Blowing Candles by Sureshini Sanders

The hearse-like hospital car crept down our mother’s street and returned her to us. My sister and I peaked anxiously between the blinds, trying not to distract, as she made tentative, toddler like steps, towards the front door.

She stood before her house and peered beyond the opening, like Alice about to pass through Wonderland. The 2 steps to get in were now another challenge. Only 6 weeks ago all of this was easy. That was before a vessel exploded in her head and took half the vision in each eye, transforming daily activities into something complex, that required concentration and strategic planning.

Initially she thought she was going to die and could barely keep the euphoria from her voice.

‘Don’t be sad. I’m going to Appah now’. Appah means father in Tamil. Our father, not hers.

‘Stop being silly mummy. You’re alive and you’re not going anywhere.’ I nearly added,   sorry to disappoint you.

Our father had died two years before and what our mother wanted most of all, was to be with him again. She was at pains to tell us all how much she loved us but that it wasn’t the same without him. They had been an item for nearly half a century.
The two young ladies accompanying our mother were very kind and attentive.
‘Now Irene, can you find your lounge?’ ‘Of course’ she replied, as if it was a silly question. It was coming back to her now, everything in its place. They practiced walking, toileting, making coffee, getting in and out of bed, up the stairs. The poor gals were also given a compulsory tour of family photographs. Our parents’ wedding day. This is a particularly peculiar picture, with mother looking most unlike herself, grave and miserable. Her father had just informed her that she was laughing too much! Weddings were solemn, serious affairs, not to be trivialised. The children’s pictures, graduations, weddings, the grandchildren. Our hundred year old house in Ceylon, before it was bombed. A potted history of her life captured on frame.

‘Irene is special’ said one of the good ladies. ‘The staff and patients all say the same. She is so positive and cheerful. She has great faith.’ ‘Will she be able to cook?’ I ask. I had lost half a stone since my mother’s admission and was fading away. I used to make a point of popping in on her daily on my way home from work, to sample her culinary delights.

Our parents’ meals and parties were legendary. She could never cook enough, and the worst crime ever was to run out of food.

My sister said little at these proceedings. I could see she was getting upset. The girls then went through the options regarding a package of care, assistance with bathing etc.
‘I don’t need that; I have daughters’ piped in our mother. We stare at the floor and the girls insist that their options are better.

This is the NHS at its finest. Caring, holistic and realistic. In no other part of the world, would there be such an attempt to rebuild this disabled elderly lady’s life. If we were anywhere else, we would have lost thousands, on top of the stress of now caring for a stroke victim. They also suggest various modifications to the home. Our mother agrees too rapidly and smiles. I know that smile and it means ‘I’ll say whatever you want. Then you will let me out. Then I will do whatever I want.’ Our father was a six-foot giant next to little mummy. That smile would have felled him like a tree. That smile was blown to life size and used (without her permission), to advertise her local photographers. She always declared how annoyed she was when she and our father drove past the shop window but we didn’t believe her.

‘Well, I can just stay now’ she proclaimed.

 ‘No mummy. Remember. We told you. This is just a home visit.’ She looked like someone who had just been informed that they had passed their driving test but was not permitted to drive.

The night before she had asked me for ‘the answers’.

‘What answers? What are you talking about?’ I was worried that she was becoming confused again. My medical training kicked in, poor sleep, UTI, further extension of bleed?

‘The lady next door has failed and can’t go home. Now you tell me the answers. I know you know.’ Then it dawned on me that she meant the mental function test that was part of the assessment prior to discharge. Were we cheating? I felt like a conspirator in a crime. Would her sentence be diminished because of me?

It was time for the home visit to come to an end. My head was buzzing, CAS alarm, key pad entrance, carers, various visits from specialist nurses. Where would I fit in this busy schedule?

Mummy headed for the steps. She remembered, good foot to heaven, bad foot to hell. How could she forget? She had heard it all before 15 years ago, when Appah had his cerebral haemorrhage. To nearly lose one parent with this condition was bad luck but two was sheer carelessness!

My mother waves at us from the car and my sister and I arrange our widest smiles.
‘You have passed your test mummy .You will be home very soon’ my sister declares.
‘How do you know?’ I feel like saying. My sister is pathologically optimistic and never sees the bad in any situation. It is a most annoying trait when I am feeling quite dejected, thinking of mummy and how she will cope in her new life.
The car drives off. I hear a gruff voice in my head.

‘Happy birthday daughter, you got your wish.’

‘Yes Appah. You can come back for her another day but not today’.

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