6 days ago

MARGARETS FINAL YEARS

Margaret’s Final Years (2016–2024)

By 2016 I was already involved in looking after them.

Shopping. Appointments. Practical things. Checking in. Making sure bills were handled and the day-to-day was covered.

It wasn’t announced as care. It became routine.

When her husband died in 2016, that routine intensified.

What had been shared became singular.

I was there more.

Hospital visits increased over the years. Waiting rooms. Follow-up appointments. Medication adjustments. Repeating information to different departments. Lifting. Carrying. Sorting paperwork. Fixing small things around the house.

She aged gradually.

There wasn’t a single turning point. It was incremental. Energy reduced. Walking shortened. Recovery from minor illnesses took longer.

Outings became less frequent, though I pushed for them. I would tell her the fresh air would do her good. Some days she hesitated. Some days she resisted. Most days I persuaded her.

We went to places that had history for us. Cafés we knew. Coastal spots. Familiar streets. There was an unspoken understanding that it might be the last time we did certain things.

We didn’t announce that.

We just went.

Her personality remained intact.

Direct. Observant. Opinionated. Still asking about my life. Still offering commentary whether requested or not.

There were steady days.

There were difficult ones.

Over time I was no longer just visiting. I was organising.

Meals. Cleaning. Coordinating carers when needed. Being the point of contact for medical staff.

The house grew quieter.

By 2024, movement was slower. The radius of her world had narrowed to familiar rooms and set routines. I was part of that structure.

In the last two years, it was no longer shared care.

I was there full-time.

Appointments. Medication. Meals. Nights. Everything ran through me.

When her health declined further, the decision was made (by Margaret, beforehand) to go back to hospice, where she had comfort from the staff she knew well.

The day she died, I was five minutes behind her ambulance.

Five minutes.

When I arrived I was asked to sit in the lounge, it just didn’t feel right, something was up. Margaret had gone into cardiac arrest whilst being put onto the bed.

I had missed it.

I wanted to be there. Not out of fear. Not out of spectacle. I wanted her to know I was there. To hold her hand... I wanted to see her go.

I wanted to close it properly.

Instead, I walked into a room where it had already happened. In silence. Alone.

There was no final exchange.

No last look.

After years of being there for her every need….I was not present for that moment.