SINCE SHE WENT AWAY…
It was while the cancer specialist was confirming that my mother did have breast cancer that she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, one bright autumn morning six years ago. She was in her early 80s and was as beautiful and vibrant as she had always been. It took her six months to get over the shock of the double diagnosis and to begin to come to terms with it. And it changed the remainder of her life and ours, her children and grandchildren, until she died, two years later.
When I dashed over, my mother looked like a fragile paper bag that had been crushed by a large hand. But both her oncologist and Parkinson’s specialist assured her that she would probably die of old age before either cancer or Parkinson’s took her, which was the case. Nevertheless, her Parkinson’s progressed rapidly and within six months she could no longer write or type and was beginning to find dressing increasingly difficult.
Liz with her mother, when she was in her 20s (left) and Bronda on her engagement to Liz’s father, John Mackintosh (right)
My sister, brother and I did what we could in our own ways. My sister had been a nurse and came to stay every other week for a few days to look after her. My brother took care of their finances and I was designated ‘operation cheer-up’. As I lived the closest, I was able to pop in frequently and bring my children to visit, tell her funny stories, sit and talk about the past and discuss books we were both enjoying. But none of this would have been possible without the selfless, uncomplaining and tireless devotion of her husband, my beloved stepfather.
A year after the diagnosis we employed a carer. Initially she came for a couple of hours in the morning, but this rapidly extended to lunchtime, until eventually we had two carers who were there all day. But as she worsened, she became very depressed. She was terrified of becoming a helpless, incontinent wreck, and this spectre drove her to talk of suicide and to make me promise that I would make sure she would not be left to degenerate into such a dreadful state.
The comfort of having someone understand her nightmares gave her the strength to carry on. And carry on we did, day by day, and as each new diffculty arose, we created new ways of overcoming them.
My mother had always been a wonderful cook and when she was no longer able to cook herself she would take my sister into the kitchen and instruct her in making a boeuf bourguignon or a coq au vin to her recipe, from her chair. These delicious meals could then be taken out of the freezer when desired and my mother felt she was at least still able to feed her husband and be of use to him, which was extremely important to her.
Liz and Bronda at home (left) Her wedding to Liz's stepfather, Roger Tarbuck (right)
When she could no longer hold a book, we brought her a cushion for her lap on which to rest it and, later, two pegs held the pages open. We found that providing a straw helped her to drink independently and we learned to fill her cup of tea only half full to avoid spillage. Later, when dressing exhausted her and her trips to the loo increased to several an hour, we bought her incontinence pants and she lived in pretty housecoats and slippers. But when the incontinence pants became too difficult for her to remove in time, she gave up wearing underwear altogether. Discreetly her carer and I placed a waterproof sheet on her bed and we asked a kind local hairdresser to visit her twice a week to wash and style her hair. We also asked a local beauty therapist to come and manicure her nails and in these small ways she retained her dignity and as much independence as was possible.
But there were increasing accidents. She suffered a couple of falls because she rose and walked too quickly before her low blood pressure caught up. We taught her to count to 10 before she took a step and that avoided further mishaps.
Despite this, there were several visits to A&E, which caused her and my stepfather enormous stress. The last fall was a week before she died. My sister had been staying and had just seen her into bed when only minutes later she heard her fall heavily on the corner of a dressing-table chair. She was extremely distressed. It was to be the last week of her life.
Her GP gave us the number for the local Marie Curie nurse, who came that evening and began to take over her care. I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful the Marie Curie nurses were. Six days later she died in her own bed, on 17 November 2008. As she had longed to die for some time, it was as if we were wishing her well on her way to the stars as we said goodbye surrounding her bed.
Liz and family at her book launch
Not a day goes by without my thinking of her. I talk to her all the time and I know she is there, looking after me and taking care of us all. And she died in her own bed with her loved ones around her, which is what we all wish for.
And sad though it is to recount, my mother was elderly when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and Parkinson’s. A very close friend of mine has been diagnosed with both in her early 60s. That is an entirely different matter. But my friend is as cheerful and optimistic as I hope I would be under the same circumstances. We are planning a cycling holiday together, from Venice to Croatia. And as she reminds me, we must live every day to the full, for one never knows what the future will hold. Viva Italia! Viva life!
