It took a little longer for the kindly people from Co-op Funeralcare to ring the doorbell and take her away. I watched as they showed her the utmost of respect. "Hello, my lovely," one of them said. Dignity when it was needed. I was moved to tears.
When death arrived, it was a blessing. Over the previous week Lee had stopped eating. A hospital bed was installed in her front room and a syringe driver was put in her arm through which morphine was dripped into her. It did not stop all the pain – she had lung cancer – but her daughter Leonie was on hand to help when needed. She was painfully thin when she died. Death was a relief.
Although everyone who came to care for Lee in her last days was kindly, the care provided was, at best, patchy. Indeed, the care package put together for her was not agreed until two days after she died. Leonie was not impressed.
Dying at home was better than at hospital, but only a hospice would have given Lee the stellar palliative care she desperately needed – and in many ways deserved. Sadly, hospice beds in an area covering Wokingham (where Lee lived), Newbury and Reading (desperately wanting to be a city) are as rare as hen’s teeth. Eight beds in total.
This is a disgrace that the government should be addressing as a priority. Surely, if the government is serious about providing a care system for the elderly that is fit for purpose, more funding should be made available to these wonderful institutions. The hospice sector should not be dependent upon charitable donations in order to carry out its caring work.
In the wake of her mother’s death, Leonie has had nothing but praise for the financial institutions that looked after Lee’s finances – the Nationwides and Santanders of this world. Bereavement counselling was offered at every twist and turn. The Co-op is also playing a blinder after Leonie asked them to sort out probate. Although not cheap, it has taken a weight off her mind.
Financial institutions are more sensitive than they used to be around issues of death (NatWest was great when my dad died nearly five years ago). I always remember receiving a letter from a reader when I was at The Sunday Telegraph back in the 1990s; she enclosed correspondence sent to her late husband from his bank with his name followed by the word ‘deceased’ in brackets.
