I'd been mum's next of kin since dad's death in 1981. Early on, I didn't give the role a lot of thought. The idea of our mother-daughter roles being reversed wasn't something I wanted to contemplate. I had a long-held a belief about her end. That it would be like dad's. Sudden. Involving no pain for her. And no unpleasantness for me.
Mum was someone who liked to prepare for everything way in advance. Including death. So by the time she reached her 70s, she'd signed my cousin Gill and I up for Power of Attorney. Ten years on, she was organising her funeral. We had an unspoken agreement that terminal illness and her losing her marbles (or any of her other faculties) was something to joke about. Unless they happened. And then we wouldn't talk about them at all.
Her (handing me a glossy funeral brochure): "It's all paid for. I've done a bit of a pick and mix. The medium priced coffin and a hearse. But no funeral cars."
Me: "So how am I going to get there?"
Her: "I expect someone will give you a lift. There's a nice little pub near Basingstoke Crematorium where you could hold the wake."
Me: "Do you want to go and try it out for lunch just to check it's up to scratch?" Her: "Oh no. I don't think so. I've booked a table at the Running Horse."
Next she put a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order in place. Me: "I thought they were for people who were in hospital"
Her: "Oh no. Anyone can have one. It means that if I collapse at home, the ambulance people won't revive me."
Me: "But how do they know you've got one?"
Her: "Oh, it's in the fridge. Everyone keeps them in the fridge."
Me (opening the fridge, expecting to see an important looking document stuck up in a prominent place): "Where is it, then?"
Her: "In a jar behind the marmalade."
Even then the responsibility of being next of kin didn't hit me. She was so independent. Fit too. And despite all the preparations, she clearly wasn't expecting to die any time soon.
When she reached her 90s, I began to develop this nagging dread that she wouldn't quietly die in her sleep. She would become incapable in some way. Unable to take care of herself physically. Or worse still, develop dementia. I'd be her go-to person. And as her only child, I would be her only go-to person.
I've never been good around illness and infirmity of any kind. I'd had a taste of it, staying with her when she came home from hospital after major heart surgery in her mid-80s. She demanded little. And hated having me do things for her. After one day, she decided she couldn't have me in the bathroom helping her shower. As for cooking, the conversations at meals went something like this...
Her: Are you sure that water's boiling?
Me (through gritted teeth): I have made a poached egg before.
Her: I always use the other spoon to take it out.
Me: Well I always use this one. Why don't you go and do the crossword and I'll call you when it's ready.
Her: I think I'd better stay here!
I breathe deeply and note the conversation so that I can repeat it to my friend Linda when I call her later.
Her: Have you turned the switch off. You know I like to have the switch turned off when the cooker isn't being used.
Then there was the way I put her clothes away. She had a complex system where things that hadn't been worn were hung up normally. Things that had been worn once were turned inside out. Things that she wore multiple times (cardigans etc.) went on the hangers with pink and white labels on, depending on how many wears they had left in them before they needed washing. She would come into the bedroom while I put the clothes away and supervise me operating this system. Utterly ridiculous, I thought. And was extremely annoyed when I found myself adopting it at home.
I phoned friends daily to wail about how awful life was. How I couldn't stand any more. After the two weeks of staying there, I was counting the hours until Linda came to rescue me and drive me back to Ealing.
When mum ended up in hospital with a broken shoulder aged 95, it seemed like another blip. Within hours she was talking about physios and recovery plans and rails being installed in the bathroom. A care plan for when she came out of hospital. Thank goodness! Someone else could bloody well poach the eggs and hang the damn shirts the wrong way out. But it wasn't to be. And it was then that my next of kin role started to become a reality.
Mum loved a list. So one day when I arrived at the hospital, I was unsurprised to find one sitting on her bedside cabinet. What I was surprised about was that it was for me. There were things to buy, people to call and email, letters and bills to deal with. I was also expected to report in regularly on my progress with the list. And as mum and her mobile had never seen eye to eye, I was the liaison point for the many friends and relatives who wanted to know how she was.
As time went on there was more and more to do: stair lifts to install, insurance companies to contact, meetings to attend with mum's bank. When the cancer was diagnosed, there was a care home to find, allowances to apply for, social workers and doctors to see, a house to be cleared and put on the market. Every week, mum's list got longer and more complicated. I rarely felt irritated. She rarely criticised me. It was a very different story from the post-operative care fortnight.
As it happened, I found I was not alone in the next of kin thing. My cousin Gill, despite caring for a husband with fast-advancing dementia, drove down from Kent to see mum every week. She was also given a list. Anything I'd got wrong (the socks I bought) or that mum didn't feel my skills were up to (sewing in name tags) was quietly allocated to Gill without being mentioned to me.
This time around, my friends were not listening to me moaning about mum. But they were on the receiving end of a lot of "I can't take any more" calls. The amount of things to do was stressful. But the worst thing was watching her deteriorate. Wondering what I would see when I put my head around her door on each visit. The dread that there would be evidence of her losing the plot or of incontinence. There wasn't. My friends were unbelievably supportive, not just with texts, calls and emails but giving up whole days to come down to Winchester with me to visit mum or help me sort out the house. Also, because Gill was there each week, we were watching her deteriorate together. Between them my friends and relatives kept me sane.
The thing I learnt about death and dying is that you can't predict what it will be like. You can't prepare for it. You can't know what will be expected of you as someone's next of kin. You just have to deal with as it unfolds. And live it, one day at a time.