The Death Mother

It is such a sad thing to see when people are old, in pain, and only want an end to it.  My mother told me once how she envied one of the other old ones in the Nursing Home - that she went to bed one night and just didn't wake up. She said that she wasn't the only one who envied her.

One of her poems.  It was written when my father was in a Nursing Home, some years before she was forced to enter one herself.

Nursing Home:

Imprisoned within helpless bodies,  

crying voicelessly to unheeding gods to set them free.

Tired nurses patiently coax unwanted nourishment between reluctant lips.

Loud cheerful voices strive valiantly to penetrate the pall of apathy.

Sad wives and dutiful children come and go,  hopefully bearing gifts

that cannot heal the grieving spirit,  mourning lost independence,

pride and dignity,  believing itself unloved,  unlovable.

Bewildered wanderers pace endlessly,  seeking in vain their own lost selves,

forever haunted by vague memories of a distant yesterday,

of tasks unfinished,  promises unfulfilled.

A desolate figure waits forlornly by locked doors,  

imploring embarrassed passers-by to take him home.

In my dreams their yearning eyes still follow me,  

pleading hands reach out to me,

And a lonesome voice keeps calling,  calling

“Is anybody there?”

******

My mother only wanted to be free.  She wanted to die.  And one night, I dreamed it, though the dream was not really of my mother, but another old, old lady who needed to die. Someone I didn't know, or my dream did not tell me.  

This is how my story began.  These are the first paragraphs.

It was a dream that began it, not just the dream, but the feeling that went with it - the feeling of an enormous love and compassion. I held the poor, poor, skinny old lady in my arms. I held her with love, and she felt no pain from all of the sore spots and all of the aches that go with an old, old body. She weighed nothing at all, and I held her so gently. She needed to die. She needed to leave the body that was only a burden for her. It had been so long since she'd been young and free. For years she had yearned for an end to the suffering. She wanted to endure no longer.

And I gave her that. That body in my arms, weightless, feeling no pain for the first time in years. And she died. I gave her that. She died, and I carefully put her back in her bed and covered her. She was finally gone, finally free, finally without pain. Love. Compassion. And I freed her.

I didn't lose that dream when I woke, though if there were details, they were lost. What led up to it, what happened afterwards - if those things had been part of that dream, they were not retained. Just the feeling of an overwhelming love and compassion. And then the poor old, old lady was finally free.

The setting for my story is a Nursing Home. It is based on one that I knew, one that my mother lived in for some years. I called the fictional town Conjellaback, and that is based on the town that I knew.  The illustration I used for the cover is from a park in that town.  There was a cold, foggy morning, and it seemed so apt for the sadness that was with me at the time, sadness for my mother's pain, for her sadness. 

There were birds, some of them in flight, or just beginning to take off.

It was like when a spirit might be finally released from a world of pain, or so it seemed to me.

The character in her own words - 'just a very ordinary, middle-aged lady. Grey-haired, a worn face, and my own beginning aches and pains, the sign of what was to come, the trials that old people endure every day.' 

It began as a dream, but it turned out to be so. Shirley finds she can make people die, just by dreaming it, and then merely by thinking it.

         It makes for an interesting thought - what would you do if you found you had this ability?

          Old people who need to die?  Many disagree with euthanasia.
What about wicked people, people whose deaths would benefit the world?
What would you do?

What Shirley does is in my book - 'The Death Mother,' just released. 

Tea Tree Lake, Mortlake

My mother was a very clever lady.  Another of her poems is about the sadness of Dementia patients - the 'lost souls.'  

LOST    

                             Alison McRae                               

Why do you pace so restlessly?

What drives those weary feet?

Do you seek in vain the home you knew?

Is there someone you’re longing to meet?

Are you far away in your boyhood,

Dawdling up to the school on the hill?

Hearing the bell,  knowing you’re late.

Can it be you are hearing it still?

*

Do you search for the girl you loved long ago?

Is she standing there by the gate?

You hasten your step as the sun goes down,

Fearing she might not wait.

*

Do you call to the wife and children

Who shared your yesterday?

You must be with them before night falls,

But somehow you can’t find the way.

*

Oh,  troubled mind and grieving heart,

Uncomforted,  lonely,  distressed.

May you find again the self that is lost,

When you go at last to your rest.

******

This book is available as an ebook from Smashwords, and as an ebook and paperback from Amazon and other online booksellers. 

On Smashwords - 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/694836

On Amazon -

https://www.amazon.com/Death-Mother-M-McRae-ebook/dp/B01N17JYAQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1486188914&sr=1-1&keywords=the+death+mother%2C+a+mcrae

The Death Mother

This is the opening chapter of my new book - a story about the Gift of Death.  

Early morning, Tea Tree Lake, Mortlake, Victoria

Chapter 1

It was a dream that began it, not just the dream, but the feeling that went with it - the feeling of an enormous love and compassion. I held the poor, poor skinny old lady in my arms. I held her with love, and she felt no pain from all of the sore spots and all of the aches that go with an old, old body. She weighed nothing at all, and I held her so gently. She needed to die. She needed to leave the body that was only a burden for her. It had been so long since she'd been young and free. For years she had yearned for an end to the suffering. She wanted to endure no longer.

And I gave her that. That body in my arms, weightless, feeling no pain for the first time in years. And she died. I gave her that. She died, and I carefully put her back in her bed and covered her. She was finally gone, finally free, finally without pain. Love. Compassion. And I freed her.

I didn't lose that dream when I woke, though if there were details, they were lost. What led up to it, what happened afterwards - if those things had been part of that dream, they were not retained. Just the feeling of an overwhelming love and compassion. And then the poor old, old lady was finally free.

