It’s been a funny year...

It’s twelve months today since we lost Irene. Doesn’t seem like it. It’s weird how time goes. In the year since she went David’s illness has resolved (although with recurrences occasionally), he managed to develop labryinthitis which made him move like Brundlefly (much to my amusement), Bernard lost not only his much beloved wife but also a pet (some people may wonder how I can compare the two but animal lovers that Bernard and Irene are and were, a pet was as much a family member as you or I) and of course the wedding of David and myself.

I made a speech at the wedding, remembering Irene, how much fun she would’ve had (although I strongly suspect she may have complained about the loudness of the music), how sadly she was missed and how I knew that I had her approval. I made a lot of people cry with my few unscripted words about this lady.

I’d complain about her to David at times; especially how she spoke to Bernard but David would just tell me that it was just how they were, Bernard loved Irene deeply and it showed as time and illness got the better of her. The time I spent with him at the hospital when Irene was taken in for what would be the last time gave me such insight to their relationship. He adored her. He was patient with her when in her confused state she demanded to know why he wasn’t at work, I saw him cry when she said horrible, nasty things to him, not just snipping at him (caused by lack of oxygen to the brain – hypoxia) and the devastation her death caused him.

A year on, we all still miss her. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her, possibly complaining about something Bernard had said or done, more often than not though when her and Bernard used to come and visit David and me on Tuesday evenings, she was funny, sharp, caring and very loving.

We don’t have a grave or a plot to go to to remember Irene. Well, nowhere close (we scattered her in Somerset on North Hill; her favourite place in the world), so we’re going out for dinner tonight to remember her. Nothing fancy, she wasn’t that kind and neither are we. Just to the pub up the road where we can sit and chat about everything and nothing, and think of her the whole time. I’ll raise a glass; this one’s for you Irene.

Putting Mum to rest

Had a well deserved holiday last week with Dad and Tara. There was a sad purpose for our visit though, namely to scatter Mums ashes in the place she'd let us know in life where they should rest.

We stayed at Home Farm Caravan Park, where Mum and Dad have gone to every six months for about the last 12 or 13 years or so. Somerset is a gorgeous part of England, and no more so than in the surrounding area of Home Farm. It has a private beach (which is where Bryan Adams filmed part of the video for 'Everything I do', beach-related fact fans) which is ideal for running their two dogs and is only a hop skip and a jump away from Minehead, Watchett and some glorious pubs and walks.

We took a trip to North Hill, just a short distance away from Minehead, on the Monday afternoon. It was a glorious sunny day - in fact the weather was just about perfect all week long - and we scattered mums ashes in a beautiful spot, just next to a small area of woodland. It was sad, but a perfect setting. Before she pretty much lost the use of her legs, Dad and mum would spend hours walking around North Hill (and the surrounding area) and it truly is a gorgeous part of the world, especially on some of the coastal walks.

The rest of the holiday was spent eating good food, visiting tiny little beautiful pubs in the middle of nowhere and introducing myself to the previously undiscovered delights of Exmoor Ale.

On a lighter note, Dad has requested that his ashes be placed when he pops his clogs (his words, not mine) in pretty much the same spot, "although not TOO close".

It will be nice to pop to Somerset yearly to go to the same spot and visit Mum - any excuse to go to such a lovely place is fine by me.

Getting better all the time (better, better, betttttttteeeeer)

Whether my body is finally recovering or the mad pills (Citalopram, as you ask) have finally kicked in I don't know, but for the last four or five days I've actually felt quite well - in fact, positively chipper. The pains in my chest have all but gone and the only aches I get now are the odd small stomach cramp and the odd pain in my arm, but this is undoubtedly the end result of years of excessive masturbation and frenzied stabbing attacks on pensioners taking their toll.

So, much to Taras relief, I've actually started showing an interest in our wedding plans again now I'm not constantly worrying that I'm dying of something or other. In fact I'll admit that now this six months of sheer hell is drawing to a grateful close, I'll be at a loss at what to blog about again.

We've been looking for wedding invite ideas and have found one we think is perfect; I'll post it up here when we've finished the design. In the meantime, I thought I'd post this brilliant one I found on the interwebs. Whether I'd have been allowed something along these lines is a different matter.

