“Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends”
Over the last couple of months, I’ve seen Mum die just that little bit more each time I visit.
My wife tells me that we’re all dying and I should look at mum’s cancer as deterioration instead of dying.
But I can’t.
Not from what I’m seeing.
Not with how I’m feeling.
We’re all getting older. We have aches and pains that we didn’t have in our 30s but this—what I’m dealing with is more than deterioration; it’s a slow death—and I’m witnessing it every time I see her.
Last month was hard.
Walking into her unit, I immediately felt the oncoming doom. It was hot, claustrophobic, and smelt musty and damp. Shutting the door behind me, I found mum rugged up, double layered socks on, lying on her favourite couch.
She was cold like she’d walked out of a freezer
Even though I was sweating, I asked her if she wanted the heater on. She said no because even in her last months, she’s concerned about her energy bill and my comfort.
Her fingertips—like all of them, were heavily bruised from trying to test her glucose levels. Mum has Type 2 Diabetes and while she is having chemotherapy, it is imperative that she checks her sugar levels daily. Each time she pricked her bloodless fingertips, pain and bruising occurred.
So we talked about mindless stuff while I was trying to get her warm and take her mind off dying, because that’s the thing: mum talks about the end a lot.
She says that things are going to get a lot worse so she might as well enjoy these times before it does.
This means:
Walking slowly around the village with her walker and every now and then chatting to the other residents.
Drinking ginger beer.
Me flying over and spending time with her.
My sister, Emina calling her every day.
My brother, Ismet checking in on her and doing all the stuff we can’t because we live interstate.
Reminiscing about the good old days.
Mums will to live is her family.
She’s worried about leaving us—her kids behind. That breaks my heart. Even in her dying days she’s more concerned with our well being than her own.
That’s Elizabeth Kinloch Lelić nee McCollum.
On another visit, I took her to get her PICC line flushed. When I walked in to her unit, I was immediately worried. She was on the couch but her face was drained of colour and her body resigned. I knew I had to get her to the hospital but I wasn’t sure how. Thankfully, we managed to get into the car and to our destination. Dropping her off at the front while I parked the car, I looked at her in the rear view mirror. She was hunched over her walking frame, stepping inch by inch towards the automatic doors.
She looked as if she was 90 when in fact she’s 77.
When I got back to the oncology unit, I found mum slumped over, head resting on the handle of her walker. Her breathing was slow but loud. Her eyes shut with a pained expression on her face. I urged the nurse to come and see her—mentally, because even in these dire times my anxiety takes over. Thankfully, she heard my unspoken command.
Now, four months later, I’m back in Brisbane facing the inevitable. Her cancer has spread throughout her liver. The chemo isn’t working so we’ve stopped it. The palliative care team has spoken to her about the next steps: pain control and comfort. There’s nothing else they can do.
There’s nothing any of us can do.
She has been given a few days to a week.
I am crushed.
I wasn’t expecting this. None of us were. We thought we had at least a month together.
Yesterday, in hospital she told me that she was scared—scared of dying. I wanted to burst into tears but I knew that mum, for the first time in her life was being vulnerable with me, so I swallowed my feelings and reassured her that being scared was normal.
I bank these emotions until I can safely let them out, away from mum, so she can’t see how much I’m struggling. She’s a stoic Brit and hates public displays of emotions.
“Aisha, emotions should be neither seen nor heard; expressing one's emotions is impolite if not rude” (Lelić, Elizabeth 2022).
I want her to leave us respected, happy, loved and content, even at my own expense.
I visit her every day. Some days it’s better than others. On a good day, she’s complaining about the food, the nurses and the other patients. On a bad day, she’s nodding off during conversations, asking me to start clearing out her unit, and grimacing with intense pain.
Mum repeats herself all of the time, and when she’s not doing that; she forgets what we’re talking about altogether.
It’s confronting.
It’s not the mum I once knew.
Mum was always strong, physically and mentally. She ran her home all by herself with no help from my father. She raised three kids, worked full time, baked, cooked, and cleaned all by herself.
This version of my mum breaks my heart and if she was more coherent, I know it would break her heart too.
She was always so loving, proud and independent. Even with a husband that took advantage of her caring nature, she always protected us as best she could.
The dying is cruel. It deprives people of their dignity, inherent qualities and free spirit.
The thought of mum no longer being here is inconceivable. She symbolises calm, stability, love and safety, so when she’s finally gone, I will have to find that within myself, and that terrifies me.
Who is Aisha Jasmina Lelić without Elizabeth Kinloch Lelić.