A perfect end

For a long time, I’ve been saying Compline as I go to bed. It’s not long, it’s full of consoling phrases and lulls me off to sleep in a state to ward off the ghosts and ghouls, the long-leggety beasties, the ‘things that go bump in the night.’ It starts with this line,

‘May the Almighty God grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.’ And in my head, thinking of my mum, dozing down the road in her care home, I always changed it to, ‘grant my mum a quiet night and a perfect end.’ And her perfect end (and I know because we talked about it) would be in that bed with me holding her hand.

Now as you know, I’ve accompanied my mum in the last few months through dementia, pneumonia and stroke and wanted nothing more passionately for her than this ‘perfect end’ after such a battle. And we were on track. She was on an end-of-life pathway in her own bed, I was kipping in the armchair next to her and the home was being brilliant as ever and feeding me chicken pie and fried eggs on toast at regular intervals.

The night before she died, I settled down in my armchair with a blanket and a cup of Horlicks (I don’t even like Horlicks but it sounded comforting when Ian came round with the trolley) and prepared myself for any hint of change in my dear mum’s breathing. She was completely out of it, tucked up cosily and unreachable. But she was still there, she was still my mum and I was grimly determined to walk her to the end of the road and through the gate wherever it went.

That was until 1 a.m. in the morning.

I was woken from a fitful snooze with griping pains in my stomach and the certainty that last night’s potato wedges were on their way up. As was everything else. I wore my insides on my outside for the next five hours as the interminable night gradually turned to a sunny new day. I’d never felt so ill which was a bit of an overstatement I thought, as I tried to keep an eye between tumultuous bouts on my dear dying mum. At one point, the senior on duty happened along and finding me on the floor, made to call for an ambulance. (To be fair, she had twenty-three very vulnerable and frail people to look after and could have done without me fainting on her at 3 am.)  I resisted, waving to her frantically to keep her distance, certain that this was a pesky norovirus which I’d picked up in hospital when my mum had her stroke and the last thing I wanted was to take it back to A and E for a joyful reunion with all its mates. Anyway, I saw it through to daylight when I rang my long-suffering husband who then had a few succinct words with God which involved a bit of thumping the kitchen table (along the lines of - mother-in-law dying in one room, wife throwing up her guts in another. How long Lord?!) before he climbed into the car to come and fetch me and ferry me home.

Less than an hour later, my mum died.

Now it might have been a perfect end for her, I don’t know. But it wasn’t for me because I wasn’t there and that was the thing I’d prayed so hard for for so long. I felt abandoned, marooned high and dry with no point of the compass telling me which way to look. I was left to fall back on faith and trust which is always a bit of a bugger at these times don’t you think? Certainties are so much more comforting.

So, I really want to trust that she stepped through the gate and was met by Jesus and his all his angels. I hope they held her hands, gave her a huge hug and said, ‘Welcome Pat. So good to see you.’

Now this has seriously challenged my belief in the power of intercessory prayer. Except – except – I don’t believe in a shopping list God and never have. Quiet Night. Tick. Perfect End. Tick. Did I think that my Compline prayer would be some sort of magic bullet?  I just prayed that prayer on repeat every night and it felt like I was wrapping up a parcel good and tight with lots of tape and string just to make sure it was delivered. And it wasn’t.

 I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found the whole answer to prayer business quite baffling. Why are some prayers answered and not others? Why are some Christians so certain of answers to their prayers? The internet offers me these shouty solutions - seven keys to answered prayer, five ways God answers prayer, how to get a prayer answered in 24 hours.

Lucky me. If only it were that simple. Meanwhile, the farmer next door is praying for rain just as the villagers are on their knees for a dry weekend for Open Gardens.

And as I’ve reflected on this over the weeks since it all happened, all I can hold on to is that maybe God weeps with us. Maybe he wept on that early Saturday morning as my mum slipped from this world to the next and left me bereft. Maybe God shared my colossal disappointment, even as he held her in his arms.

 And maybe prayer transforms us, even if it’s not answered in exactly the way we’d like it to be. I saw my mum’s ‘perfect end’ as one prescriptive moment. But praying that prayer, night after night helped me feel close to my mum and as though I was doing something for her when I couldn’t physically be there with her. And maybe, just maybe, those prayers sustained her through that final step through the gate, even though I wasn’t with her then.

And maybe God in his infinite eternal love and wisdom embraced her in her perfect end.

Thank you for reading this post. If you would like updates on my blog, please subscribe using this link and scroll to the bottom of the page. You an unsubscribe anytime!

https://www.backstreetpilgrim.com/