Chapter 36
ALRIGHT, OUR KID!
Becca
‘Mum,’ I say, holding her hand. We are alone. Ruairi is in the corridor fielding phone calls. Conal and Adam have gone to get some rest. Or at least, Adam has gone to get some rest. Conal has gone to retrieve Daniel and take him on a long walk with Lazlo. The doggy bromance continues.
So for now, it’s Mum and me in this quiet side room as the light falls out and the room is illuminated only by a dim over-bed lamp. It would be quite relaxing, I think, if it wasn’t the stroke ward.
My mother is awake. She is, amazingly, able to talk a little but there is a marked slur to her words and her face is still drooping on one side. It’s distressing for her, obviously, but I think the droop isn’t quite as severe as it was even this morning.
She has weakness in her left side. She hasn’t yet been strong enough to try to walk, although they aim to get her out of bed tomorrow just for some short sessions.
They’ll do some more tests tomorrow too, get a physio and an occupational therapist to come and see her.
They will assess whether she might need a speech therapist. There is a lot still to find out.
We were told not to think about it too much.
Not to jump to any conclusions. No two cases are the same.
Each human brain is its own computer, etc, etc, etc.
It’s comforting, and it is terrifying. And that’s only how I feel, never mind how my poor mother must be feeling.
With Ruairi’s earlier conversation still running around my head, I know that I’m going to have to raise this subject with her at some stage, and yet I would rather do anything but.
I’d even rather sleep with my ex-husband, Simon, again over having this particular emotionally charged conversation.
Then again, as my mind conjures an image of him sweating and pulling a face as he reached the peak of his pleasure – an expression that made him look as if he was severely constipated – I think maybe the conversation with my mother wouldn’t be so bad.
She’s looking at me now, small and pale, but thankfully a little less pale than she was last night. Last night she had the pallor of a dead person, and the image continues to haunt me.
‘Can I get you anything? A drink of water?’ I ask.
She shakes her head, or at least tries to shake her head. ‘No, love,’ she says slowly. ‘Tired.’
‘I know, Mum. You’ve been through an awful ordeal.’ I hear myself speak to her and I hate myself for churning out such bland, clichéd nonsense. It’s worse than small talk.
I have always been able to talk to my mother about anything. Well, almost anything. I have never, for example, shared that particular little memory of Simon and his constipated sex face with her. Or really any in-depth conversation about sex. There is and never has been any need for that.
But we have never had a problem with conversation. My dad used to say neither of us had an off switch and he could never get a word in edgeways.
Yet here we are, me afraid to ask anything that will require her to tire herself out to answer. Or anything that is going to make me have to think more about things like her mortality, her ongoing care needs, and how she ‘absolutely does not want to be a burden’.
I am the only daughter. I have always assumed that when the time came, I would step in and take over caring for my elderly parents. My father, the selfish sod, did me out of that chance with him by dying much too young in my opinion. My mother is now, I’m told, rejecting my care and attention.
But I’ve been mentally preparing for this all my adult life.
And not because I would feel too guilty not to care for her, but because, well, don’t I owe her that much?
This is the woman who not only gave me life and raised me into the neurotically hilarious person that I am, but who also stepped in wholeheartedly to mother me again when my marriage collapsed and I, at the grand old age of thirty-six, crashed and burned as a result.
Nothing will humble you as much as your mother rocking you to sleep as you sob as a fully grown adult woman.
Maybe we should’ve sat down and discussed the logistics long before now. Then she wouldn’t have gone and had a stupid conversation with stupid Ruairi about what she wants.
As soon as he said the words ‘residential home’, I had lifted my bowl of soup and tossed it into the sink with such an almighty clatter that it smashed and Daniel peed right there on the floor.
‘Our mother is not going into a nursing home!’ I’d shouted. ‘I don’t know how you could even suggest that!’
‘I didn’t!’ Ruairi shouted back while Daniel was edging out of the room, clearly hoping I wouldn’t notice the puddle of pee on the floor. Little did he know that puddle was the very least of my worries.
‘Mum suggested it. Mum knows her own mind!’
I really hoped he was still right. That this stroke hadn’t robbed her of some of her mental capacity.
We had driven to the hospital in silence.
Regret had weighed heavy on me. Not for shouting at Ruairi.
I am still angry at him – it’s easier than being angry at my mother for not talking to me about everything.
No, I regretted not eating the rest of my soup, and smashing my favourite bowl in the sink.
And I deeply regretted not having the big conversation with my mother long before now.
It seems I’m very good at avoiding big conversations.
Obviously Conal and I are yet to talk about our living arrangements, and why I reacted the way I did.
I think Laura and I are okay, but also she has told her family she is going on strike and is holed up in a hotel room and I knew nothing about it.
At least, I think, Niamh and I talk. About everything. All the time. Except for earlier this year when I didn’t realise she was spiralling a bit herself trying to work out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
For a woman who prides herself on her communication skills – who writes for a living – I really am an awful dick sometimes.
‘Becca.’ I hear my mother say my name. It sounds strange. My mother never calls me Becca. I always get the full Rebecca from the woman who gave me life, quite often with ‘Louise Burnside’ tagged on the end. But I suppose this version takes less effort.
‘Yes, Mum. I’m here.’
‘Listen… to your… bruh-bruh… brother.’
I nod but I can’t help but say, ‘But Mum, he’s a boy!’
I see a hint of a wonky smile try to form on her lips.
‘I… told… him.’
‘I know, Mum. He told me. And we’ll talk about it when you are bit more yourself. For now, let’s just get you better. We can make any big decisions we need to then.’
She tries to shake her head. ‘Made. Al… ready.’
I grab her hand – gently of course, I don’t want to cause any more bruising – and I nod and tell her I know, but I am determined we will talk about it when she is a bit better. It’s okay if she doesn’t want to think about that just now.
I am saved from continuing this awkward conversation by the arrival of Ruairi back into the room, and coming behind him, I hear another familiar but unexpected voice.
‘Granny!’ Saul’s probably-a-little-too-loud-for-a-hospital-ward voice bounces off the walls. He’s only been back in Manchester a few weeks after the summer break and I can already hear the Manc twang kicking in. I’m half expecting him to break into a chorus of ‘Wonderwall’.
Despite his larger-than-life presence, it is a tonic to see him, and my mother clearly thinks the same. There’s a brightness in her eyes that has been missing all day.
‘My boy,’ she says as he walks straight to her and gives her the gentlest of hugs.
‘I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend,’ I say.
‘Got a cheap flight. Didn’t want to stay away any longer,’ he says, his eyes still on his granny. ‘Have the paparazzi arrived yet? I’ve heard there’s a famous TikTok star here!’
If I am not mistaken, my mother blushes at the compliment and I just watch the beautiful moment.
No, there is no way I am going to abandon this woman who helped me raise my boys to be such caring and loving young men. I don’t care what she thinks. This is one fight I’m not going to lose.