This might sound terrible, but I'd rather Mum had died whirling around a dancefloor than lose her to the drip, drip decline of dementia By Marianne Jones Published: 01:22 BST, 9 September 2024 | Updated: 01:22 BST, 9 September 2024 e-mail View comments The missed call from the nursing home on my mobile at 1.58am told me what I already knew. Our tiny but mighty mum had died in her sleep just hours after my sister and I had left her bedside.
We returned later that morning to a room with an empty bed, this time to pack away her slippers and favourite green cardigan, take down family photographs and remove the cards we'd given to mum exactly two weeks earlier for her 83rd birthday. With grim humour my brother declared we were too old to be orphans. But whatever your age, nothing prepares you for losing a mother so deeply loved that you become a child without a hand to hold.
Mum's death has floored me despite it being entirely expected. Marianne, right, with her late mother Maria, a sharp cookie, who lovingly and single-handedly steered her three children into adulthood when their father left She was my biggest defender, my fiercest critic, my most trusted confidante. Last week I burst into tears at the railway station at the sight of a mother and daughter sharing a joke and had to hide my eyes behind sunglasses, despite the rain.
We'd never again enjoy that easy banter. The extent of my grief has caught me off guard because for the past five years mum lived with the drip, drip decline of dementia. This most cruel illness gradually stole her mobility, her voice and eventually her soul.
Our twinkly Maltese firecracker with the big dark curls faded to a silver haired sparrow on a pillow. This may sound terrible, but there were moments I silently wished Mum could have gone suddenly, doing something very ordinary that she loved – like whirling round the dancefloor or eating seafood pasta, or even during Coronation Street. This would have still involved the pain of saying goodbye, but only once.
As anyone caring for a loved one with dementia knows, this shattering disease – which someone is diagnosed with every three minutes – is a series of long goodbyes. You lose them in pieces. It was like charting a baby's milestones but in grim reverse: the day she needed a wheelchair, stopped talking, became unable to swallow solid food.
Most heartbreakingly was her no longer recognising me, something I was convinced would never happen. Luckily my husband captured the moment Mum reached out from her bed to smile and touch my face, unaware it would be for the last time. Despite her now being free, the relief I was assured would flood in stubbornly has not arrived.
I don't feel relieved that Mum is no longer in the world. But the memories of the person she used to be have returned in waves and I'm finding comfort from remembering Mum's true self rather than her shell. She was a sharp cookie, who lovingly and single-handedly steered three of us into adulthood, my father having left when I was eight.
Mum had a tough life, which she survived by being stubborn, shrewd and free of self-pity. Frankly I don't think I could have done it. She held down a full-time factory job yet walked back home after every shift to cook dinner from scratch.
I dreamed of ready meals but was dished up stew by this 4ft 11in pocket rocket who was determined that our diets would be healthy. She could make a penny go a long way, knitting and sewing our clothes, her love displayed in every dish and stitch. We were the richest of poor kids.
Growing up, she gave me three great pieces of advice: never rely on a man for money, always stand up straight and don't let others put you down. She was a feminist without knowing it. When I was crestfallen at 15, after a school careers adviser described journalism as a bit ambitious, mum's dismissive: 'What does she know?' spurred me on.
She was determined that my life would be different from hers, that I would go to university and 'do well' in a job I loved. This resilience and wisdom rubbed off. I went on to earn my own cash, walk tall and have a long career as the editor of glossy magazines.
As mum got older, she was finally able to relax, having found love and security second time around with my stepdad, George. She became the perfect plus one, saying yes to trips to the theatre or a minibreak before I'd finished asking her. Unlike kids, friends and other halves she was an eagerly available companion, and could hold her own in any company, as she was so comfortable being herself.
Read More Scientists say a fifth of dementia cases are easily preventable with simple 'senses' fix Despite living in different parts of the country, we never went more than a few weeks without meeting up and talked on the phone every day, about the trivia of life you'd never bore anyone else with. She would drop everything (even poor old George) and jump on a train to come south and look after our two boys during a work crisis, and I honestly couldn't have coped without her unwavering support. Her grandchildren were her world and I've never seen her so happy as when she was being nanna to her teasing boys ('cheeky buggers' a favourite phrase).
Mum indulged them more than she was ever able to do with us and found it much easier to verbally express her love. While the stress of her early life disappeared, the incessant knitting continued. The lads have the little Bob the Builder and skull and crossbones jumpers she made for them tucked away in their memory boxes.
We call them their Nanna knits. She still cooked from scratch, insisting I didn't need frozen ready meals if I organised myself properly, which at times drove me mad. But while we bickered, we never once fell out.
