Chapter 43
JUST A GIRL
Becca
When I arrive at my mother’s bedside, I am surprised to find we are not alone.
Ruairi is there, suited and booted and looking much more himself than when he was wearing Adam’s joggers.
Lizzy is also there, with her wonderful bosom.
The social worker appointed by the Stroke Team, a lovely young man called Diarmuid, is there, and so is Mrs Bishop.
They all turn to look at me as I walk in and I sense some sort of evil plot is afoot.
‘Becca,’ Lizzy says. ‘We were just discussing our options there. Grab a seat and join us.’
I bristle because I have told Lizzy of my plans. I have outlined them quite carefully, and we have even discussed getting an OT assessment done in Mum’s home.
‘I thought we knew what we were going to do,’ I say, looking at them all one by one and trying to read from their expressions just what the hell they are at.
‘Mum is coming home. I’m going to move in during her convalescence, and beyond if necessary.
Our family and friends are going to help support us and it’s all going to be grand. ’
There’s a pause in the room. Silence as everyone looks at me, and I realise those sneaky shites really have been plotting.
‘Mum,’ I say, ‘you are not going into a home. You are not a burden. I don’t care what you think.
You are my mum and I will care for you. I want to do it.
’ There’s a fierce protectiveness towards my mum rising up inside of me and I can’t believe that Ruairi, and Mrs Bishop, and Lizzy With The Wonderful Bosom, and Diarmuid – who for the record looks as if he is young enough to be on work experience – think that is a better option for her than being cared for by her own daughter.
‘Becca, I know this is an emotive issue,’ Lizzy with her now-treacherous bosom says. ‘But your mum is of perfectly sound mind and we have to take her wishes into consideration.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘You don’t. And clearly she isn’t of sound mind if she is choosing a home over her home.’
‘Sis…’ Ruairi begins, but I am so not in the form for his shite today.
‘Don’t. Sis. Me,’ I bark with the same level of fury as I used on him when he told on me for having a quarter bottle of vodka stashed in my bedside locker.
‘Rebecca,’ Mrs Bishop says, and I don’t bark back at her, because she’s an old woman and I’m not a complete psychopath, but I do give her a bad look – and immediately feel guilty.
‘Your mum and I have been talking about this for some time,’ she says.
‘You have been planning it with her? Sure you’re alone in your house and happy to stay there. Why do you want rid of Mum? Will you not miss her?’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ Mrs Bishop says.
‘I think I understand perfectly well. Everyone has lost the run of themselves.’
‘Rebecca Louise Burnside!’ My mother’s voice is as steady and strong as it has been since her stroke.
It’s actually quite intimidating. I fall silent, and I’m pretty sure the rest of the ward, right down to the double doors leading to the lifts, falls silent too.
There is little that demands respect as quickly as my mother calling you by your full name.
‘Ruairi, tell your sister,’ my mother says, and I look to my brother – the smug shite, there in his suit all delighted because Mammy told me off.
Christ! When did I revert to the mental age of a fourteen-year-old?
‘Becca, please listen. Let me tell you the craic and then you can ask questions or have your meltdown or whatever you want.’
I suppose I’ll have to, I think. But I’m not happy. I’m so frustrated, I want to cry. This isn’t right.
‘It seems that Mum and Mrs Bishop have indeed been talking about this for a long time. They are both getting on and they feel increasingly vulnerable being home alone.’
Blinking back tears, I look at my mother, wanting to ask her why she didn’t tell me she was feeling vulnerable. She could’ve let me help more.
‘They also both want to enjoy life for another while yet – and their independence as much as possible.’
I open my mouth to ask how on earth they think being tied to the rules and regulations will offer them more independence.
But Ruairi lifts his finger to silence me and I swear I have never wanted to tell him, or anyone, to stick his finger up his hole as much as I do in this minute. Still, I stay quiet.
‘It took a bit of time, and a bit of organising, but we have secured them both accommodation in a supported living facility. They will share a two-bed bungalow in a very lovely little cul-de-sac, with direct access to support staff. There are onsite nurses and access to physio and OT services.’
‘They even have a hairdresser in once a week, and bingo!’ Mrs Bishop says.
‘And art classes, social events, a gentle exercise programme, day trips, support with catering, depending on their wishes and needs,’ Diarmuid chimes in.
‘But how are we paying for it?’ I ask, aware that once again Nelly the fucking elephant is back in the room.
‘Savings, money stashed away. Selling the house,’ Ruairi says, and I want to cry.
‘It’s too big for me, love,’ my mum says.
‘I’ve set money aside too,’ Ruairi says. ‘I’ve been setting it aside for a while.’
‘I’m selling up too,’ Mrs Bishop says. ‘And I have a few bob stashed away.’
‘Not to mention you made some money from your TikTok going viral,’ Lizzy adds with a laugh.
‘It sounds to me like you have it all figured out,’ I say. ‘So you don’t need me after all.’
Maybe I should be relieved, but I’m not. I’m hurt. Does my mother not trust me to look after her?
‘Can Becca and I talk alone?’ my mother asks, and the others nod and one by one leave us – just two Burnside women together in a hospital ward looking at each other.
‘Darling,’ my mother says. ‘I will always need you. I love you. I want us to do fun things together. I want us to enjoy life. You deserve to enjoy life. With your lovely Conal. With Clara. With whatever adventure you and your friends go on. And I want to enjoy life too.’
She stops for a moment, tired, her mouth dry. Lifting her glass, I bring her straw to her mouth and she takes a drink before resting a moment longer.
‘I want to have fun too. With Emily. I want to keeping living.’
I think of how I watched them just last week caring for each other. How they have their jokes in the car as we drive to Asda – the utter ridiculousness of them having a TikTok account.
I think of how brighter, more relaxed, happier my mother has been since she started embracing life again. The dullness that had taken the colour of her life when my father died is gone. Of course she wants to live her life, with her bestie in tow.
Isn’t that what every woman wants?