Tomorrow will be the fourth anniversary of the death of my mother.

She went very quickly: We had a nice drive in the Adelaide Hills Sunday and Mum polished off a large slice of lemon tart no problems.

Tuesday after some shopping at Westfield Marion we went on a short drive.

Wednesday Mum was tired. Thursday and Friday she just lay on her armchair, didn’t eat much at all. Friday afternoon she fell off her chair, ended up sitting on the floor in front of the chair.

I told her I would give her five minutes to try to get up else I would call the ambulance. I think she nodded agreement.

Ambulance called and Mum was taken to hospital. Pneumonia turned septic and spread. I was asked if I wanted radical measures taken—an injection of adrenaline was suggested. Up to me as the oldest sibling and her carer.

I thought of the dementia that for years was kept in check—diet, more  vegetarian, more white meat instead of red, lots of leafy green vegetables plus her mental exercises doing word puzzles at night etc—but had been galloping for the last few months. Save her life now and she might die a few months later and not know who she was or I or any of my siblings, nieces etc were.

No extreme measures. An injection of morphine was readied in case Mum, who had become restless, needed to be sedated. Mum settled naturally.

I didn’t say it but I knew Mum no longer was aware of anything much, BP 73, the other measure of BP not even shown.

It wasn’t nice being at the bedside in the hospital—knowing Mum was dying, the noise of the medical monitors, having to frequently move to let medical staff access Mum, sometimes having to move out of that bay entirely etc. But you do it unless you are a moral coward.

After Mum had died a surgeon asked questions about if Mum had been pushed or whatever, didn’t really understand him through my grief—it was like 1.30am and I was dazed and tired. I told him he wouldn’t find any bruises on Mum’s body except perhaps on her buttocks from when she fell out of her chair. “What the hell?” I thought.

Me and my two sisters were in this little lounge when someone asked if anyone wanted to view the body. THIS IS A BAD IDEA! But my older sister said she wanted to and to be able to offer support if she got emotional on viewing the body I agreed to go with her.

A corpse is like 1% of a person, believe me. Mum’s body was in a frozen position as if she had died in a rictus of pain, I really regretted being there and seeing Mum’s body. If only my sister had visited Mum more when she was alive! No use visiting when Mum was dead!



Yes, had called the GP and blood samples were taken “perfect bloods” the GP said. Yeah.

Mum was about 11 weeks shy of her 101st birthday. Born at about the middle position in her family she outlived them all, the last one to die. And what a life!

Born in Delft, Zuid Holland in Feb 2021 she experienced the great Depression, very severe in Holland due the the idiot Prime Minister. Her Dad pulled her out of school when she was 14 to save his brother’s ice cream business. Since she didn’t steal half of each days takings, unlike the owner’s son, the business recovered.

Mum never forgave her Dad for pulling her out of school when she was 14. When he visited us in 1982 she told him she didn’t want him here, she wanted Mum. But Oma had died the year after we migrated to Australia. I still have the letters she got from her mother.

After the Great Depression came the German invasion and occupation to live through. Winter 1944/45 was terrible, the German troops shipping any food etc back to Germany. Oma gave Mum the keys to the pantry “you can say ‘N0’ I can’t.”

So Mum managed the food for herself, some sisters and a baby born to one of her sisters. That sister later accused Mum of stealing some of her baby’s food. Mum gave her the baby food and told her to manage it herself, refusing a few days later to resume managing that food again. Don’t call my Mum a thief and expect her to forget that!

Immediately after the war or right at the end of it Mum heard a whisper about a house. She chased that down, found the owners and spoke to that and when Dad returned from forced labor in Germany she could tell him “we have a house!” 100,000 people searching but Mum secured a house!

Later in Australia, probably during one of the idiot Menzies’ credit squeezes Dad told Mum she needed to work to help pay of the mortgage. She became tealady at a flour miller. When one of their ships got stuck on the bar outside the port of Hull in the UK Mum told them about Rotterdam and they shipped their produce there, sending it to Hull in coastal freighter that could pass over the bar.

Mum travelled to Melbourne to help her daughter after the birth of each of her children—not selfish tho by then Dad’s health was fairly poor.

Quite a life. She spoke up as and when needed, not letting herself just get pushed around.


Ah well.

A sad time.

My mother's death, just over 12 months ago, was similar in many ways.

I'm just glad that at the end she was sedated and in no pain.

Have a beer, Monk.

Tomorrow night I will.