THE GRAMMAR OF DEATH

Is to was: the tiniest change of tense that is the difference between my having a mother and then not. 

Dead. Passed. Gone. Reduced to single words that remind me the world yesterday is not as it is today. 

   

Mum died late at night on April 17^th, on the eve of what would have been her 66^th wedding anniversary. Dad, who became a past tense on January 23^rd 1990, was the love of her life, and although I have no religious beliefs, there is still something poignant in the fairytale belief that she got to him in time to share the day.

   

Dad’s last words to me, when I last saw him at the hospital, were: “I love you.” Mum’s were: “I am compos mentis.”

   

Who would have thought her last words to me would be in Latin, a language she had never learned but, as with her limited French, one she resorted to when English was inadequate. Her greatest fear was losing her mind, which she never did. Being in control of her faculties was a blessing to her, but a frustration to others, not least the medical staff and carers who were powerless to make her eat, sleep, or do her physiotherapy if her favourite shows were on the TV.

   

Three days before she died, the river of morphine losing its fight against the circus of cancer entertaining her every organ, I sat at her hospital bedside and she looked at me with terror.

“I don’t know you! Who are you?” she cried, her tongue and eyes bloody with fear.

“It’s Jacqueline. JACQUELINE,” I managed through tears. “Your daughter.” 

Calm subsided with sudden recognition. Reaching out to touch my face and then clutch my hand, she said: “Daughter.”

“Yes, Mum.” 

“You see, I am compos mentis.” They were the last words I would ever hear her say before she embarked on the big sleep.

   

Is. Was. 

Suddenly, everything seems to conspire to remind me of my ex-mum. Mother’s Day (in the USA) on May 12th, and the dozens of ads appearing on my social media pages, recommending what to buy Mom on her special day; security checks on my credit cards, asking to confirm what my mother’s maiden name is; a packet of smoked salmon in a supermarket refrigerator, and the memory of her shaking hand trying to deliver her favourite feast from plate to mouth; packets of humbugs on the shelves remind me of the opened packet in her returned effects from the hospital; a half-read book in her office, the ending of which she will never know. 

Death magnifies the remains.

   

I am spending the time before the funeral trying to change tense: bringing my past back to life with memories that will remain forever present. My younger brother Nigel and I were blessed to have enjoyed a childhood filled with love and support that has seen us both grow into fairly responsible, caring adults, and, as always, we share a close relationship that has deepened still further during the past difficult days.

   

I remember the rare times when my parents sent out for a Chinese takeaway. Hating to exclude us from anything, they shared the chicken and pineapple and boiled rice between their plates and two saucers (fleur-de-lis – I can see the pattern to this day) and brought them to us in bed. Nothing ever tasted so good as that illicit feast.

   

We had many trips to the beach, for which Mum packed for hours before we set off. We could have gone on safari for six months and not wanted for anything. Lilo, lounger, dining table and chairs, deck chairs, Flotina, Tupperware containers full of squash and sandwiches; by the time we arrived at the shore, there was no problem finding a parking space because everyone and everything else had left – including the tide. We would have had to go to another continent if we wanted a swim.

   

Yes, I remember the Tupperware. Mum had Tupperware parties and became the most successful seller of plastic in the neighbourhood. Then she went on to wig parties. Being a hairdresser, she was a veritable topiarist constructing the pieces on her friends, who had no hesitation in buying there and then – only to discover, 24 hours later, that when they tried to manufacture the hairy beast into a semblance of normality without her assistance, they were faced with something more akin to a dead stoat.

   

Mum gave up hairdressing and went to college at the age of 50, where she obtained a degree and then a Master’s. She specialised in young people, in particular abused children, and it has been heart-warming, during the past days, to hear from many of them who credit her with having changed the paths of their lives, and, in some cases, having saved them.

  

She had her faults (as we all do); she could be difficult (can’t we all); but at 87, she knew, and repeatedly told me, that she had had a good life. She adored my dad, and her greatest fear was something happening to her children. 

My greatest fear was something happening to my mum. 

Every day will always be Mother’s Day. 

Is. Not was.

  

MAKING A TIT OF MYSELF

Let me say at the outset that I have nothing against breasts. 

