Mum died sometime last night. In her kitchen without her wheelie-walker. So she fell. And nobody was with her. My Dad has been in care at their retirement village for a couple of months. I last spoke to her several weeks ago. She rang me, which was unusual for her. Maybe she knew she was on borrowed time. And in her usual mercurial style, she admitted she hadn't told Dad he was still living in their estate. She said she didn't want him popping home for lunch. So my Mum.
She'd had another fall and was confined to barracks. Because she was in pain, I tried to lighten her mood. I can still hear the echoes of her laughter in my heart as I chatted about our lives, the Three Stooges, Madame Cat and the Pirate Parrot. That was a wonderful conversation.
Shortly afterwards, Mum was admitted into a rehab facility to get her pain medication evened out. She had been home in her unit for a couple of weeks. My brother David had spoken to me about coming over to Coolum to see them. Michael and I decided we would go after settlement and hopefully around Dad's 92nd birthday. I hadn't seen either of them since April in 2012. We had not parted on great terms. They had wanted to live with us in a granny flat, then they had wanted to go back to Queensland, then they had wanted to live in Balladong Retirement Village in York and then they had wanted to build the granny flat again. I had put my foot down. the retirement village or nothing. Mum, furious that I wouldn't follow her crazy-paving pathway, returned the two of them to the Sunshine Coast. I was torn apart by my guilt.
The last four years of her life have not been easy. Increasingly thin and frail, with Dad needing more care, they finally seemed to be getting enough in-home care. Last year, Mum was in hospital for three months whilst Dad partied in their home. He was chauffeured, supplied with dinners and enjoyed the odd glass of red and the TV at full throttle. Mum was labelled a "difficult" patient and bitterly resented her internment. Because my darling Mum never had the personal insight to see the trail of wreckage she left in her wake.
Mum was the brightest star in the universe and the Spanish Inquisition in one tiny person. I loved her, but I was frightened of her. I longed to be completely honest with her, but that enraged her. She was hugely intelligent and always doubted her talents. She wanted a happy family with lots of children but seemed incapable to consistent mothering. I never knew whether I would receive incredible warmth or extreme rejection. I lost count of the number of times I cried myself to sleep because I'd displeased her. If she was angry, she would play us off, one against the other. One of us was always on the outer. And she would give us all the silent treatment - for days, weeks, months or years. And I was always drawn back to her like a moth to a flame.
A few weeks ago, I was reading an article on Borderline Personality Disorder in the Weekend Australian newspaper. I was absolutely mesmerised - the symptoms described all manifested in Mum. People with this disorder are often accused of malingering, of attention seeking, of grandstanding. And they feel intensely and have no locus of control. Hence they often abuse alcohol or drugs or attempt to control other aspects of their lives. They may attempt suicide to end their emotional pain. In Mum's case, she drank, smoked, appeared to have episodes of severe depression, talked about suicide and used Epsom Salts to keep herself painfully thin.
Every time she was unhappy, the family moved. I lived in ten houses in seventeen years. I changed schools five times. There were casualties along the way. My brother Michael went off the rails and has been estranged from the rest of the family for many years. I looked for stable love and married very young. Only in the last seven years have I experienced unconditional happiness with Michael.
And yet I miss her terribly. I had hoped to see her in the next month and just hold her frail little person close to me and tell her I loved her. This will not happen. Except we are still going. To see my darling Dad, hopefully alive, and feel Mum's extraordinary presence one last time.
Unfortunately, I have very few photographs of Mum and none online. In some ways, she would like that. To maintain an air of mystery.
I love you, my darling Mum. Rest in peace.
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