Yet again I'm amazed by how fantastic everybody has been. Thanks for all the birthday greetings and cards by the way - lovely stuff. Tara has been brilliant - If I'd been her, I'd have lost patience with the hypochondriac under my roof months ago. The last week or so have been difficult - it would have been Mums birthday on Sunday, and what with Mothers Day from a little while back, it's been a tough time.

We went to the Huntsman Carvery on Sunday, which is where Mum, Dad and I would always go because my Mums birthday was so close to mine. We took my aunt and cousin along, and it felt odd Mum not being there with us but we had a good time regardless. In all seriousness, if any of you live in the Midlands and want a cracking meal, I can highly recommend the Huntsman. I've never had a meal there that was anything less than perfect. Proper old fashioned British Grub in stupidly large quantities; even the leftover meat that will be graciously donated to dads two dogs will be enough to last them until Easter.

Dad, Tara and I are off to Somerset later in the year in May to scatter Mums ashes in her favourite spot. This'll be tough but it'll be nice to spend some time with Dad, although I imagine he's bored of me hanging around so much now..!

On another note, check out the blog from my lovely friend James Stace. And be gentle with him; he's only little and he's upset about the cider tax.

Saying goodbye to mum

Mums funeral was last Friday (the 26th) at Heart of England Crematorium in Nuneaton (where Mum was born). By 11 a.m. that morning my Dad had a houseful of people; Tara, my aunt Margaret and her daughter in law Trish, and my friends Jon, Tom and James.

Dad and I had gone to say goodbye to Mum in the Chapel of Rest the afternoon before, and I also went again with Tara later that same evening. She looked very peaceful – way more peaceful than she had shortly an hour after her death when we’d seen her in the hospital – and was resplendent in her beloved Scallywags flyball team T-shirt and slippers. Resting on her stomach was a small stuffed dog, a beanie baby toy which she’d loved that I’d bought her as stocking filler for Christmas a few years before.

I kissed her on the forehead before we left. I wasn’t prepared for quite how cold she would be – when we’d seen her shortly after she died, her hands were still warm.

I broke down a little, apologising to her for things. I apologised that she wouldn’t be there at our wedding, and that I’d never given her any grandchildren. Mum would have made a great grandma, and I’m sorry I’ll never see that.

The Funeral Car came to collect us at half eleven. Tara and I sat forward, my Dad and my Aunt at the back. Mr. Hackett from the Funeral Directors solemnly walked the car out of the street and then we began the sombre procession to Heart of England, following the car containing my mums’ coffin at a slow pace.

There was a fair old gathering outside, old friends and relatives. It was drizzling with rain which somehow seemed appropriate. Heart of England crematorium is a lovely building in a lovely setting, in the middle of fields with a lovely view from the main window of the Chapel.

Both Tara and I had prepared a few paragraphs about Mum. I’d felt before the service I’d have difficulty reading my piece out, and after Tara read her piece I was in bits.

“My memories of Irene.

I decided I wanted to read something out about Irene and things I remember about her.

My first meeting with Irene when David and I first started going out was fairly brief. I’d had my hair in bunches, something I’ve still not grown out of. David told me that she liked me, and she even liked my ‘silly hair’. She wasn’t afraid to say what she thought which I think is an admirable quality in a person.

My main memory of her is one time David and I had had a fall out and had split up for a while. One Friday night whilst I was at my mums, the phone went. It was Irene. She’d called to see how I was and how I was getting on. She told me that she didn’t really know what had gone on between David and me, but she hoped we sorted it out and got back together. I took this to mean that she liked me! And it seemed I was right. When Irene had been hospitalised with leukaemia in January last year, due to my working at the hospital, I was able to pop up and down and see her. I always tried to phone before I went onto the wards and whenever they asked who I was, I replied ‘Oh, I’m Mrs Court’s daughter in law’ because that’s how I saw myself. Bernard has since told me that when she found out about it, she loved the fact I referred to her as that.

One of the most upsetting things for me was to see the decline in her health. In all the years I’d known her, herself and Bernard had always gone on walking holidays to Somerset and she was never happier than when she was either out and about walking around or cleaning. Towards the end, she could barely do either and it was saddening to see such a strong willed independent woman stuck in a wheelchair or electronic buggy (that she couldn’t drive too well!).

It’s also sad that she won’t be at David and mine’s wedding in October. I was away having a dress fitting last week and as I tried it on, I had to hold the tears back knowing that she’d never see the dress, she’d never see David and me on the happiest day of our lives. But she’ll be there in spirit and we’ll almost certainly be thinking of her all day. I know I’ll think of her each day and I’ll miss her each day.