Apart from my own, which would have trouble filling a contact lens, let alone a bra, I happen to think they are rather beautiful. In fact, I appear to be the only woman in the world bemoaning the dropping of the swimsuit section in beauty pageants.

   

Let me also say that I have nothing against women breastfeeding in public. But is it too much to ask for a bit of discretion? I know that babies have to be fed and that the human body is the most natural thing in the world, blah blah blah; but having just endured a two and a half hour flight next to a breastfeeding woman, I’m going to risk the wrath of women everywhere. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t like it. If I’d closed my eyes and poked my tongue out a centimetre, I could easily have fooled myself into thinking I’d been incarcerated at a dairy farm.

   

The flight did not start well. I am very fussy about where I sit. Unless I am flying long haul and have my own sleeping area, I have to be at the front and in an aisle seat, quite simply because I suffer from claustrophobia. I book my seats well in advance and pay premium price to get them, so, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not committing a heinous crime by refusing to give it up. 

You want your seat? Book it. Pay for it. Just like I did. It ain’t rocket, or even Boeing, science.

   

Last year, some people were incensed when I wrote about not giving up my seat to a woman in the aisle behind who asked for mine on the grounds of “I’d like to sit with my boyfriend.” No, no and no again. And why didn’t he ask? If you can’t survive three hours without your partner, you really shouldn’t be together in the first place.

   

But back to Dairygate. 

I was in one seat. The woman appeared to want/need five, although I couldn’t quite work out why at this point. I was asked by a crew member if I’d move to row two at the other side of the plane. Not. Going. To. Happen (did I mention I also have to sit on a particular side?). Just as last year, there were dirty looks from fellow passengers – although I suspect had they been asked to move, it would have been a different story.

   

So, the milkmaid sat in the window seat with her baby and one free seat between us. The second the seatbelt sign was off, out game a gargantuan breast to which the six month old infant (at least I was polite enough to ask about the beautiful child) attached herself with the safety instinct of a passenger bracing themselves for landing on water.

   

I continued to politely engage, accompanied with lots of Oohs and Aahs about what a hungry little girl she was. “No she’s not hungry,” said Spanish mummy. “She eesss like theesss all the time; she cannot be away from me. Alwaysss she want the breast.” Oh, great. Another double brandy when you’re ready, steward!

   

Then, the unthinkable happened. From the row behind, another child appeared. She only had effing twins! It reminded me of a story I heard about Mike and Bernie Winters when they were starting out. After Mike’s routine had died on stage, out came Bernie and someone in the audience allegedly shouted: “F**k no! There are two of them.”

   

That was me.

   

Luckily, the boy was not so demanding, not least because his sister decided it was her turn once more. And so it all began again.

   

Now, like I said, it wasn’t that it offended me, but I think we should keep our bodily parts and functions discreetly hidden when in the company of others. I am deeply offended when people put their bare feet on train seats; I don’t like people wiping their noses with their hands; I’m not partial to men getting their willies out and pleasuring themselves on planes (though I have seen it happen). 

As someone who has been getting her tits out for the lads for decades (I promise you: I really have stopped now), I know that the words pot, kettle and black will spring to mind; but I still think that a 150 minute movie of a giant tit doesn’t make for great viewing. I could barely keep my ham and cheese toastie down.

   

Whether we like it or not, we live in a world in which we should be sensitive to others and be aware of cultural differences. I’m not suggesting airlines provide golf umbrellas to shield lactating breasts from passengers such as myself of a delicate disposition; but neither do I want to be sitting next to an air balloon in my face – literally.

   

I know my mother stopped breastfeeding me when I was six months (although she still proudly shows off the chair she used to do it on – less proudly when she recalls that she had me in one hand and a cigarette in the other); I know people who have breastfed their kids until they were four (they grew up to be nuts, should you be tempted); I’ve never had kids, so the best I can muster is a few guys (who were all crap at it, by the way; quite why they think the right technique is downing it like a can of Stella is beyond me, but that’s another story). But this was the first time I’ve been so . . . well, up close and personal as an adult observer.

   

I’m waiting for the screams of “most natural thing in the world”. 

So is masturbation; I still don’t want to see it at 30,000 feet. 

On the plus side, in the unikely event of the plane landing on water, I wouldn’t need to struggle with my life jacket; I’d just grab the nearest lactating tit and breathe deeply.