Welcome back to A Writing Life, our series of monthly articles written by long-time 26 member and contributor Rob Self-Pierson.
Like many of us, Rob straddles the line between commercial and creative writing. Each month, we’re inviting him to share the trials and triumphs of a writing life – and what he learns along the way.
It’s November, and Rob’s mum has been seriously unwell. Rob reflects on what happened to her, his mum’s ongoing recovery, and the role of language during such a difficult time…
Mum’s been very poorly for almost ten weeks. A few times, I’ve feared we were losing her.
A blood vessel burst beneath her brain on 22 September. While recovering from that, she got a hip fracture in a hospital ward. Thank goodness she’s still with us, and now in rehabilitation.
Apart from scribbling two short poems – reflections on trauma, hope and compassion – I’ve been struggling to collect my feelings. I learned before it can take many months or years, even a decade or more, to understand these sorts of events by putting them into words.
But language has remained by my side throughout Mum’s ordeal. Like a close relative, reaching out a loving hand – though a few times saying the wrong thing. Every day since Mum’s ‘rare form of stroke’, I’ve been reminded why language is such a big part of my life.
Every word I’ve heard and silence I’ve experienced has been a sort of lesson. Below I explore what I’ve learned, as a loving son to a poorly mother. I’ll leave you to make connections to brands this time.
Words can as easily alarm as reassure
Dad and I reached the hospital through thunder. I dropped him by A&E and went to park. By the time I found him and we’d spoken to a surgeon, I was so shaken I couldn’t work the hot drinks machine.
After seeing Mum pale and sedated, supported by oxygen and fluids, we met a nurse. He was round and red-faced and he meant well. But when he showed me, my dad and my brother a scan of Mum’s brain, he spoke of ‘subarachnoid space’ and ‘cerebrospinal fluids’ and ‘endovascular coiling’ with a sort of twisted excitement.
Looking through him, I saw my dad ghost-white and my brother staring into an abyss of grief. It was like we’d landed on another planet, where the aliens spoke a horrid foreign language.
In contrast to the surgeon’s reassuring ‘We do this every day: we’ll look after your mum,’ the nurse had left me nauseous with fear.
Back with Dad in my parents’ home, I slept just 25 minutes.
One word can mean everything
Two days after Mum’s brain haemorrhage, at about eight o’clock in the morning, she called ‘Home’ on her mobile phone.
I was staying with Dad still so answered, recognising the number. ‘Hello, Mum…’ A small, tired voice spoke to me: ‘Oh, hello. I am trying to call Home to speak with my husband. Is he there?’
A subarachnoid haemorrhage can damage the brain’s pathways. Mum’s been experiencing a few challenges, like short-term memory. But in the acute, most dangerous stage of recovery, when a mobile must have felt like the dashboard in NASA’s Mission Control, something told Mum to choose to call the word ‘Home’.
I handed the phone to Dad, who was in bed. He looked bewildered to be speaking with Mum so soon after the blood vessel that nearly killed her had been coiled to stop further bleeding.
She sounded comforted to be calling ‘Home.’ Those four letters, that one word and all it holds. She longs to be back home still.
Familiar voices are a potent drug
Mum’s been given a lot of medicine. To stop blood vessels spasming. To reduce the chance of clots. But mostly to control her pain.
Following the haemorrhage, she was dosed on morphine. When the hip pain got too much, they prescribed a painkiller called oxycodone. But throughout these trials, one medicine has helped Mum most.
Each of the 65 days she’s now been in hospitals, we’ve visited her and spoken with her, or to one another in her company when she’s been sleeping or sedated. Once, when she’d left neuro critical care for recovery, she woke while Dad and I were talking nonsense.
‘Sorry to wake you, Mum.’ She looked across. Words were too much at this time. ‘We’ll be quiet.’ She shook her head and frowned. ‘You’d like to hear us chatting?’ She smiled and closed her eyes.
It wasn’t just having family near that brought Mum peace. She’s since told me it was hearing our voices of warmth, comfort and love.
Good communication gives you control
I’ve felt overwhelmed a lot recently. But not when I’ve needed to use language to make things happen. It’s only then I’ve felt in control.
The morning of Mum’s hospital fall, Dad and I rushed in. While Dad sat with Mum, holding her hand as she writhed in agony, I asked to speak to the ward manager – How on earth did Mum break a hip?
A couple of days earlier, I’d witnessed the ward manager talk down to Mum. Mum responded with such calm, control, elegance. Today was my turn to try to be so measured. With the ward manager inviting her own superior to join us, I went full writer mode.
Breathe, Rob. Craft your questions. Control your responses. Ask for clarity in the face of jargon. Rephrase and reframe. Shift the narrative from ‘Internal investigations will commence’ to ‘But why was my mum, who a few weeks ago suffered a bleed on her brain, allowed to walk unaided?’ I left feeling I’d represented my family’s feelings.
Since September, I’ve spoken with Care Coordination Centres, Patient Advice and Liaison Services, Medical Records Departments. All title-case and intimidating. Until language helped me take control.
One thing especially: emotion. Using Mum’s name, not a bed number. Telling her story. Sharing her tears. Emotion gets people listening.
Sometimes words aren’t needed
A week after the hip break, Mum passed out in the recovery ward. Seeing her slumped in her chair, eyes rolled, I panicked.
Rushing to the lead consultant, I blurted something like, ‘Mum’s having a seizure.’ The night this all started, Mum had seizure after seizure. Exhaustion now told me it was happening again.
Buttons got pushed. Alarms screamed. Doctors rushed in, yanking the curtains behind them. I paced outside. All I could hear was my steps on the tiles. There’s just a 6-in-100,000 chance of suffering a subarachnoid haemorrhage. What are the chances of two?
Thankfully, this wasn’t so sinister. Mum’s blood pressure had dropped and her brain logged out. The doctors brought her back quickly. As they did, something I’ll never forget happened outside.
I saw a nurse and a physio. One stood by the curtain, the other by me. They locked eyes, nodded then smiled – and I knew Mum was OK.
For all my love of words, I’d experienced the power of silence.
Together we go
Thank you, Mum, for encouraging me to write this ‘because it might help others.’ And for showing us what strength is. And for choosing the image above. We’ll be so pleased to welcome you back home.
Onwards,
Rob