From one short strong willed fiery independent woman to another, I’ll miss you Irene. Rest in peace.”

Tara was in tears with the final few paragraphs, and I didn’t know how I’d be able to stand in front of people and read anything out. However, I would never get this opportunity again so I had to try.

“When I was was growing up, Mum and I used to fight like cat and dog. Dad will vouch for the fact that I've inherited her stubborn streak and the two of us were too much alike - a case of immovable object meets immovable object. After I left home though, something very strange happened which we chatted about on a number of occasions - we became the very best of friends.

Years back when I split from my ex-wife and had to move back home and had gotten used to the barage of "I told you so" from both Mum and Dad, I used to go out clubbing on a Friday night. Rolling in at around 3 a.m. trying not to wake anybody I found Mum waiting up in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. "You don't have to wait up for me, mum. I'm old enough to look after myself now.".

"It's what Mums do", she replied.

It's what Mums do.

And that's Mum in a nutshell. She did everything a mum was supposed to do and more.

I'll miss her Sunday dinners. I'll miss her strength and resolve which she showed through years of pain and illness. I'll miss her enthusiasm and love for all animals. I'll miss the way she spoke to Dad which many would misinterpret as nagging but in fact showed a great, enduring and lasting love. She'll be sadly missed at my wedding later in the year. Most of all though, Dad and I will miss one of the best friends we'll ever have.”

Afterwards we had a wake in my dads local, and the majority of people who had attended the service came back for drinks and food. It was lovely seeing some of my best friends, but strange and sad that it had to be for such unfortunate circumstances. Still, we gave Mum a decent send off. Later in the year Dad, Tara and I will be travelling to her favourite holiday destination in Somerset to scatter her ashes in her favourite spot.

A long and tiring week

Firstly, many thanks to all the cards and comments we've received since my Mums sad death on Tuesday. My Dad, Tara and myself have been overwhelmed by the condolences and kind thoughts and they genuinely mean the world to us. It's been a difficult week and your sympathy and well wishes have helped a great deal.

Dad, Tara and I have had a busy week. Notices in the local paper, organising the funeral and registering the death - which in itself consists of a frightening level of bureaucracy. We've chosen some songs that mum liked for the funeral, as well as some nice appropriate poems for the Order of Service. Dad and Tara sorted out some clothes for her to wear - my suggestion of a tabard was rejected - and we're all just about ready for the funeral next Friday.

Strangely enough, it's been a really nice week in some ways. I've got to spend a great deal of time with my Dad, and we've chatted about what we've been through and how brave mum was in her final days.

The grieving process is an odd one. What upsets me the most is the little thoughts that spring into my head about the things I'll miss. She won't be at my wedding this year - thats the saddest thing of all. At least I know that Tara had Mums seal of approval - the last time that my mum was in hospital and Tara went to visit, she declared herself as Irenes Daughter-in-law. That made Mums week.

I'll miss her wonderful Sunday and Boxing Day dinners, and her enthusiasm when talking about the dogs and their flyball team. I'll miss going to the Huntsman Carvery for our birthdays, and her obsession with tidiness. I'll miss the way she was forever dressed in a scruffy sweatshirt, and her lovely smile, laugh and sense of humour. I occasionally think of things and think, "Ooh, I'll have to tell Mum about that" and it saddens me that I can't any more.

It's been a weird week, but you've all helped us get through it. If Mum could read the nice things that you've said, she'd be chuffed to bits. Thanks again.

For those of you that have enquired, the funeral service is next Friday (the 26th) at The Heart of England crematorium in Nuneaton (her town of birth) at 12 noon. Mum was never one for flowers, so any donations should be made to The Dogs Trust or the Anthony Nolan (leukaemia) trust.

The tomato in the respirator

Almost exactly a week since the phone rang with dad breaking the news about my mum, it rang again this morning. Since leaving Mum last night we could see she was in a bad way, and I'd said my goodbyes then - strongly suspecting I wouldn't see her alive again.

After the promising update of yesterday she'd taken a turn for the worse. She was still refusing to wear the oxygen mask, and nobody could force her to do so - it was ultimately her choice after all. We'd chatted for a little while last night, but it's clear that her mind wasn't working properly. There were occasional glimpses of my mum, but mostly masked behind the frightened facade of a confused little old tired woman who had given up the exhausting fight. She asked me to switch the kitchen lights off as nobody was in there, and also asked me what time Dad would be back from work. She'd also asked why somebody had put a tomato into her respirator.

