DR CARNEY, THE consultant, had called them into his office, a spartan white room with two filing cabinets and a desk with a computer and screen and printer on it. They felt like three bold schoolgirls waiting to be admonished by the elderly medic as he sat back in his swivel chair.
‘I’ve looked at your mother’s file. As you know, we have done brain scans and an extensive range of tests, but unfortunately the results show there is evidence of a slight further bleed and indicated weakness of blood vessels in the vicinity.’
‘Can you do anything to stop it?’ asked Kate.
‘There is no question of surgery on someone in your mother’s condition. At the moment she is considered stable but I’m afraid there is not much else my colleagues or I can do for her here in the hospital.’
‘What do you mean?’ they remonstrated.
‘What I mean,’ he said slowly, ‘is that your mother’s prognosis is poor. Maeve is in need of high-dependency nursing care but she does not need for the moment to be in an acute hospital. We need to move her.’
‘Move her!’ exclaimed Kate.
‘Home, perhaps?’
‘But Mammy lives alone. I’m working in Dublin, Moya’s family are in London and Romy has just flown in from New York.’
‘I see, well then, a step-down facility, maybe a nursing home or the Hospice? Beds are difficult to find. I’m sorry but you must know the pressure there is on the hospitals these days with cutbacks and closures and bed shortages.’
‘When?’ asked Moya, fiddling with the pearls around her neck.
‘As soon as we can organize it.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘I can give you the name of two or three places in the county, there’s one on the Dublin side of the city, Ardnamone, and one in Tramore. The social worker Clare Maloney will know a few more.’
He stood up to signal that the meeting was over.
‘You do realize that your mother is not expected to recover but we do want her to be as comfortable as possible for the short time that’s left. I’m sure we are all agreed on that.’
Numb, they had sat in the hospital’s small coffee shop, sipping tepid coffee from plastic cups.
‘What are we going to do?’ sighed Moya. ‘What’s going to happen to her? If we lived closer I’d willingly have her.’
‘You couldn’t swing a cat in my place. Molly sleeps in the converted dressing room!’
‘Maybe we should go and see the place the doctor mentioned,’ suggested Romy.
They drove out to see Ardnamone, a modern purpose-built nursing home three miles from Waterford city. The door was locked so they had to ring and ring for admittance. The matron, in her nurse’s uniform, let them in. She offered to show them round. Small single rooms with a nice view of the garden and parking area, a TV positioned on the wall opposite the bed.
The dining area, where the residents came to lunch and tea, was a bright and airy room with a conservatory to one side; the large sitting room, filled with elderly residents sitting in an assortment of couches and armchairs, was dominated by a giant-screen television, which was showing a cookery programme.
They explained to the matron that their mother had had a serious stroke, and loss of function, was classed as highly dependent and would need a lot of nursing.
The middle-aged woman was at least honest with them.
‘I have three patients like that at the moment. I’m afraid with my staffing levels I couldn’t take on a fourth. Maybe in a few months’ time, but for now, I’m afraid no. We couldn’t offer your mother a place.’
She walked them to the door, wishing them luck.
Ardrigole, the old Edwardian house overlooking the sea in Tramore, was more like a hotel from the outside than a nursing home. Inside a warren of corridors and high-ceilinged lounges and a dining room with heavy dark furniture and an overpowering smell of cabbage greeted them. The residents seemed ancient, some wheelchair-bound, some strapped in special chairs.
‘We have a lot of Alzheimer’s patients,’ explained the young carer as she gave them a quick tour. The rooms were larger than in the previous home but were filled with a load of oversized shabby pieces, which looked in sore need of dusting. The thought of their mother abandoned and dependent in such a place drove them back to the car.
‘I don’t want Mammy ending her days in any of those places,’ Moya protested, almost in tears.
‘We’re just not used to seeing them, that’s all,’ said Kate. ‘I’m sure they look after the old people very well.’
‘God, some of the patients looked about ninety!’ joked Romy. ‘Please shoot me before I end up anywhere like that!’
They sat on the almost empty seafront, in utter silence.
‘I think we should bring Mammy home,’ said Romy, staring at the waves.
They were all in agreement. It was what their mother would have wanted, what they all wanted. The problem was the mess of their lives and the commitment needed. Moya knew Patrick was already complaining about minding the children in London, and Kate was trying to get Patterson’s to give her more time off work.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here,’ volunteered Romy. ‘I’ve no husband or children.’
Moya and Kate looked at each other with relief, knowing that their mother would die in dignity in her own place, her own home. They would organize agency nurses, carers, whatever was needed for Maeve and would help care for her as much as they could.
‘Romy, do you know what you’d be getting yourself into? Maybe you should think about it.’
‘I don’t have to think about it. I’m not putting my mother into one of those fucking places to die. I understand you’ve both got kids, jobs, whatever, but I’ll manage. I told you I’ll do it!’
‘Romy, are you sure?’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ she promised.