JEAN PHILIP DE TENDER

At the funeral meal, almost at the end, when friends and family move on from the official departure of a dear one, my nephew’s son, Thomas, handed me a book. “Perhaps this is the book to read now”, he said, “and you’re strong enough to cope with it”.  In “The Year of Magical Thinking”, Joan Didion describes a year of mourning after her husband of 40 years, John Gregory Dunne, died of heart failure. At the same time, she had to take care of their daughter Quintana, who was seriously ill in hospital.

The death of a parent, he wrote, “despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may cut free memories and feelings that we had thought gone to ground long ago. We might, in that indeterminate period they call mourning, be in a submarine, silent on the ocean’s bed, aware of depth charges, now near and now far, buffeting us with recollections.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

My mother passed away on November 6. Filip and I were supposed to be in Japan, but it seemed wise to cancel the trip. Not because we thought the end was near but because we would have to ‘manage’ her coming home after another stay in hospital. Moving back from the hospital to her home, she would have to accept, once again, that her movements would be restrained. And she would not accept that. She would revolt. Her entire life, born disabled, she had been revolting.

Her mind and sharpness were like that of a mature 40-year-old woman; her body, though, had ‘worked double’ as she would call it. Her physique had been under strain her entire life. “My body is not 85”, she would say, “but 170!”.

It was that body that let her down, not her mind. It was hard to see how physically she was falling apart. But I consider myself fortunate her mind didn’t fail, and we could have closing conversations. That she still would be upset that I didn’t leave the hospital door open precisely as she wanted it to be. Those who knew her will understand.

On Friday, I spent an entire afternoon with her. She was querying me, which must have been a sign. Had she been a good mother? No doubt! Was there anything I wanted to ask? No, we still had plenty of time to talk, I thought.  But also, ‘don’t forget me’. We didn’t meet on Saturday. Her lifelong partner, Danny, was there. 

Morphine on Sunday had changed her into a different person. She had too many visitors and was confused. It was too much to handle for someone who always wanted to be in control. Luckily, by the end of the day, she had relaxed. She held hands with Danny and me, at the same time checking in where Filip was. ‘You can go home’ were the last words she said. Today, it feels like a blessing. The following day, she passed away. Quietly, the nurses said.  And I checked with her roommate, who confirmed it. It was a relief.

The following week was a roller coaster. There is so much one must do; I’m fortunate that my husband Filip ensured the funeral she deserved.

Back at work, I got a call from Graham, a senior executive at BBC. “Sorry for your bereavement,” he said. “On Sunday evenings, I still have an urge to call my mother, but then I realise she passed away a year ago”. His words were comforting, because I consider him a friend. 

You may ask, why does he turn that into a blog post? Fair point. But I think my mother would have liked it.  I so much loved the diva in her.