Tara and I talked at some length when we got back home. I admitted that if I could have pushed a button to end mums life there and then, I would have. It hurt me to see her suffering in such a way - She hated the mask and with hindsight it was a cruel thing to revive her after the initial incident of last week. Albeit if anything it was a small blessing that we got to spend some time with her before she went; not everybody gets that luxury with their loved ones, and for that we consider ourselves blessed.

In the end it was her own decision, and one that dad and I didn't have to make on her behalf. She didn't want the mask, and that was all that was keeping her alive. She didn't want to spend what little remained of her life attached to machines and wanted to remain independent and stubborn to the end. In Dads words, "She'd had enough."

She died before we got there. I went in to say my goodbyes and held her hand which was still warm and kissed her on the cheek. It's a cliche, but she looked like she was sleeping and would open her eyes at any second and moan that my hands were cold, or complain that I shouldn't fuss and should have been at work.

Again, typing these words helps. So many of you have expressed concern or simply passed on your best wishes, and this is the easiest way to convey what has happened.

Tara has been brilliant through all of this. Dad and I would have gone to pieces without her, and she's been an absolute rock. Dad and I have each other and will stay strong for each others sake.

Rest in peace, mum. If there is an God up there, she's bothering him at the moment asking Him where he keeps the Dyson.



R.I.P. Irene Court 1938-2010

Mum: An Update

Firstly, thanks for all your kind words over the last week. It's been a difficult time and all your well wishes have meant a really big deal to us all.

We've been to the hospital every day to see mum. She's getting a little better with every day, but has to spend much of the day in an oxygen mask and absolutely hates it. In fact as I write this Tara and Dad are in hospital with her - I've come back to work after a weeks absence - and she's refusing to have it back on. The fact she has been off the oxygen so long is causing hypoxia; this in turn causes confusion, hostility and memory loss. She's being nasty to everybody around her, and being her typical stubborn self. She's also so confused she's convinced she spent yesterday evening at home.

I'll be going there straight after work. Hopefully by then somebody has convinced her that the oxygen mask is for her own good. Every minute she spends in it must be hell - it looks painful to watch her breathing through it - but it's reinflating her lungs and doing her the world of good. For all intents and purposes, it's giving her her life back with each breath she makes through it.

There will be a difficult few months ahead of us, if indeed she ever gets fully better at all. We can only keep our fingers crossed at this stage.

When the phone rings

When the phone rings in the early hours of the morning, it can only mean bad news. Half-asleep Tara answered the phone in the early hours of Tuesday morning - it was my dad. Mum had collapsed a few hours earlier and had had to have the paramedics attend and take her to the hospital. Dad warned me that it was looking very bad. Tara and I got a cab to University Hospital where we were met in a room by a doctor and the head of surgery.

The doctor explained that mums lungs had stopped working. She'd been suffering from a throat infection for a while, and that coupled with her leukaemia just made things worse. The head of surgery was just there to confirm with us that as a life long smoker and sufferer from lung problems, that there wouldn't be any point in operating. The doctor told us to expect the worst. Her heart had stopped twice in the ambulance and the outlook was very bad.

A few minutes later we were allowed to see her; the frail little old lady we saw in the Resuscitation unit being kept alive by machines didn't seem to be my mum. My mum is a strong, opinionated and feisty woman - this weak helpless little old lady attached to an ECG, drips and a ventilator had pale paper-thin mottled cracked skin and looked like she'd lost every ounce of fight.

We sat with her as long as we could; holding her hands and just being there for her. I gave up looking at the display on the ECG simply because it was terrifying. Figures were fluctuating wildly, and scrolling bars just looked way too low. Machines were bleeping and red lights were flickering on and off, and mum just lay there in the middle of it all completely unconscious.

In the afternoon one of the doctors from the respiratory unit came to have a chat. He sat us down and closed the door behind him, and told us the situation. They had a new respirator unit they were going to try her on, to see if this could kick some life into her lungs. They'd leave mum on it for five or so hours, until the doctor had finished his rounds, and then a decision would have to be made. If the machine wasn't doing its job or failed to have the required results, all we could then do is dose mum full of pain killers and switch it off to avoid distressing her any further.

