Mum

This is a post dedicated to my mum. Quietly brilliant, mum is our port in a storm every Thursday when she swoops in, Mary Poppins style (with as much stuff). Outside of Thursdays and Fridays, my mum orbits our family, constantly monitoring, phone nearby, ready to drop everything and parachute in, the minute things wobble.

Mum has been on our journey, ensconced firmly beside us, from the early days of diagnosis. Holding me as my concerns turned to worries, and turned to terror. Lying next to me, both wide awake at 2am, while my husband was at the hospital, as we processed life-changing news.

Since then mum has been our co-pilot through every crushing low and every soar of joy. Every Thursday, the front door opens (no family knock these days, there’s too much else to be getting on with), and I hear soft, hurried steps then the rustle of bags on the worktop containing at least one freshly prepared meal for us all, ketogenic meals for Taz, various snacks and, more often than not, chocolate. She’ll then hurry outside again to squirrel in more stuff – normally our bedding (which she changes and launders each week for us) and bags of logs from the farm. Combine a determined mother with a background in hospitality (Mum used to run housekeeping at a five star hotel and subsequently used to manage the doctors’ accommodation at the hospital we spend so much time at), and the role she has carved out for herself in our chaotic lives makes more sense. None of this I asked mum for. She just did it, because that is what we needed.

Anyone who knows my mum will know that, as a greyhound cannot help itself bolting after rabbits, Mum cannot help catapulting herself into situations where help is needed. You can feel her sit up in her seat when she hears of someone in a difficult situation, she has a drive to help, somehow. It’s no surprise perhaps, that we find ourselves, along with my sister, at the top of that list.

My mum operates at lightning speed. Anyone who’s attempted a casual walk with my mum will have found themselves on the cusp of jogging at regular intervals. Everything in our house steps up a gear when she initially arrives and she bustles around, sorting things out, changing the bedding, tidying up, emptying bins; all the stuff that we don’t get to doing among the tornadoes that regularly pass through our days and nights. Once she has satisfied herself that we are back on track, then you can feel her slow down just slightly. This is my favourite bit. She pops on her slippers (that live here) then settles in to become part of our household for 24 hours. She plays with the children (of course, she’s amazing with them both – ‘man-ma’ was one of Taz’s first words to come back), pops her glasses on, does her knitting, does Wordle, makes herself cups of criminally weak tea. It is the most comforting presence.

On Friday mornings, she’ll be up early and take over from us so we can sleep some more. She’ll entertain Taz with sweet little games and singing. We’ll then get on with our days alongside each other, Mum will tidy up while I go to yoga, then often we will spend some time together, walking into town, doing yoga videos, going on a bike ride; or sometimes we’ll do our own thing.

This solid regularity of support means we feel held. There’s no arranging to be done (apart from brief consultation on what meals we may like), no requests or instructions need to be given for the help we need. Mum just sees it, and does it. She never looks for praise, gratitude or a pat on the back. She is content knowing that no-one but us sees the impact she has. But I am not content with her work not being celebrated, hence me writing here; I want to share everything my mum quietly does to keep us well, and safe.

When the bigger tornadoes start to appear on the skyline, Mum is ready. Every time I ring her before 8am, you can hear her mentally running through the plans she’ll need to rearrange, as soon as she answers the phone. She’s the proverbial swan, calm on the surface, busying away underneath. Hospital has become very familiar to us both. She’s been by mine and Taz’s side during surgery and five day EEGs in Bristol, and through many, many stays in our local hospital. She’s got to know the nurses, consultants, and is on first name terms with the lady that sorts all the meals out for us on the ward. Mum connects with anyone, no matter what their background or role. All of Taz’s team know ‘man-ma’ – her taxi driver, her escort, her team of care workers, her enabler, her epilepsy nurse, her consultant.

Perhaps most importantly, I can be myself when Mum is supporting us. This means, especially in hospital, I can be grumpy, snappy, demanding and appear quite ungrateful as I sink in to all of the emotions I am weathering. It means I use no energy on saying ‘thank you so much’ every five minutes, or on putting on a face of stoicism. I think, and hope, she knows how deeply grateful I am, for her support and for also letting me behave like a petulant teenager while she continues to treat me like a goddess.

We’re off to a spa this week, arranged by Mum, of course. She’s taking me and my sister for 24 hours of chill time. My favourite bit is watching her relax too, a lesser-spotted event that makes my heart soar.