Sitting in limbo land. I get cold elbows. These two things are not related. Does anyone else get cold elbows? I get them in bed - pyjama tops never seem to have sleeves that don’t ruck up and leave one’s pointy bits vulnerable to a chill. I also get a cold shoulder, my left one usually. I wonder if one can give oneself the cold shoulder, or if some unseen ghost is doing it.
My amazing mother is still with us. As anyone who has experienced this kind of heart ache offset with just having to get on with life, push me pull you, shall I shan’t I stay/go/run for the hills, well, you know what it’s like. If you stay with the dying one you have to balance the long stretches of time waiting, sitting the by the bedside while they sleep or moving to loiter in the corridor while they are cared for the by the nurses, or holding their hand while your arm goes to sleep resting on the high bed rail.
You’ll notice the other patients, their personal tragedies of being very old and sick, completely unable to care for themselves. The ones with dementia, wailing to go home but not knowing where home it is or what era they are living in or where they are or who anyone is. And yet sometimes they will break into a huge, toothless grin and wish you a good morning as though you were passing them on the pavement outside their home while they dig potatoes in their front garden.
If Mum can hang on long enough she is due to go home, equipped with a hospital bed and an incredible palliative care team. Nancy will get to be by her side night and day once more. We, the grey haired children, are visiting and planning on visiting, in and out. I was unsure of what to do so decided to make a decision based on that and go north again, probably, just in case, of what I am not sure and then come back again.
I seem to have a deep need to orbit the person who gave birth to me one more time, whether or not I am there at the end doesn’t matter so much. In my last post I said I was ready. That isn’t true. I wanted it to be true. I wanted to get in the car and drive to my mother’s death bed, say goodbye, have a last meaningful conversation or a look, a clasp of the hands, leave, let the whatever happens next happen and begin the grieving properly.
But that was the film version, the real one was a tiring journey, to-ing and fro-ing, little sleep, racking up B&B bills, not eating properly and wandering about with what felt like a veil draped over my face, nothing was clear. Except the love. That was clear. From and for my siblings. Each one so different, so known to me and yet not too, always something new to learn. Histories shared but from such very different perspectives.
Some were there, some weren’t, but calls and messages throughout. Features so familiar to me, but getting old now, age spots, white hair, wrinkles and fat bellies, laughs and tears and a visit to the best pub in the world.
A conversation with sisters:
I need to get on top of my irritation.
I need to get on top of my need to manage everything.
What do I need to get on top of? (Both those and) my sadness.
2 is immediately clasped between 1 and 3 with sympathetic murmuring and shared tears.
2 is sitting at the time and finds her self enveloped between two sets of not insignificant bosoms to the point of losing the ability to breathe, mostly through laughter.
We are all waiting.
‘What are you up to?’ ‘Oh, I’m waiting for my mother to die’.
It seems an affront, a rudeness we were not brought up to display, and yet what else are we doing if not that? While we wait we get on with work, relationships, irritations with children, shopping, dreaming of sunny holidays, getting distracted. Then we remember. I remember. My mother, who holds 97 years of memories of her past and links to our shared past, my past, is leaving us. I won’t be able to ask who was that in that picture, or why did you always say I just want you to be happy but never tell me how I might make that happen, or why didn’t you guide me toward fine art instead of just allowing me to drift into whatever. I am not there to ask, and I should be, or should I? And if I was could she answer? (answer = no). I am not there to hear some final words of wisdom like “soup is wonderful”.
She has written many words of wisdom in her books anyway. Most of her books are so cerebral that I can’t actually read them. I don’t think like my mother, she is one of those incredible people with a rich inner life, with thoughts and ideas that are on another plane altogether. One of her books I can and do read from time to time is Gifts in the Ruins (tragically only seems to be available on behemoth that is bezos’ baby ), which also has her lovely lino-cut illustrations in it. I recommend it for uplifting wisdom and thinking fodder. I have also started reading With the End in Mind by Kathryn Mannix - stories about people who are dying. It’s on the family reading list currently.
One of my nieces ‘stress bakes’ which I think is an excellent response to feelings of uncertainty and unease. I do it too (see cookies from last post - they were delicious by the way). Yesterday I made limbo soup for the same reason, using almost everything in the bottom of the fridge. It’s not the best soup I have ever made, loosely leek and potato. The thing about soup is that even if it’s not the best in the world it can usually be made much better, or at least palatable, by the addition of fancy extras like croutons, cheese, a drizzle of oil or even just lashings of fresh ground pepper.
To this not terribly interesting soup I added some crumbled feta which was quite old so had begun to get a tang but not so old it made your eyes water - perfect ‘almost off’ level. I also added obligatory oil and pepper. I drizzled it prettily, even though it was only me, on my own in the kitchen. Perhaps I did it with instagram in mind but I like to pretend I did it because I treat myself like a visiting dignitary. Sometimes I eat over the sink out of a plastic tub just for balance.
Here is picture of it all gussied up for instagram, but I won’t give you the recipe, it’s too boring. Just remember, it’s so easy to jazz up a soup with some extras even if it’s just old cheese.
Here too is a colourful combo of carrot and beetroot soups from one of the cooking workshops I did for Ein Cegin (it was and art workshop on colour!) that I jazzed up with some ‘Chermoula-sorta’, - you can have the recipe for that because it’s fab and easy and jazzes up just about anything.
Chermoula-sorta
• Zest and juice of one lemon, 2 cloves garlic, 1 big handful of parsley, extra virgin olive oil
Schmooshing technique as follows -
On a big chopping board with a very sharp knife chop the zest, garlic and parsley together as fine as you possibly can. Add a little sea salt and using the flat side of the knife push down on the mix and drag the knife toward you, squashing all the ingredients until you have a paste.
Mix this paste with the lemon juice and add as much olive oil as you need to double the quantity.
Real chermoula also has fresh coriander, chilli and other middle eastern spices. Make it your own by adding whatever you like to this basic mix.
Beautifully written as ever Liz, and heart wrenchingly well observed. As a person who on Thursday was faced with the unavoidable incarceration of my beloved 92 year old Papa in a nursing home, watching him leave the home he provided for us for the very last time, I was able to relate to your missive more that I might have done a week ago! Sending love x
My brother died from cancer during lock down, it took about two years for him to die and I never got to be with him at his end - sending you love when I read your words ...all the emotions, all the thoughts, the sadness, the relief and the loss. xxxx