A Very Easy Death
by Jack O'Donnell
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: When the passing of a loved one can be a happy occasion.
_____________________________________________________________________
The frame comes apart too easily in my hand. It leaves me a bit of Perspex, some cheap cardboard backing with a gold hasp and a photo. I peer short-sightedly at the back of the photo. There is no scrawled text telling when it was taken and where. It is a black and white copy. But I think the original would also have been black and white. Colour photos were more expensive. Dessy and Jean didn’t like to waste money. Each has their hand around their partner’s waist, curled into the other, as they face the camera. Dessy looks slightly to the front, because he is a head taller. His shorn black curly hair matches his dark single breasted jacket. He has on a white shirt, which is conspicuously matched by a white hanky shaped like a pokey hat, from his breast jacket pocket. He wears a dark tie with white diagonal bands. He stands broad and muscular. Then, Jean’s light coloured jacket and blouse and the way in which her shoulders run plum line square, with the light stone balustrade behind, seem to push her further forward. At first, I think something is behind both of them, hovering like a UFO, then I realize that it is mum’s red hair, frizzing up from her side shed and catching dad just behind the ear. He is trying to stretch his thin lip into a smile. I can see myself in him: the prominent O’Donnell nose; the same bushy eyebrows and deep set eyes that too readily crease defensively downwards in a scowl. Mum is smiling, not only for the camera. I suspect it is a photo of their honeymoon in Dublin around 1950.
In the kitchen, mum put a double page Daily Record spread on top of the Formica table. Mum’s dress was doubled up into her elasticised waist band, so that when she brought her foot out of the gunchy water in the basin, onto her kneecap, her dress wouldn’t get wet. She had newspapers under the basin and on the floor in a squarish-circle to protect the linoleum. Mum, like a top-heavy lady riding side saddle, sat on the edge of the old wooden chair, bent forward peering at her feet, as if to check that they were hers. Satisfied, she picked up the Stanley knife from the horror stories on the front page and start cutting bits off her feet. Hard skin would ping into the water and onto the newspaper trap and beyond the set boundaries. She would scratch at her feet with the Stanley knife, as if relieving an itch, scrapping away the smell and remnants of the corpses of dead skin.
When we went up the hill to Parkhall shops, mum took two no-nonsense steps to my one, almost carrying me and the shopping trolley along in her wake.
Johnny Graham’s shop was nearer, but dad would just shake his head at the very thought that anyone would ever pay good money to that man. But sometimes I got sent there. The words would come involuntarily, my voice yet to be broken, specked with spittle from my mouth, but coming from the hurt soul of all humanity:
‘Why is it always my turn?’
Inevitably, my sister Phyllis would be standing behind mum in the kitchen, just out of reach, smirking.
I had never heard of Pythagoras. I took the shortcut and followed Old Dan’s hedge until the grass stopped and the river of mud began. My feet remembered what part of the outcrop of stones to dance on as I accelerated down. The fence at the bottom of the hill acted as a safety net. The jumping point, off the wall, took two quick steps. I bounded into the grounds of The Old Folks home.
Later, I took more sedate steps. There was nothing much to see, each room a template for the other: two steps across and three steps wide. It was painted white, but somehow the walls seemed yellowish, as if they too had gotten old and forgetful of what colour they should be. There was a crucifix up over the bed and knick-knacks of various saints on the window sill and the bedside table. Photographs of smiling children seemed to be breeding other photographs of even more smiling children. Unless it was really warm, the windows and curtains on the bottom tier windows were closed, keeping in the claustrophobic locked in the smell of a municipal toilet that has just been cleaned with Domestos.
In The Home mum walked on her tip toes. She moved at the pace of a toddler trying to catch up with the excitement of walking, non stop, from one new place to another. She held onto staff, the surrogate parents. She clutched onto me in the same way. But she knew my name. I would put my arm through hers and walk with her. Another old woman (whose name I can’t remember) would try and cling onto my other arm. Mum wouldn’t say anything. Just look. And wait. Mum would, not unexpectedly, try and push past me and push her away. When that didn’t work she would screw up her face in utter disgust and rage and flail her arms and try and hit her. Mum’s breath, oral cavities filled with undigested food, would have knocked her over easier.
Mum became like a drunk. She was careless with her body, staggering from one party to another, bumping into door frames and other fixed objects. A bruise the size of her palm never went away. The thin skin on her head was sutured together with the thickness of paper stitches. All her clothes were replaced, the care taken choosing them lost to her, but still they swamped her. Even her hair grew thin. She no longer wore spectacles. She lost them and herself.
