Moving Mum

It had taken them six months of gentle persuasion to convince mum to leave the house she’d lived in for sixty years and relocate to a nursing home on the other side of town. Mum’s Victorian villa with its three floors of generously proportioned rooms had become too large for her to manage. It was a cluttered arcade, displaying keepsakes collected over a lifetime and way beyond her powers to keep clean. It would be unkind if I described mum as a hoarder, but there were knickknacks and oddments littering every horizontal surface and she’d adorned the walls with memorabilia spanning seven decades; family photographs, certificates of academic achievement and every school sports day prize, including my triumph at the under-twelves egg-and-spoon race and fabled upper-sixth double-gold for shot-put and javelin. The crowning glory of each room was the ornate hand-crafted plaster cornice that now harboured finespun veils of cobwebs, hosting legions of desiccated insects; their limbs entangled forever in its merciless death grip. Mum had lived there so long that she’d become entwined in the property's fabric too and lacking the tools required for major excavation and extraction, her voluntary departure after weeks of negotiation was a surprise as much as a blessed relief. 

During my father’s protracted illness, Mum had refused our regular offers of domestic assistance and she’d persevered with an old vacuum cleaner that wheezed its way round the property, coughing out clouds of dust and grit in its wake. Loose fibres often wrapped around its spinning brushes and jammed the motor as she shoved the rickety device over her threadbare carpets. Most weeks, I’d receive an urgent call to resuscitate the infirm beast and free it from yards of knotted yarn. Mum would explain the incident, and her incredulity at the problem belied a deeper issue. She’d talk about the dilemma as if it was exceptional instead of a regular weekly hazard. We did what we could to help her, popping round every week to wash the piles of crockery and pans in the sink, but that was all mum would allow. She was proud of her independence and queen of her domain. 

You don’t want to clean every time you visit, she’d say, especially when I have the help to manage that sort of thing. 

In fact, “the help” hadn’t attended for a couple of years, ever since the expensive cutlery went missing. I’d reminded her countless times about the police investigation and all the questions about the missing silverware. However, mum maintained “the help” would return when she’d recovered from her illness. 

Anyway, you must think I’m rude, she’d say. More tea, anyone?

We’d look at each other and declined yet another steaming beverage. There’s only so much tea one can drink during an afternoon’s visit and homemade cake has a habit of packing on extra pounds.

During the last year, mum preferred to remain indoors and hated the idea of shopping for groceries. We’d help with food supplies and quietly organised her utility payments. Mum’s decline became more apparent the more time we spent together. In our latter visits, her conversational skills would often dissolve without warning. Our jolly banter would flag and then peter-out, leaving us with awkward moments of bewilderment. Mum’s eyes would drift and glaze-over like a pair of agate marbles abandoned in a school playground. Unfazed by mum’s lapses of concentration, we developed a subtle strategy of intervention; taking turns to cough or create an amusing distraction. Our discreet tactics were enough to draw her back from beyond; she’d blink and smile as if we’d just arrived, and offer us another nice cup of tea. Naturally, we’d decline again and promoted subjects we knew she enjoyed talking about. Mum had an impressive recall for wartime incidents and could itemise episodes from my childhood I’d rather forget. However, with recent events, she displayed howling gaps in her memory. She’d could list all the members of the English royal family from the thirteenth century to present day with associated historical notes of interest, but then she’d offer us endless cups of tea, appearing oblivious to the duration of our visit. We never corrected her and for good reason; I’m sure she’d have been mortified.

I called Doctor Reid, mum’s local G.P., and he advised an immediate visit to his surgery. He hadn’t spoken to mum for a year and expressed his surprise when I outlined her recent decline. Doctor Reid warned me mum’s behaviour would become more erratic. It was Doctor Reid who’d recommended I attend the appointment, however we’d accompanied mum at her request; she’d become nervous about leaving the safety of her home. His prognosis wasn’t optimistic, and he’d wanted to confirm mum’s domestic arrangements; did she have help or would she consider moving to supported housing? Mum’s deteriorating attention and forgetfulness alarmed him and he was surprised we hadn’t taken steps to rehouse her. I told him we’d noticed the minor changes, however I had refused to admit the advance of her illness. Doctor Reid voiced his concerns in direct terms and told us to take action before a serious accident occurred. We’d never forgive ourselves if mum hurt herself or set the house on fire.

