Marianne Talbot The other day mum’s home called to say that mum had a temperature. They were going to give her paracetamol and call the doctor. Later they rang to say that her temperature had gone down, and that the doctor hadn’t found anything wrong.
I saw mum that evening, and apart from the fact that, try as I might, she wouldn’t eat anything, she didn’t seem too bad.
The following day I again went in at supper time to try to encourage her to eat. Mum did not seem at all well, she was very sleepy, and every time she moved she appeared to be in pain. I rang the doctor, to discover that mum hadn’t allowed the doctor to examine her on the previous visit, so it wasn’t surprising she found nothing. I asked the doctor if she’d please visit again.
A few hours ago I spoke to the doctor. The news is not good. Mum has a 'mass' in her right bowel.
That word 'mass'. It’s so ominous isn’t it? I keep thinking of the fact that that’s what Fatcat has too. But this thought seems oddly irreverent, as if I am comparing how I feel about Fatcat to how I feel about mum.
But what do I feel about mum? I feel numb. I feel wobbly. My hands, as I type this, are shaking. I also feel an odd sort of excitement.
Goodness, that sounds terrible. But I have been expecting something like this for so long that its arrival is almost a relief.
As the doctor pointed out, though, it could be something as simple as stools. The only way of finding out would be to take mum into hospital for a scan or an X-ray.
But that would agitate mum beyond belief. And for what? If they do find a 'proper' mass (as the doctor put it) what are we going to do, subject mum to a general anaesthetic and a stay in hospital?
I don’t think so.
Thank goodness I have mum’s 'living will', which explicitly asks that she be 'allowed to die' should there be no reasonable prospect that she would recover from an illness that would cause her 'severe distress' or render her 'incapable of rational existence'.
But the family might disagree, and obviously this is a decision we must take together. I am waiting to hear from them.
In the meantime I am comforted by the fact that yesterday, when I was stroking mum’s hair and telling her she was beautiful, she looked me straight in the eye and uttered a whole sentence: 'you’re a very nice person', she said, 'sweetie-pie'.
It’s bringing the tears to my eyes to think about it.