MY MOTHER

PROLOGUE It was a dim, dismal afternoon – not unlike any other dim, dismal winter afternoon, but one which would be forever etched into my school girl memory. I plonked my schoolbag down onto the threadbare carpet in the tiny hall. “I’m home, mum “, I yelled enthusiastically. My mother was usually at work at this time of day but had taken the day off suffering from a niggling pain from what the doctor had diagnosed as a severe bout of sciatica. It would be lovely to have her home every day when I arrived home from school so we could talk over the events of our daily lives before the memories were erased by mundane chores. There was no reply to my greeting. Feeling a little anxious I called again, “Where are you mom?” Again no reply. Oh well she’s probably popped next door for a cup of tea with Auntie Dolly. I told myself disappointedly. I ran upstairs. The bedroom door was slightly open – mom was sitting on the bed. “Oh there you are! Is there anything wrong?” She roused herself with a little start. “No – why should there be?” She answered sharply. Something is wrong. I told myself grimly. My mother was always so even tempered, it was unlike her to snap at me. She got to her feet shakily and began pacing around the room clutching her arms to her breast. I drew back – suddenly afraid. This was so unlike mom, she was usually so calm, and controlled, a tower of strength. The restless pacing continued and suddenly, drip, drip, drip, rivulets of bright red blood ran down her stockinged legs onto the floor. She must have her period. I thought. Mine at the age of twelve had started a few months earlier. “Leave me alone Pam. I’ll be alright in a minute.” Of course she was not all right. I could see she was on the verge of fainting. “Sit down mom – PLEASE” I yelled, by now very frightened. She collapsed into the bedroom chair, grey and exhausted. She made no protest as I gently pulled her arms away from her chest. To my horror a thick matt of blood soaked paper towelling came away with them. Half of her left breast was completely eroded away and tiny spurts of blood welled from the exposed blood vessels. Sick with terror I grabbed towels from the bathroom to staunch the relentless flow of blood and, after what seemed to be an eternity, it appeared under control. I glanced her ashen face. “Mom stay still and I’ll make you a cup of tea!” The panacea for all ills! I thought grimly as I ran downstairs swiftly, scared about leaving her alone. I quickly boiled the kettle, made a strong brew and again ran up the stairs balancing the cup and saucer precariously. I held the sweet scolding tea to her lips as she sipped gratefully. “Mom, I’d better go and fetch auntie Dolly.” She clutched my arm frantically. “No, no, you mustn’t tell anyone! Promise me Pam, you mustn’t tell anyone!” Alarmed by her panic, I promised reluctantly. With great difficulty I managed to get her undressed and into bed. She lay there motionless a grey pallor covering her face. I realised she was seriously ill. How long had she been losing so much blood? Even to my inexperienced young mind I could see that she was on the point of imminent collapse. There was no way I could go to school tomorrow leaving her on her own. After a sleepless night, endless thoughts and scenarios racing through my mind, I decided something had to be done. I ran next door to my aunt and blurted out the whole horrific episode. My aunt listened, horrified. My mother, too exhausted and spent, allowed herself to be gently washed and the absorbent towels on her breast removed and renewed. An exercise which immediately started the relentless bleeding once more. Of course nothing could be done except to urgently summon the doctor. My frightened aunt stood by while he examined my mother gently. I stood at the end of the bed, feeling guilty and shaken at my broken promise not to tell of my mother’s demise. I needn’t have worried, she was long past caring about what was happening. Grim lipped the GP left to call an ambulance from his surgery, in 1948 few people enjoyed the luxury of a home telephone. Mum was taken to the nearest general hospital where emergency surgery was scheduled. The next morning the rest of my mother’s ulcerated breast was removed and chemotherapy in the form of testosterone injections was instigated. Home from hospital, it was arranged for her to undertake a course of radiotherapy, but her screams of pain whenever the ambulance workers carried her from the bedroom to transport to the hospital for treatment soon made the powers that be decide it was too traumatic to continue. Of course, it was all too late. Why had she not sought treatment earlier? Apparently, seven years earlier a small lump had appeared in her left breast. She chose to ignore it. Four years later, after falling down the stairs and dislocating her shoulder, the attending doctor, seeing the lump, now the size of a hen’s egg, asked her to make an appointment with a specialist. Advice again she chose to ignore and was now suffering the consequences. The year passed by all too quickly for me – even as an ignorant fourteen year old I could see my mother was not long for this world. But her spirit never wavered. As long as she had her morphine ‘fix’, her resilient constitution asserted itself. During the winter months following her operation, I succumbed to a bout of influenza and fainted on the floor of the bedroom. Despite being bedridden for many weeks, my dear mother forced herself, through the clouds of pain, downstairs to make me a milk pudding to nurture me back to health. Such is the “stuff” mothers are made of! Almost twelve months to the day of her operation she passed into a coma and two days later left this world and her grief stricken daughter. However, I digress – let me go back to my mother’s youth and her early history – such as I know it.