The end of a family.

I wrote this on an old diary on 11th March 2003 at 6.35am:

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There are a number of reasons why I stopped writing there but primarily because I was avoiding writing about the events of last summer.

On 4th July 2002 at about 8pm my mum died.

She had been suffering from cancer a second time and despite much treatment - chemotherapy mostly - she didn't make it.

I got a call from my dad whilst I was at Kings Cross station waiting for a train to Leeds to visit Alison. He told me that somehow, during the night, she had turned in bed and her hip had crumbled and broke. At this point nobody knew the seriousness of this and we assumed that she would go to hospital and be fixed up. I asked dad to keep me up to date and went to Leeds. It didn't feel right.

On the Sunday as I was waiting for a cab to take me to Leeds station I got a call from dad again telling me that she was now on morphine. This is when I knew it was going to happen soon. I asked dad what he thought I should do (my train to London was within the hour) and he suggested that I should go to Preston.

I took the train to Preston and dad picked me up and took me to Churchtown (they were living at gran and grandpa's old house in Churchtown whilst renovating Clifton House.)

When I got there I went in to see mum. She was very drowsy from the morphine but still able to talk. I asked her if she was comfortable and she said no. I helped her to sort out her pillows. Every time she moved she was in agony.

She had a catheter as she was bedridden. Nurses came a couple of times a day to clean her and move her to prevent bed sores. Every time she moved she screamed in pain - you couldn't get away from the noise. Her bedroom smelled horrible, like pee and disinfectant, like a geriatric ward at a hospital - the smell of dying.

I went out with Robert who was there. I bought her some magazines - home magazines... Still planning the house! I don't think she could read them though. I also bought some food and wine and made meals for us all. Mum's last meal was one that I made.

I spoke to Matthew and told him that he should come over. I think Robert picked him up. I don't think he realised how serious it was until he got there. I kept taking him out of mum's room because he was getting so upset and I wasn't sure if she knew or not but felt she might so thought it best.

At some point during the five days we were told that she wouldn't recover. Also her morphine was increased gradually. It was in a pump that hissed every now and then as more more was injected.

I was on the phone to Chris a lot. I wanted him there but also felt that it was right that it was just family. I was annoyed when Kevin turned up, not least about his reaction when he saw mum. It was a look of shock and fear and revulsion which whilst being understandable was something I didn't need to see.

John came over a couple of times. He was a wreck.

I called Janet and Celia because I thought they should know. Janet wept like a child as soon as I told her and had to hang up. Celia kept talking normally for a few minutes before suddenly breaking down. I also had to call Matthew's boss so that they would know why he wasn't at work. It is the most surreal and painful thing to have to tell people that your mum is going to die in the next few days - especially when the people you are telling are your mum's best friends.

On the Thursday Chris drove up. He arrived at about 7pm and I needed to get out so I took him on a tour of Churchtown. We walked down the road. I showed him the two houses that Phillip and Denise had lived in then we went to the Punch Bowl for a drink.

I was about half way through my pint when Kevin called from the house. He said 'I think you'd better come back.'

When we got to the house she had died. She lay there with her head back and her mouth open not breathing any more. She looked yellow and old.

Dad, Robert and Matthew were sat around the bed and the curtains were closed. I held her head in my hands and kissed her. Then I broke down.

Dad said 'a prayer to speed her to heaven.'

About 5 or 10 minutes later the nurses arrived at the door to see to mum again. I told them that she had gone and asked them for a couple of minutes before they went in to clean her.

The nurses did there stuff and then Chris & I went in to sit with her before the undertakers arrived. The most startling thing was the change in sound in the room. After the gurgling and rattling in her chest and throat as she developed pneumonia the room seemed extremely calm now. I held her hand and kissed her again. The nurses had sprayed her perfume around the room.

Dad was in the living room phoning family and friends to tell everyone. Eventually the undertakers came and took her away. We all packed up and went to John and Elaine's.

I have never been back to that house.

