Part Of The Deal

It is beyond debate that social media, at its worst, can be Gawd Awful. Irredeemably bad.

Sadly, it can bring out the cruellest, darkest, and at times the most dangerous, pernicious aspects of human behaviour. Fortunately, I've been spared that side of our socials (for the most part). Nevertheless, like almost everyone else, I guess, my relationship to social media is (at best) ambivalent.

Every now and then, however, an essential good is made possible by platforms we increasingly despise and often trivialise (me included) with cat videos, bad haircut photos and endless posts & albums of what we did on our holidays. Today, for me, is one such day.

The better angels of the ghost in the machine that is our social media platforms redeemed themselves (a wee bit). Sometimes they really do help us to connect when we most need to do so.

My mother Betty (Green, Herd, Davidson ... in that order) died last night, two weeks after her ninety-fourth birthday.

Glasgow, 1955 -- Betty and Jim with their first child (my older brother, also Jim)

It was all rather sudden at the end ... arresting, destabilizing, profoundly sad for us ... but not surprising in the sense that death comes to all of us. And my mum was almost 95.

I am deeply sad. But, to paraphrase a line taken from a Robert Altman movie: there is nothing tragic about the natural passing of a person who lived a good, long and fruitful life.

My mother, who I loved.

My brother Joe sent me a WhatsApp message just before Christmas to tell me Betty had been taken to hospital by ambulance from her nursing home in Kilmarnock, Scotland. She couldn't be admitted immediately because -- it seems -- ambulance ramping is 'a thing' the world over. So, I guess, the ambos (as we call them, here, in Australia) and the hospital staff did what they could to keep Betty comfortable in the ambulance, until a bed became available, and she could be admitted. This took several hours.

Joe sent me a re-assuring message to pass on the initial assessment of the hospital team: Betty was an unwell ninety-something Scottish woman responding to meds.

Next day, however, a message with a different tone came in while I was in the shower.

How do you tell your older brother in the colonies that the woman who gave birth to us -- to me, to Joe and to our eldest brother Jim -- is nearing her end? Well ... you tell him what he does not want to read but needs to know. It's that simple and that hard.

As part of a longer update, Joe wrote:

"I think Betty is in trouble. She's awake and chatty, getting plenty of meds but I doubt if they'll reverse the problem, basically pneumonia in both lungs causing very low blood pressure which may be fatal,,,,, it might happen quickly over hours rather than days. If that happens, they'll change from 'meds to help' to meds to make her comfy, I'll stay for a while, they will call me if she goes downhill. Very nice doctor gave me the update."

Joe, the youngest of Betty's sons, sent a photo of him with our mother.

And Joe wrote ... "we're chilling, mum sends her love."

Joe then sent another message. "If you can send a selfie, Betty would like to see your beard." It's been a bit of a talking point within my tiny Facebook circle since I let it grow after quitting my job.

So, because I always do what my mother tells me, I sent back photos of me and Spike smiling. Because my mother really needed to see those smiles from 10,000 miles away.

And to see the beard, of course. Because who doesn't want a closer look at this old scarecrow face?

Betty's response, Joe wrote, was very Betty ... "she says you look like nothing on Earth." A not unreasonable observation from She-who-must-always-have-the-final-word.

The hospital team then came to administer some more medication. Joe gave me more updates over WhatsApp and, later, I wrote a final message to my brother, on that difficult day.

"Thanks Joe. I've no doubt she is where she needs to be and is being looked after well. She knows she is loved. This is life. There's a line in a movie called Shadowlands ... "The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal." Betty gave us life. And for the most part we have found happiness and love together. Not everyone can say as much. D."

The boy character's name (in that film about C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman) is Douglas. And now I'm here blogging about it. And, more importantly, about my mum.

The five weeks since then – barely a month but it seems longer – have passed with a growing sense of acceptance of where we are and what would (and would not) be possible. Betty returned to the nursing home in which she has lived for four years. The people who work there have been kind, compassionate, professional and respectful. Joe and Stephanie and Mat and Chris and Ray surrounded their grandmother, our mother, with love. Chris and Ray shared the news with Betty that her first great-grandchild is to be born in May. We made a giant photocard on Moonpig for Betty's birthday (because my mother always liked big moments of joy ... the more colourful and over the top the better).

These are the consolations we look for in the tranquil hereafter. Our now.

For a short time we WhatsApp-ed from far away until such an idea became intrusive. As Betty grew quieter, slept almost constantly, ate less then stopped eating altogether.

My brother was called to the nursing home yesterday morning (Scotland time). He sat with Betty during her final few hours. We messaged back and forth until I had to go to bed, down under, far from home.

Not long before I called it a night, Joe’s message arrived. “Sorry, Douglas, mum died peacefully at 10:42 with me … the nurses were great.”

Spike held onto me for a bit while neither of us said a word. And I had a quiet wee Scottish weep because for some reason … known only to the patron saint of nincompoop Scottish old guys … that’s what we do: Scottish men of the Presbyterian tradition.

Some call it Stoicism. I say ... Numpties. But, you know, ... you can take the man out of Scotland but not take ... etc., etc. You've heard the rest.

I come from a very ordinary Scottish family (which is not a pejorative term in my book). Good Scottish folk.

When you come from such a background – probably just like everywhere else in the world -- you're introduced to death quite early in your life. And death visits you too often. You never get used to it.

It turns out that writing something here, in Australia, is part of how I'm dealing with it today.

From time to time, I have written about my mother's life (in this blog and elsewhere). Out of love. Today, with no less love, I write about my mother's death because, that too, is part of her life. Its only certain part.

For my mother, born Elizabeth Green and always known as Betty.

16 January 1931 to 4 February 2025

With a son’s love and immeasurable depths of gratitude.