.
As the gaps between Nanna’s breathing grew longer, and the breaths themselves became incredibly shallow, he faced the fact the other two probably weren’t going to make it.
On the day Don was born his father had not attended the birth. It simply wasn’t the done thing back then. Malcolm Campbell was happy to wait at home for word to reach him that the child had arrived safely. He then met some friends, and proceeded to ‘wet the bairn’s heed’. The hospital was not the place for him, he was sure his wife would have ‘done a sterling job, right enough’.
So, for the first night after Don had entered the world, it had been just him and his mum, alone in a hospital bed. Now, as she left that same world, it was, once again, just the two of them in the same place. He held on to her hand as tightly as he dared, not wanting to cause her any pain. She never once opened her eyes to acknowledge her son, but just like before, he was sure she knew he was there.
Because the roads were icy, the A&E department was busier than usual, and it was a while before Pat finally received the message and managed to disentangle herself from work. Equally, the traffic was slow the way Beth had to come from work, and it took her forever to reach the hospital. Coincidently, they arrived at the same time. Rushing for Nanna’s bed, they could hear Don gently crying behind the curtain.
As Pat approached her husband, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, he looked up and acknowledged their arrival. ‘She’s gone.’
Pat squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘She wasn’t alone.’
‘That’s good. She would’ve been pleased you were here.’
Don tried to respond, but the words choked him.
Pat continued, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, we were busy and your message …’
‘It’s OK. I was all right. Except … her breathing was … Oh, Pat, she kept stopping and I kept thinking …’
Rubbing his back gently, Pat said. ‘It’s Cheyne-Stokes breathing. It’s quite common.’
‘And then …’ Don was struggling to speak. ‘It was the end. She did one out breath and I just knew. Pat, I just knew …’
Pat’s arms encircled her husband and she held him tight.
Beth could hardly believe what she was hearing. The only person she’d previously lost had been Mandy, and she had been abstract. Mandy had been a mere concept, a collection of hopes and plans. This was so much worse. Nanna had meant infinitely more. Beth looked at the person in the bed, barely dead half an hour, she was already different. Every last bit of vitality was gone. ‘Can I … kiss her?’
‘Of course. She’d like that,’ Don replied.
Beth approached the bed. Bending over Nanna, she whispered, ‘I love you,’ and kissed her cool forehead.
She heard Lisa say, ‘I love you too, Nanna.’
A thought struck her. The last thing Nanna ever said to us was that she loved us. This gave her comfort.
Turning to her mum and dad, she saw her own misery matched in their faces. They reached out their arms for her and she ran to them, accepting their embrace. The family held on to each other for comfort. A nurse appeared and, offering her condolences, headed off to begin the required process. Beth had never known such sadness.