Mum's funeral was on 11th July. It was a very sunny, warm day.

She left from Clifton House, went to St Chads and was buried at the cemetery just outside town. Everyone went back to John and Elaine's afterwards.

The strange thing is that only now, months later,I am noticing how it affected me and continues to.

I went back to work immediately but don't know how I managed to do anything - it all seems a bit dream like now.

We've left London now. We lived at my dad's (that's weird too - not saying 'my parents') in Poulton for a couple of months and now live in Chester.

I still have weird dreams about mum and get upset every day.

If you imagine your body is made up of your emotions, it now, still, feels like a huge chunk of my chest has just disappeared. Most of the time I feel empty and as if I am just floating about aimlessly. I don't feel like I have much influence on my own life - I just react to situations. I have little enthusiasm for anything and no ambition. I don't feel that I can talk to anybody about it and I don't think most people are interested.

The whole affair (for want of a better phrase) has made me clarify my thoughts on what happens after death. During mum's funeral the words about God and Jesus did nothing to comfort me. It's hideous but I can only think of her in a box under ground. It kills me to go to her grave. Mum was only 55.

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Reading back on this tonight is upsetting but also makes me realise how much I've healed over the years since mum died. I still don't go to her grave though.

Savick Brook to The Bamboo Take-away

On the far side of the roundabout, across the road from the old Victorian bus stop and the Spar corner shop is the Plungington pub. This marks the top end of Plungington Road and the main stretch of my walk to and from work. So far this is the most interesting part of Preston that I have found. This evening there was a large group of people in the Nippon yoga and martial arts centre, most of them looked quite uncomfortable. Perhaps they were about to take their first class. The Happy Haddock had also attracted a large group of people but this group seemed far more relaxed and jovial.

At one of the beauty shops a little girl sat grinning at a table in the window, hands outstretched, whilst the smiling assistant painted her nails. Her mum watched on, head crammed under a hair dryer. This evening, as I walked past, the butcher on the corner was bringing his sign in. At the bottom of the hand written sign read the legend 'Sausages on special offor!'

I suspect that there was an egging incident last night - I counted five of them broken on the pavement at various intervals down the street. Not sure what happened to the sixth - maybe it hit it's target. There are always lads bombing up and down the road in Novas and other such boy racers - I suspect the eggs emanated from one of these.

At the bottom end of the street, before you get to the university, the street suddenly gets busier with take aways, charity shops, food shops and student rental estate agents. I'm tempted by the doll with knitted dress loo roll cover in one of the shop windows. I turn left at the Bamboo.

Towns

We're about to move house again. This time from Chapel en le Frith to Preston. In the past eight years we have lived in Sale in south Manchester, Tottenham in north London, Enfield in Middlesex, two different places in Chester, Colchester, Chelmsford and Chapel en le Frith. It's got to the point now where I don't even think about it. We move in three weeks and I've not started packing yet.

I feel like I have learnt about very different things in each place. I learnt about Music in Manchester, art in Chester, politics in London, friends in Derbyshire, careers in Essex and I suspect that Preston will be about family.

Buckley & I don't share the same tastes in many things - and that includes where we live. I could happily settle in London and he loves Derbyshire. I find Derbyshire dull and nosey and he thinks London is dirty, impersonal and cold.

We've not found a happy medium yet so instead we go to work in different directions and do our own thing.

I would like to live by the sea. Fleetwood would be a lovely place to have a weekend flat. I would also love to live in another country for a couple of years - perhaps Spain or Holland - maybe France or New York. It's highly unlikely though.

All the moving around has left us with a scattering of friends across the country and it's very easy to distinguish the ones you care about and the ones that care about you just by who you keep in touch with. Strangely one of my oldest friends lives in Preston and I'm looking forward to getting to know her again.

Despite being used to moving I still find it quite unsettling. Every time you have to start again - finding a job, making friends, making a home and feeling comfortable again. The only constant is Chris. Everything else changes.