Mum had a stroke on Tuesday 27 September 2016.
Peter rang me from the hospital. He had gone to the house after Mum failed to answer the telephone. A neighbour had seen the ambulance. By the time he called, Mum had been admitted and was being assessed.
Alan drove me from Emsworth. I could have driven, but he took the keys before I asked. On the way, Peter rang twice with information that changed very little and still had to be passed on.
Mum was awake when I first saw her. Her speech had been affected and one side of her body was weak. She knew Peter and me. I am less certain that she followed everything we said, though we carried on speaking as if she did.
I told her Alan was outside the ward and would come in later. I told her I had brought her glasses. I asked whether she wanted them.
She moved her hand towards them, so I put them on her.
The glasses sat crooked. I adjusted them and asked if that was better. Mum gave a small movement that might have meant yes or might have meant I should stop interfering.
Peter had brought her handbag because he thought she would ask for it. She did not. The nurses needed her medication list, so we searched the bag and then rang the surgery. Mum had always known what she took and when. We discovered that neither of us had listened closely enough.
The first day was made up of questions.
When had she last been well? What tablets did she take? Did she live alone? Was there a key safe? Who should be contacted? Had she made any written decisions about treatment?
Peter and I answered separately and compared our answers afterwards. We agreed on most things. Where we did not, we chose the version that could be checked.
Alan came into the ward in the evening. Mum looked at him for longer than she had looked at us.
‘Hello, Joan,’ he said. ‘It’s Alan.’
She knew that. Her expression made this plain.
The doctors explained what they knew and what they did not. They were careful with predictions. Peter wanted a timetable. I wanted one as well, though I thought I concealed it better.
Over the next few days, we divided the visiting. Peter lived nearer and went in during the morning. I went after work or took leave. Alan drove when I asked and sometimes when I did not.
Mum slept for long periods. When she was awake, she could answer some questions by moving her head or hand. Once she tried to say something several times. I leaned closer and gave her possible words until she became tired of me.
Peter thought she had asked about the house.
I thought she had said his name.
Neither of us could prove it.
On Thursday, I went to Portchester to collect nightclothes and toiletries. The house was as Mum had left it. There were shopping receipts on the side and washing in the machine. I moved the washing because leaving it there seemed worse than doing it. Then I stood in the kitchen trying to remember what else a person needed in hospital.
I took two nightdresses, a cardigan, toothpaste, a comb and the slippers she disliked because Peter had bought them too large. At the ward, a nurse explained that Mum did not need most of it yet.
I left the bag anyway.
On Friday, Mum was less responsive. We were told that the stroke had been severe and that there were other complications. The language remained careful. I wrote things down because written words could be checked later.
Peter asked whether we should tell Claire and Michael to visit. They had already asked. We arranged times so the ward would not be crowded.
Claire sat beside Mum and spoke about Ruby. Michael told her about work. They both tried to sound ordinary. Mum opened her eyes when Claire said Ruby’s name.
On Saturday, Alan and I went in together. He told Mum that the bungalow was all right and that he had checked her back door after Peter left. He told her what he had checked and stopped there.
Mum’s condition worsened on Sunday. Peter and I were called to the hospital. Claire and Michael came later, then went home when we told them to. Alan stayed nearby and brought food nobody wanted.
I sat on one side of the bed and Peter sat on the other. We spoke to Mum. There were long periods when neither of us said anything because we had reached the end of the information available.
Mum died on Monday 3 October.
A nurse asked whether we wanted more time with her. We said yes, although neither of us knew what the correct amount of time would be.
Peter stood first. He asked whether I had Mum’s house keys.
I checked my coat pocket. They were there.
Alan drove us back to Portchester. Peter opened the front door and I put the hospital bag in the hallway. The washing I had moved on Thursday was still on the airer.
We made a list of people who needed to be told.