Dawn French

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Dawn French

Mum

I hate Derriford Hospital.

It has been the setting for so many life-changing and life-ending moments in my family.

Every time I enter the huge sliding doors at the entrance, my stomach lurches.

It’s the muscle memory of all the nerve-wracking, heart-cracking times I’ve been there.

My nephew and niece were born there.

My old granny Lil was nursed there.

My father-in-law had huge surgery there.

I have visited cousins and uncles and friends there.

So many lives I value have been saved there.

But each time I set foot in there, the most potent memory is of my beautiful mum’s beautiful death.

It is possible to do death right.

I know.

I saw it with my own eyes.

At Derriford Hospital.

Eight years ago.

Mum was short of breath.

I think she knew.

She didn’t tell us for weeks.

She’d been a smoker since she was thirteen years old.

Loved it.

The kind cancer doc carefully explained that her lungs were struggling.

They offered chemo.

But before even the first appointment, she went downhill rapidly.

They explained it was terminal.

And probably soon.

In the car, she said, ‘It’s win win, either I stay here a bit longer with all of you. Or. I go and see your dad. At last.’

He’d died thirty-five years before.

She’d missed him so much.

For so long.

Her faith was unwavering.

She would be reunited with him.

A week or so later, on Mother’s Day, she woke up and could hardly breathe.

The ambulance came.

She looked out at her beloved sea view, and we all knew she was bidding it farewell.

She went into Derriford.

Brent Ward.

The names of the wards are strangely comforting.

They are places we’ve been, we know well: Stonehouse, Postbridge, Burrator.

Mum tells us she’s not afraid to die, but she’s terrified at the prospect of not being able to breathe.

A difficult night, while she struggles with it all, despite lots of loving support.

By the morning, her mind is made up.

Her time has come.

She asks to see her grandchildren.

She tells them all how unique and marvellous they are.

She sees Dr Mary Nugent, who is in charge of her palliative care.

Dr Nugent says ‘I know who you are, Roma French, you have done so much for people in this city. It’s my honour to help you now.’

Mum says, ‘And I know you, Mary Nugent, you are a superb doctor, and I want to go to sleep and not wake up. Please. Thank you.’

Dr Nugent explains the Liverpool Care Pathway.

Mum says that is PERFECT.

My brother and I tell her that we love her very much and that she has been the best mum ever and that we owe our happiness to her.

She smiles.

She takes off her wedding ring.

She gives it to me, and winks.

Her comfort medication is given carefully, slowly and she sinks into a deep deep sleep.

My brother and I take it in turns to sit with her.

Two days.

Three nights.

The nurses let us snatch some sleep on a small bed in the back room when we can.

I am fast asleep when my brother comes in to gently wake me in the early hours.

‘She’s gone, Moo.’

We stand together next to her for a while.

Soft, grateful tears.

Mum has taught us that it’s OK to die.

So many nurses, doctors, cleaners and helpers had been there to support her, and us.

Quietly, respectfully doing their jobs so well, and helping us all to pass through this difficult, sacred, unforgettable moment the best they could.

My brother and I left as the sun rose.

We both took deep lungfuls of cold air as we walked back out of the huge sliding doors.

Plymouth air.

Which Mum had longed to gulp.

The air of home.

Yep, I hate Derriford Hospital.

But try telling me there’s a better hospital for my family.

You can’t.

Because there isn’t.

It’s sort of miraculous there.

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