Mum had been administered anal suppositories as a painkiller and had on an incontinence pad. She was propped up with three pillows in bed, looking in my direction. It looked an uncomfortable mixture of lying down and sitting. Mum was tied into bed with the mandatory white under blankets and the enforcing strength of hospital corners. She made none of the noises of someone that is crying, but tears continually ran down her face, staining her nightgown.
I tried holding onto her hand. It felt colder than the last time. My back got too sore from sitting on the edge of a chair and leaning over. I had a set of Rosary beads, and a set of notes for a psychology exam I was doing the next day. I put my hand out onto the sharp bone that was her hip. My hand was on the outside of her blankets. I just left it lying, hoping that she could feel the weight and somehow know it’s me. Her breath followed me up and down as I said Hail Marys.
I whispered to her or myself: ‘Dessy is waiting for you. I love you mum. It’s ok to die’.
I knew enough to know her heart was in competition with her lungs. The ability of her kidneys to filter fluids was almost lost. Blood was continuing to be pumped throughout her body, but with less and less efficiency. Her lungs were becoming inflamed and filled with fluid. Interstitial fluid was also pooling in her toes and feet. They would become colder and die first. Her body was shutting down bit by bit. She was drowning breath by breath from the inside. Just when I thought she had taken her last breath, she would rattle out another and another.
I looked at the clock. The day shifts were starting soon. I listened. There was only the sound of me breathing. I kissed her on the forehead. I thought that’s just like you mum, not wanting to cause them any hassle. I opened the room door and left it open. I was dying for a pee.
Alice, the care assistant, was in the room when I got back. She had been really good with mum. Mum looked the same, but she had tidied up the blankets and pulled them up around her neck to try to make it look as if she was still sleeping.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said, ‘your mum’s dead!’
I nodded. ‘I know, Alice,’ I said.
Alice appraised me while she worked, weighing up what kind of mourner I was going to be. She put two fingers in mum’s eyes and tried to shut her lids down. I laughed through my nose.
I felt kinship with Alice. ‘That only works in Westerns,’ I said.
I punched in the security code, but the external door in The Old Folks stayed shut. I tried again and again. I thought I had the right number. That didn’t matter. I would no longer need it. Jackie, mum’s key worker, punched in the code from outside the door.
‘My mum’s dead,’ I told her even before she asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No. I’m absolutely delighted,’ I replied.
I walked down by Old Dan’s house. I had to tell my sisters and brother. Phyllis was still staying in the house that mum stayed in when she was really alive.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When the passing of a loved one can be a happy occasion.
_____________________________________________________________________
The frame comes apart too easily in my hand. It leaves me a bit of Perspex, some cheap cardboard backing with a gold hasp and a photo. I peer short-sightedly at the back of the photo. There is no scrawled text telling when it was taken and where. It is a black and white copy. But I think the original would also have been black and white. Colour photos were more expensive. Dessy and Jean didn’t like to waste money. Each has their hand around their partner’s waist, curled into the other, as they face the camera. Dessy looks slightly to the front, because he is a head taller. His shorn black curly hair matches his dark single breasted jacket. He has on a white shirt, which is conspicuously matched by a white hanky shaped like a pokey hat, from his breast jacket pocket. He wears a dark tie with white diagonal bands. He stands broad and muscular. Then, Jean’s light coloured jacket and blouse and the way in which her shoulders run plum line square, with the light stone balustrade behind, seem to push her further forward. At first, I think something is behind both of them, hovering like a UFO, then I realize that it is mum’s red hair, frizzing up from her side shed and catching dad just behind the ear. He is trying to stretch his thin lip into a smile. I can see myself in him: the prominent O’Donnell nose; the same bushy eyebrows and deep set eyes that too readily crease defensively downwards in a scowl. Mum is smiling, not only for the camera. I suspect it is a photo of their honeymoon in Dublin around 1950.
In the kitchen, mum put a double page Daily Record spread on top of the Formica table. Mum’s dress was doubled up into her elasticised waist band, so that when she brought her foot out of the gunchy water in the basin, onto her kneecap, her dress wouldn’t get wet. She had newspapers under the basin and on the floor in a squarish-circle to protect the linoleum. Mum, like a top-heavy lady riding side saddle, sat on the edge of the old wooden chair, bent forward peering at her feet, as if to check that they were hers. Satisfied, she picked up the Stanley knife from the horror stories on the front page and start cutting bits off her feet. Hard skin would ping into the water and onto the newspaper trap and beyond the set boundaries. She would scratch at her feet with the Stanley knife, as if relieving an itch, scrapping away the smell and remnants of the corpses of dead skin.
When we went up the hill to Parkhall shops, mum took two no-nonsense steps to my one, almost carrying me and the shopping trolley along in her wake.
Johnny Graham’s shop was nearer, but dad would just shake his head at the very thought that anyone would ever pay good money to that man. But sometimes I got sent there. The words would come involuntarily, my voice yet to be broken, specked with spittle from my mouth, but coming from the hurt soul of all humanity:
‘Why is it always my turn?’
