‘Wednesday today, Mum… it’s Wednesday.’ I sat at the end of her bed smiling down at her, gently stroking her delicate left cheek over and over.
I’d gotten used to the terrible lifelessness of the ward she’s been staying in – perhaps rather I’d created an imaginary sense of sentience subconsciously throughout my Wednesdays spent there.
The faint crackling of her slow breaths and the rhythmic tone of patients’ machines seemed almost comforting and homely now, as sad as it is to say.
‘Wednesday,’ she murmured back…I’d become so lost in thought that I’d even forgotten that she’d asked me what day it was. I’m only now realising that this was a time in my life that no one has ever been prepared for. Maybe because as people we tend to reject the inevitable, focus our positive, silly little minds on what we can control.
But if this was something that had crossed my mind at least one time in my past 23 years, I didn’t think I’d be losing her so early on. She was definitely the most bubbly woman I knew – and I’m not just saying that because she’s my mother. She had the most infectious warming smile and personality. A smile you would be drawn to in a room (full) of happy people.
When I think of my mother, my fondest, most distinct memory of her is her dancing around our not so big kitchen, her hair neatly coiled, bouncing on her shoulders with her movements. She even made dancing with a frying pan full of my breakfast somehow elegant.
‘Don’t cry, William,’ she uttered. I tilted my head down to see her eyes, wonderfully blue and open now, looking back at me with a sense of concern plastered over her ill face. You see, still the woman I knew. Her worry for me despite where she was made me want to cry and cry and cry and never stop.
But I wipe my damp eyes and fight it. I always try to avoid crying in front of her, something I’ve done since I was a teenager. I suppose that’s because I’d never seen her cry…being honest I just thought it was something she never did as she was always so happy.
My mother’s eyes are fixed on mine for a few moments, until they shift to another focus, with the sound of footsteps which seem to be progressing towards us. Before I can turn around I feel a comforting sort of tap on my shoulder – slow and reassuring almost.
I peer behind me to see a woman who I’m sure I recognise. ‘I brought spare with me today,’ she smiled, handing me a pink plastic wallet of tissues. She has a generic sort of face. Your average cheery-slightly-over-weight woman. Maybe in her late twenties and slightly on the bigger side…
She had brown shoulder length hair and wore an ordinary pink cotton T-shirt, which I instantly realised matched her fresh rosy cheeks, meeting either side of her cheerful grin. She didn’t seem like a woman who particularly ‘tried’ with her appearance, but gave off a warming feel through her demeanour.
I chuckled to myself in thanks and brought a tissue to my now wet face, wiping away the tears I told myself I’d fight back. ‘I’ve seen the way you talk to your Mum,’ she said as I looked back at her with confusion, waiting for her to proceed. ‘That may sound strange, I know, but I like to think of myself as observant rather than nosey.
‘My Dad’s in the bed opposite yours, but about two rows down. And I know she’s your mum because, although I’ve never heard her respond, you converse with her the same way I did when my mother was poorly. That, and you seem to have a habit of adding the word ‘Mum’ on to everything you say to her.’
‘I thought I recognised you,’ I replied, with a slight crack in my voice which I found embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone while crying before. ‘Yes, that’s right, and funny you say that, because that’s a trait she always used to pick out of mine. She’d sometimes even add the “Mum” onto the end of a question just before I could, just to bring my attention to how often I did it.’
The woman laughs. I continued: ‘She doesn’t really say much about it now though, and shortly after wish I hadn’t as it totally brought down the mood, and I think what she’s trying to do is cheer me up.’
I took my mother’s frail hand in mine and looked down at her. I already knew she’d fallen asleep as her faint crackles had turned into faint snores, and the pace of her breath had slowed into that sleep-like pace. ‘What’s your Dad doing here?’ I asked her.
‘He’s been here for months. Car accident, and has been in a coma. I’m sure he’s not got long left. Was only in his mid-50s as well. But I think I’ve already accepted his condition as death honestly.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried not to let my voice crack this time. ‘The doctors won’t tell me but I know she’s not got long left, either. It’s been about three months now and the medication’s been doing absolutely nish.’
She looked at me now with that same concern my mother did minutes ago. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked – which I found to be a strange question to come into the conversation so late in – one that you usually ask at the end of an interaction if not established at the beginning. ‘William,’ I responded. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Ruth,’ she said she said. I think Ruth may be one of the Ruthest Ruths I’ve ever seen. The background sounds of the ward were becoming more intense but I couldn’t place my finger on what it was. Nothing was louder, just more intense.
I hadn’t been focused on what Ruth had just been saying but it doesn’t seem to matter as I’m sure she stopped her sentence half way through. The concern on her face resembled one I’m seeing for the third time today. But this time it wasn’t empathetic – this was pure worry.
It was clear that she’d realised this intensity as well. But judging by her expression, I think she has realised what that is as well. I impulsively ask ‘Ruth, what is it?’ as panic builds up within me as she stares at me, now going back to that empathetic look from before. She looks at me as if she’s trying to speak, trying very hard, but she seems simply unable to.
‘God damn it, Ruth, tell me what it is!’ I look down at my mother instinctively to notice a yellowing shade on her face, not the unhealthy pearly pale that I’m used to. As the intensity grows I realise it’s the quickening beeping of her heart rate monitor. And doctors come flooding in when I realise that Ruth had already left to get them.
As she returns the moment feels dream-like and slow motion. My mother is surrounded by doctors and nurses. But I continue to keep my eyes fixed on Ruth. Her eyes welling up in time with mine as we both understand what’s happening. She takes my hand.
‘And that is exactly how we met,’ I smile, looking at her, very impressed with myself. I take a deep breath, only now realising that I’ve been speaking for what must have been at least 10 minutes. ‘I’ve told you about my memory. It’s sharp as anything. You can correct me if there’s a detail I missed but there won’t be. I remember it like it was yesterday.’
She smiles back, impressed with me, also. ‘Well, I would have thought so if I didn’t know that was two years ago, today.’
‘We should head home now, don’t you think?’ I suggest. And without answering she stands up from the bench and before taking her hand in mine, places the bouquet of daffodils on her father’s headstone. And I place the pink tulips right beside them on my mother’s.’
DoubleSpeak 