Saving the day in the short story of my weekend with my mum

My Story Hiding behind a coffee cup First of all, thank you for all the emails and comments on this post. I never dreamed my story would be able to help as many people as it has, but I'm so glad it did.

Saving the day in the short story of my weekend with my mum

Share via Email Photograph: This is technically true, though it was just my brother and me and he was looking at Facebook and I was reading a profile of Hillary Clinton in the December issue of Vogue.

She was breathing in that slow, irregular way that signals that the end is near. My brother got off the couch and called her name, too. It was turning from red to purple to blue. Perhaps I would rage at the gods, regret all that had gone unsaid, pull an article of clothing from her closet and hold it close, taking her in.

But none of that happened. I picked her hand up a few more times over the next two hours while we waited for another hospice worker to come over and fill out the final paperwork and then for the men from the funeral home to take her away.

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I did this less for the sake of holding it than to make sure she still had no pulse. She must have found us appalling. A week or so before my mother died, my brother and I started packing up the apartment right in front of her.

I know this sounds grotesque, but we were haemorrhaging money and had to do whatever we could to stem the flow. It was late December and her lease was up on the first of the new year.

Vera was a professional end-of-life home healthcare aide, referred to us by the hospice. She was originally from Trinidad and spent a lot of time listening to Christmas music on headphones. She was 67 years old. But in Januaryafter months of complaining of pain in her side and being told by her doctor it was probably a pulled muscle, she was found to have gallbladder cancer.

This sounds like the kind of thing you could easily cure by just removing the gallbladder, which everyone knows is a nonessential organ, but it turns out the disease is not only extremely rare but barely treatable.

My grandmother was tyrannical in her childishness. She was stubborn, self-centred, and often seemingly wilfully illogical.

Not in the sense of failing to provide food and shelter but in the sense that is knowable only to the neglectee, and even then maybe never entirely. In the outside world, she won piano competitions and twirled the baton, but inside the house she offered nothing more than an occasional mumble. I think the idea was that her mother was so unwilling to listen to her that she was no longer going to waste her breath.

But as I grew older and my grandfather died and my mother lost what little buffer had once stood between her and her adversary, the more I came to see the pathology that swarmed around my grandmother like bees.

She spoke in a permanent whine, sometimes practically in baby talk.

haveing read the story about hannahs brain tumour, it all came flooding back when i found out my 38 year old daughter has the same brain tumour in the same place, this was her second brain monstermanfilm.com was told she only had 12 to 18 mounths to live this was back in sadly she moved and that was the last time i see her. i been trying to find her but all as failed. i miss her deeply. i dont. AN E-NOVEL BY SPACER X (MF, FF, inc, slow, reluc, voy) This is an e-novel, which is heavily illustrated with about pictures for each part, done in Japanese anime style. Free business-day shipping within the U.S. when you order $25 of eligible items sold or fulfilled by Amazon.

It would require travel to southern Illinois, a ragged, rural place out of which my grandmother had seldom set foot and from which my mother, despite having left at 23, never felt she could totally escape. My father, though sort of in the picture in that he also lived in Manhattan and was still married to my mother, was not in any picture that would have required him to make this trip.

Saving the day in the short story of my weekend with my mum

The rest of us, though, would go the following month, when my brother could request a few days off and after my mother was recovered from her surgery and had gotten in a round or two of chemotherapy.

It would turn out to be the last trip she ever took. In truth, the actor had dropped out before she began working there, but my brother and I nodded and went along with it. There was a period of at least 15 years, from approximately age 18 to age 34, when every interaction I had with my mother entailed some attempt on my part to cut through what I perceived as a set of intolerable affectations.

Not that she actually was or did any of these things. It was more that she always felt to me like an outline of a person, a pen-and-ink drawing with nothing coloured in.My last pregnancy at 36 weeks, I was in preterm labour with strong contractions and had my son at 37 weeks (you can read more about this birth experience here) so this time at 35 weeks when the Braxton Hicks I had been experiencing started to become more painful I knew immediately that this was the start of preterm labour.

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Feb 21,  · One day, in his sleep, he walked to my study table, took a few books and went to the toilet. After a while, he came out from the toilet, without the books.

I went to check and saw a pile of books on the toilet seat.

My Mother, Short Story | Write4Fun