Jill and I agreed the time had come to make a plan of action. Mum's welfare and long term health had become a pressing matter. She had moments of lucidity and periods when her capacity was questionable. We discussed the situation with mum and she agreed to allow us to pack her possessions. Mum didn’t know where to start and we assured her we’d take care of everything.

Later that night at home, we discussed the practicalities and Jill suggested we take a pragmatic approach. 

But there’s so much stuff, I said, sighing as we flopped down on our sofa.

The choice is straightforward, she said. Junk it, keep it, or donate to charity.

Simple as that?

There’s no other way. 

The options are never that simple, especially with such a heavy load of sentimental baggage. Mum had squirrelled away treasure for a rainy day that never arrived and yet the expectation hovered like famished carrion. We ventured back to mum’s the next morning and commenced “operation junk, keep or donate.” Mum provided an endless supply of heavy-duty black plastic bags, and Jill contacted the local removal company for archival boxes. Over the next fortnight, we made steady progress, and I organised the bags and boxes as they accumulated in every room. The choice was tricky and tested our patience as we debated each item on its merits and listened to mum while she recalled its history. I packed and labelled everything according to our scheme and we progressed from room to room, shutting the doors behind us as we descended to the ground floor.

It took over two weeks to reach the downstairs reception. We’d left it until last because it contained most of my late father’s prized belongings. It had remained untouched since his demise, and making decisions about what to keep would be hard for me, too. However, Jill was brutal, which is always easy when it’s not your property. It was painful to be parted from his stuffed pike. I recall hiding behind the sofa as a youngster when dad brought that home and I had nightmares about those rows of teeth. It was as close to a shark as I’d ever seen and we nicknamed it “Jaws” after that year’s blockbuster movie. “Jaws” didn’t seem as scary now. Half its fangs had fallen out and the shiny scales had lost their lustre behind the cracked glass of its display case. 

Junk it, Jill pronounced inverting her thumb like a heartless Roman emperor.

It was tough, but after a cup of tea we all agreed; for now, at least.

The furniture was easier to agree on, as mum’s nursing home had limited space. A modest ensuite bedroom isn’t best placed to receive a cumbersome oak desk, upright piano or a nine-feet tall wooden grandfather clock, let alone a Duresta sofa and an eight-piece dining table set complete with matching sideboard. We bagged the junk, boxed a few of the pictures and souvenirs and decided all the books could go to the Cancer Research shop in town.

It was painful, but we got there in time for a nice cup of tea at the end of our last day of sorting. Mum would have one last night at home and tomorrow we’d transport her to the Star Hills Nursing Home; her new residence for the foreseeable future. We weren’t in a rush to sell the old house and the estate agents could value the place despite the bags and boxes in all the rooms. We left mum with a packet of cereal and milk for her breakfast and checked the precious kettle was on hand for her morning cuppa.

The next day proved less straightforward than we imagined. We arrived around nine in the morning to find mum outside in her wellingtons, crushing collapsed cardboard boxes underfoot. She saw us and offered to put the kettle on.

You’re up early, I said. Couldn’t you sleep?

You know me, love, she said. I don’t enjoy lying around.

As we enjoyed a lovely cup of tea together, mum reported yet another restless night. According to her account of events, she’d not slept well since we started the packing.

It was Jill who first discovered the truth. She’d popped out of the kitchen to use the downstairs toilet and encountered dad’s stuffed pike. “Jaws” was above the fireplace, where she’d first seen it, beside the candlesticks we’d packed away and all the books set aside for the charity shop. In fact, everything in the reception room had been replaced exactly where it had been before.

Jill returned to the kitchen, biting her lip and assumed her seat next to me. I crunched my forehead, looking at her and she rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Through the open reception room door, I spotted “Jaws” smirking at me from within his glass display cabinet. The reality of our situation dawned on me. Mum was quite happy where she’d lived for seven decades.

Now then, mum said, brandishing her tea pot. Would anybody like more tea?

The End