We waited, and it was the most terrifying few hours in my life. I felt so utterly helpless - my mum was lying in a bed fighting the most important fight of her life and there was nothing I do to help her.

The time passed and we were told the brilliant news that the machine was working; it was forcing air into her lungs and breathing for her but it was working nonetheless. She was still critical, but would be moved to a private room in the respiratory unit. She was semi-conscious as she was being wheeled up, and asked for a cigarette. She was wheeled into the room and after a few more hours was taking off the new bit of kit and put on a nebuliser.

She was tired but awake and able to speak. She wasn't very coherent - the amount of oxygen they'd given her saw fit to that - but we were able to sit with her and talk to her for a while. She was insistent that she needed to go the toilet despite the fact she was cathetered up, and wanted to go outside for a cigarette. The doctor came around and told her in no uncertain terms that she didn't need to go to the toilet, and the machine was a one-shot operation. If she smoked again, the machine wouldn't work a second time.

Dad and I had to have the unpleasant but necessary task of what would happen if the worst came to the worst. Mum and Dad had discussed this eventuality between themselves in the past, and the last thing mum would want is to be stuck as an invalid in a bed tied to machines for the rest of her life. The cancer along and the problems with her bag destroyed her; in eighteen months she went from being an independent strong woman to somebody dependent on others for getting around. She's physically aged in that period, looking more and more like the 72 little old lady that she is.

Now it's Friday and we've spent all the time we can with her. I'll be going to see her again later. She's still on the machine but it's doing a little less work for her every day. She's not out of the woods yet, but it's looking a lot more promising that it was four days ago. She's be in the hospital for a long time - in all honesty, it might be forever - but my mum is fighting. She's slowly and surely returning to her old self, and fingers crossed everything is going to work out.

Update Schmupdate

New Years Resolution: Must update blog more.

Well, another resolution fucked up :) Still, this can be the first of a flurry of posts now life is returning to normal and I'm discovering the existence of free time again.

First, my mum. Regular steroid treatments have definitely caused the lymphoma to shrink, but she's been in and out for regular tests to find exactly where the cancer is. Two weeks ago she started losing her balance and found herself incapable of walking, and now the doctors think they may have damaged her back whilst performing a variety of biopsies. Her and dad just came to visit, and it was good to see them again. She's in good spirits, although worried - and dreading the doctors cutting into her back again.

Secondly, work. The product has reached the finals of an industry award which is being presented next month. This is one rare thing in my life I'm being very smug about; I did 99% of the work on it, after all. Sometimes seems all the hard work was worth while - the customer is happy, and that makes me happy.

Anyway, I promise regular updates in future. I have a lot to blog about now, so watch this space. Pax.

A brief period of calm

Wow. What a few months it has been. I've a lot to get off my chest, so excuse me if this blog comes across as more of a sprawling rant than the others!

The big project at work went live on time, but not without a herculean effort. We took on another member of staff but she turned out to be just as poor as the first guy (although it took us longer to discover this and was only really uncovered after her multiple attempts to sabotage our efforts). To this end (and I'm not blowing my own trumpet here, merely stating the truth) I pretty much developed the entire system myself and it nearly killed me. 7 odd weeks working 7 days a week, up to 15 hours a day. My boss and I nearly fell out on a number of occasions, such was the level of stress, and I'm sure I must have written a letter of resignation at least half a dozen times during the project.

The customer has been running the software for around a month now and apart from the odd minor glitch (not unexpected in a development that, due to the nature of the project and the timescales I was making up as I was going along) seems to be doing exactly what it says on the tin. Customer is happy and telling us that they will need to enhance the software in the new year to cover the rest of their UK operations and not just London.

The 7 weeks was made worse by the fact that Mum has been ill. What she thought was a back ache turned out to be two collapsed vertebrae and during the treatment of this (by creating concrete replacements) they've found cancer in the form of lymphoma in her back. They start finding out how to treat this next week, but it's a huge worry for all.

On a positive note though, I have a new member of staff - as of a fortnight ago I had two but one of them quit three days into the job - I don't think our company suited her. He's a nice guy, gets the job done and is proving to be a good assistant. I'm interviewing again next week to fill in the final position - All working towards me being able to have a holiday!

So, fingers crossed I'm entering a period of calm. Hope you all have a great christmas (those of you I don't see or speak to before then) and hope all is good.