Inevitably, my sister Phyllis would be standing behind mum in the kitchen, just out of reach, smirking.
I had never heard of Pythagoras. I took the shortcut and followed Old Dan’s hedge until the grass stopped and the river of mud began. My feet remembered what part of the outcrop of stones to dance on as I accelerated down. The fence at the bottom of the hill acted as a safety net. The jumping point, off the wall, took two quick steps. I bounded into the grounds of The Old Folks home.
Later, I took more sedate steps. There was nothing much to see, each room a template for the other: two steps across and three steps wide. It was painted white, but somehow the walls seemed yellowish, as if they too had gotten old and forgetful of what colour they should be. There was a crucifix up over the bed and knick-knacks of various saints on the window sill and the bedside table. Photographs of smiling children seemed to be breeding other photographs of even more smiling children. Unless it was really warm, the windows and curtains on the bottom tier windows were closed, keeping in the claustrophobic locked in the smell of a municipal toilet that has just been cleaned with Domestos.
In The Home mum walked on her tip toes. She moved at the pace of a toddler trying to catch up with the excitement of walking, non stop, from one new place to another. She held onto staff, the surrogate parents. She clutched onto me in the same way. But she knew my name. I would put my arm through hers and walk with her. Another old woman (whose name I can’t remember) would try and cling onto my other arm. Mum wouldn’t say anything. Just look. And wait. Mum would, not unexpectedly, try and push past me and push her away. When that didn’t work she would screw up her face in utter disgust and rage and flail her arms and try and hit her. Mum’s breath, oral cavities filled with undigested food, would have knocked her over easier.
Mum became like a drunk. She was careless with her body, staggering from one party to another, bumping into door frames and other fixed objects. A bruise the size of her palm never went away. The thin skin on her head was sutured together with the thickness of paper stitches. All her clothes were replaced, the care taken choosing them lost to her, but still they swamped her. Even her hair grew thin. She no longer wore spectacles. She lost them and herself.
Mum had been administered anal suppositories as a painkiller and had on an incontinence pad. She was propped up with three pillows in bed, looking in my direction. It looked an uncomfortable mixture of lying down and sitting. Mum was tied into bed with the mandatory white under blankets and the enforcing strength of hospital corners. She made none of the noises of someone that is crying, but tears continually ran down her face, staining her nightgown.
I tried holding onto her hand. It felt colder than the last time. My back got too sore from sitting on the edge of a chair and leaning over. I had a set of Rosary beads, and a set of notes for a psychology exam I was doing the next day. I put my hand out onto the sharp bone that was her hip. My hand was on the outside of her blankets. I just left it lying, hoping that she could feel the weight and somehow know it’s me. Her breath followed me up and down as I said Hail Marys.
I whispered to her or myself: ‘Dessy is waiting for you. I love you mum. It’s ok to die’.
I knew enough to know her heart was in competition with her lungs. The ability of her kidneys to filter fluids was almost lost. Blood was continuing to be pumped throughout her body, but with less and less efficiency. Her lungs were becoming inflamed and filled with fluid. Interstitial fluid was also pooling in her toes and feet. They would become colder and die first. Her body was shutting down bit by bit. She was drowning breath by breath from the inside. Just when I thought she had taken her last breath, she would rattle out another and another.
I looked at the clock. The day shifts were starting soon. I listened. There was only the sound of me breathing. I kissed her on the forehead. I thought that’s just like you mum, not wanting to cause them any hassle. I opened the room door and left it open. I was dying for a pee.
Alice, the care assistant, was in the room when I got back. She had been really good with mum. Mum looked the same, but she had tidied up the blankets and pulled them up around her neck to try to make it look as if she was still sleeping.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said, ‘your mum’s dead!’
I nodded. ‘I know, Alice,’ I said.
Alice appraised me while she worked, weighing up what kind of mourner I was going to be. She put two fingers in mum’s eyes and tried to shut her lids down. I laughed through my nose.
I felt kinship with Alice. ‘That only works in Westerns,’ I said.
I punched in the security code, but the external door in The Old Folks stayed shut. I tried again and again. I thought I had the right number. That didn’t matter. I would no longer need it. Jackie, mum’s key worker, punched in the code from outside the door.
‘My mum’s dead,’ I told her even before she asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No. I’m absolutely delighted,’ I replied.
I walked down by Old Dan’s house. I had to tell my sisters and brother. Phyllis was still staying in the house that mum stayed in when she was really alive.
About the Author
Jack O'Donnell was born in Helensburgh and now lives in Clydebank with his partner, Mary. He claims to be fat, balding and middle-aged.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.