If there was a God, it was what He should be doing, not me, just a very ordinary, middle-aged lady. Grey-haired, a worn face, and my own beginning aches and pains, the sign of what was to come, the trials that old people endure every day. Most old people, in spite of those stories of old people lifting weights or running endurance events. Most of us are not like that. For most of use, old age is an endurance event.

I continued to think about it as I went about the morning routine, showering, dressing, making and eating breakfast, the same as on every other day. It was as I rinsed my coffee mug that the identity of that poor old woman came to me. It was old Mrs. Campion, Vera Campion. She'd been one of those I'd visited the day before, one of the sad residents of the Nursing Home that was only a short walk away. My husband had spent his last nine years there. He'd been only fifty when he'd had that stroke, two years older than myself. The children had come to see him, even Deb, who'd been in Italy. It had been the holiday she'd planned for years, but she hadn't hesitated to cut it short. But seeing their strong father so helpless, just lolling there in the reclining chair, often dribbling, unable to speak, not really knowing how much he could hear and understand - it was too much for them. They'd tried, but their visits quickly became fewer. And they lived so far away, Jenny busy with her little son, such a demanding tot...

But Kane was eighteen now, in his last year of school. Quicksilver, they called him. My only grandson - lithe, black-haired, filled with the arrogance of youth. I didn't see much of him. I bored him, and I knew it perfectly well. His father's parents were different. They had wealth, a big home in a big city, and money enough to spend on their family. They travelled a lot, and were happy to subsidise their son and his small family so that they could go with them. It was no wonder that Jenny and Renzo spent far more time with his parents than they did with me. Me, Shirley Bridgewater, who lived in a tiny country town, had no career and not even a husband. Not any more. Stan. He'd been gone seven years now, sixteen years since our lives together had come to an abrupt end. There had been no warning signs, he was not a smoker, not a heavy drinker...

But I switched off that line of thought. There were occasions when I'd have a quiet cry, privately, for myself. But I'd be a lot more lonely if I didn't socialise, and while I found playing Bingo an awful bore, I would not tell my friends that. Joy, Gwen, Maisie and Christine. None of them were close friends. I had no close friends. But life would be unbearable lived entirely alone, and I took care not to show that I sometimes found their chatter shallow and their pursuits less engrossing than they found them.

So I checked my watch and prepared to go out to play Bingo. We'd probably have lunch afterwards, maybe at the pub, maybe we'd try the new restaurant just opened, though their prices were a touch fierce for a country town. It would be interesting to see how long it lasted.

*

 

Tea Tree Lake, Mortlake, Victoria

 This story is not much like my previous books.  I know the general direction of the novel, but have not yet decided how it will end. And it really did begin with a dream - that dream, vividly remembered.  

The difference is that the fictional character finds that the ones she dreams of, really do die. 

It is far too soon to speak of a possible date of publication.

Look for my books on online booksellers such as Smashwords, The Book Depository and Amazon.   

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Samray 

  http://www.bookdepository.com/Not-Man-M-McRae/9781477615966

http://www.amazon.com/M.-A.-McRae/e/B008BYWRQ2/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1340847276&sr=1-1

Suicide? Or a rational decision?

It is not clear to read so I'll repeat a few of the more significant sentences.

* Dr. McKay said men over 75 had one of the highest age specific suicide rates in the country.  
* Dr. MacKay said anxiety and depression could be successfully treated, but this meant access to appropriate mental care, which was often not available for older people.
* Professor Alemida's research, which surveyed 21,290 people aged 60 to 101, found almost 5 per cent acknowledged the presence of suicidal thoughts.

And then the article talks about various strategies to reduce the incidence of suicide, such as 'facilitating the development of supportive and meaningful social networks.'

Throughout the article, it assumed that thoughts of suicide are irrational and the result of a sick mind. Nowhere is it acknowledged that when life becomes a tedious and painful chore, it could be far better to die.

This - * Professor Alemida's research, which surveyed 21,290 people aged 60 to 101, found almost 5 per cent acknowledged the presence of suicidal thoughts. 
Probably, far more than 5% had considered suicide as an option when the time came,  but by the time a person is 60,  they know perfectly well that admitting to 'suicidal thoughts' would be taken as a sign of mental illness rather than a rational response to the circumstances.

I very well remember being in a Nursing Home visiting a resident, and seeing a young nurse trying to tell a tiny, skinny, bent old lady that she should stand by herself because she was pregnant and trying to lift her might harm the baby.  The old lady was pretty deaf as well as everything else, and I do hope that she did not get the message that she should be feeling guilty. That poor old girl might have weighed something around 6 stone - not very much. Most of us are a lot more substantial. What a horrible thought that we can be abused because we can't do enough for ourselves. Yes, death is better than that.

But what if the nurses are really, really nice?  What if the nursing home residents only know kindness? 

What if you can't see very well, can't read at all, can't hear very well, can't keep yourself clean, can't walk, dribble when eating -  the home can be the best in the world, but old, old age is crippling, humiliating and usually painful. And by the time anyone reaches that stage, it is past the time when they can organise their own suicide.

Being dead is a lot better than being like that. In the current legal climate, the choice is to take your own life while you can, and there are still some things to be enjoyed,  or leave it too late and die a miserable, protracted death.

My deepest wish is that by the time I am in those circumstances, I can organise a kind and gentle death for myself without getting anyone else into trouble.  Our dogs and cats have that. Why can't we?

I do not dread death. It is nothing  - just the end of life.  I do dread the helplessness of extreme old age.  Being able to end life when I choose  -  why, then there would be nothing to dread about old age.

Euthanasia.  It should be free, easily accessable, and, of course, legal.  In surveys, there is a consistent result of around 80% in favour. Why then, can we not have it?  It is needed.  It may be suicide, but it is not the result of depression and mental illness, it is a rational and reasoned response to circumstances.