Since You Went Away by Liz Astor (Lady Astor of Hever) is published by Argo Navis, priced £7.99 – 10p per copy is being donated to Parkinson’s UK.
For information on Parkinson’s www.parkinsons.org.uk
When I dashed over, my mother looked like a fragile paper bag that had been crushed by a large hand. But both her oncologist and Parkinson’s specialist assured her that she would probably die of old age before either cancer or Parkinson’s took her, which was the case. Nevertheless, her Parkinson’s progressed rapidly and within six months she could no longer write or type and was beginning to find dressing increasingly difficult.
Liz with her mother, when she was in her 20s (left) and Bronda on her engagement to Liz’s father, John Mackintosh (right)My sister, brother and I did what we could in our own ways. My sister had been a nurse and came to stay every other week for a few days to look after her. My brother took care of their finances and I was designated ‘operation cheer-up’. As I lived the closest, I was able to pop in frequently and bring my children to visit, tell her funny stories, sit and talk about the past and discuss books we were both enjoying. But none of this would have been possible without the selfless, uncomplaining and tireless devotion of her husband, my beloved stepfather.
A year after the diagnosis we employed a carer. Initially she came for a couple of hours in the morning, but this rapidly extended to lunchtime, until eventually we had two carers who were there all day. But as she worsened, she became very depressed. She was terrified of becoming a helpless, incontinent wreck, and this spectre drove her to talk of suicide and to make me promise that I would make sure she would not be left to degenerate into such a dreadful state.
The comfort of having someone understand her nightmares gave her the strength to carry on. And carry on we did, day by day, and as each new diffculty arose, we created new ways of overcoming them.
My mother had always been a wonderful cook and when she was no longer able to cook herself she would take my sister into the kitchen and instruct her in making a boeuf bourguignon or a coq au vin to her recipe, from her chair. These delicious meals could then be taken out of the freezer when desired and my mother felt she was at least still able to feed her husband and be of use to him, which was extremely important to her.
Liz and Bronda at home (left) Her wedding to Liz's stepfather, Roger Tarbuck (right)When she could no longer hold a book, we brought her a cushion for her lap on which to rest it and, later, two pegs held the pages open. We found that providing a straw helped her to drink independently and we learned to fill her cup of tea only half full to avoid spillage. Later, when dressing exhausted her and her trips to the loo increased to several an hour, we bought her incontinence pants and she lived in pretty housecoats and slippers. But when the incontinence pants became too difficult for her to remove in time, she gave up wearing underwear altogether. Discreetly her carer and I placed a waterproof sheet on her bed and we asked a kind local hairdresser to visit her twice a week to wash and style her hair. We also asked a local beauty therapist to come and manicure her nails and in these small ways she retained her dignity and as much independence as was possible.
But there were increasing accidents. She suffered a couple of falls because she rose and walked too quickly before her low blood pressure caught up. We taught her to count to 10 before she took a step and that avoided further mishaps.
Despite this, there were several visits to A&E, which caused her and my stepfather enormous stress. The last fall was a week before she died. My sister had been staying and had just seen her into bed when only minutes later she heard her fall heavily on the corner of a dressing-table chair. She was extremely distressed. It was to be the last week of her life.
Her GP gave us the number for the local Marie Curie nurse, who came that evening and began to take over her care. I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful the Marie Curie nurses were. Six days later she died in her own bed, on 17 November 2008. As she had longed to die for some time, it was as if we were wishing her well on her way to the stars as we said goodbye surrounding her bed.
Liz and family at her book launchNot a day goes by without my thinking of her. I talk to her all the time and I know she is there, looking after me and taking care of us all. And she died in her own bed with her loved ones around her, which is what we all wish for.
And sad though it is to recount, my mother was elderly when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and Parkinson’s. A very close friend of mine has been diagnosed with both in her early 60s. That is an entirely different matter. But my friend is as cheerful and optimistic as I hope I would be under the same circumstances. We are planning a cycling holiday together, from Venice to Croatia. And as she reminds me, we must live every day to the full, for one never knows what the future will hold. Viva Italia! Viva life!
Since You Went Away by Liz Astor (Lady Astor of Hever) is published by Argo Navis, priced £7.99 – 10p per copy is being donated to Parkinson’s UK.
For information on Parkinson’s www.parkinsons.org.uk