The trick was to accept that she was never wrong, would not apologise and was unlikely to change her opinion – or at least admit she had. My husband says he is married to someone similar. While my sister inherited mum's thrift and culinary skills and my brother her practical mind, I got her love of reading and fashion (not as useful but a lot of fun).
Her ideal day was to spend hours shopping on the high street before heading to the M&S cafe for a cuppa and a teacake. Despite forever watching her money, even when she no longer needed to, she had a weakness for clothes. It took my sister and I two full days to empty her wardrobe, as Mum could never resist buying another floral print skirt, colourful t-shirt or pair of sandals that caught her eye.
And if she liked something I was wearing, she'd always say: 'Ooh, I'll have that when you've finished with it'. I swear she had more of my clothes than I did, but I never admitted how much they cost as that would lead to another favourite phrase of hers: 'You've got more money than sense.' One of the first signs mum was having more than a just a 'senior moment' happened as we chatted about books.
My stepdad died in 2019 and we spent the summer with Mum, taking her on a family holiday to Croatia and then bringing her back home with us to Kent. Dementia gradually stole Marla's mobility, her voice and eventually her soul One afternoon, while browsing my bookshelf, she picked out The Outcast by Sadie Jones and said she'd like to read it. I thought she was joking and blurted out: 'Mum, you've just read that on holiday!' When she claimed she'd never seen it before I showed her a picture of her holding it on a sun lounger.
It was such a stupid, insensitive thing to do. She looked stunned and frightened. It soon became clear that George had been hiding signs of her decline.
Later that week, while cooking us her signature risotto, she tried to put an onion in a pan of boiling water instead of frying it. It was the beginning of the end. She was eventually diagnosed with a mixture of vascular dementia and Alzheimer's.
In 2021 my sister, who I'm so lucky to have, became mum's full-time carer, but by the following November her needs were so great we, reluctantly and guiltily, placed her in a nursing home. Months earlier we took her to Malta, suspecting it would be her last visit, so her nieces, nephews and cousins could say their goodbyes. It was a week of warmth and laughter, apart from when Mum wandered off when we were sightseeing.
Like a scene in a bad sitcom, we spotted her ahead, blagged a lift from a man in a golf buggy and scooped her up. 'Where have you been?' she asked crossly. We had to laugh (eventually).
It's these imperfect memories that now make me smile. I just wish I had more video of Mum to capture her laughter, those sparkly chocolate brown eyes and Merseyside/Maltese accent we would gleefully impersonate. My sister also wishes we'd snipped a lock of her hair.
I'm kicking myself for not doing this. But I'm hoping we got more things right than wrong. I worried over warning my boys, who so adored her, that Nanna didn't have long left, especially as one was taking university exams.
I am glad I did though, because on what turned out to be her last day they FaceTimed her and it was beautiful. While mum wasn't conscious, it's reassuring to know that her grandsons told her how much they loved her. There was also a particular comfort to my sister and myself 'preparing' mum to leave the world.
Her pink nail polish was chipped, and while that seems trivial, she hated looking scruffy, so we gently removed it and then massaged her hands with her favourite rose hand cream. As we nattered, mum suddenly opened her eyes and looked at us. 'There she is!' we both cried.
It lasted seconds but that tender moment, where she hopefully felt loved and secure in her last hours, means a lot. When I returned home after mum's death, I recalled she had stuck a note on the back of a photograph of herself that she'd embroidered and had framed for my birthday years ago. It shows her as a child in Malta making her First Holy Communion.
'Open this when I'm gone', she told me. We always thought the letter would contain a shocking family secret but I needn't have worried. In typical Mum style the paper isn't fancy, the letter is written in biro and her words record the place and date of the occasion and embroidery style.
But what is unusual are the words that state she 'loves my Marianne so very much', which in true northern style, we rarely ever said to each other. It overwhelmed me. My hardest challenge was writing and delivering Mum's eulogy.
At her funeral I was in bits at the sight of her coffin and the flowers shaped into a Maltese cross, a symbol of the island where she wanted her ashes scattered. I wasn't sure I could go through with it but knew she would have been thrilled to hear me speak about her life, including the line from a friend who perfectly described mum as 'a big person in a little body'. So, I summoned up some of her grit, stood with my shoulders back and hopefully did her proud.
And as I looked over at the funny, kind, warm children and grandchildren in whom she still lives, I thought: job done Mum. For dementia information and support, see dementiauk.org or call 0800 888 6678.
Marianne Jones co-hosts the twice-weekly Been there Done That Got the Podcast. Coronation Street Share or comment on this article: This might sound terrible, but I'd rather Mum had died whirling around a dancefloor than lose her to the drip, drip decline of dementia e-mail Add comment.
