My mum died last Monday. She was 92 and had been suffering from dementia for many years. Her partner of 22 years, let's call him George (not his real name) because I can't and won't call him my stepfather, has been her carer during her illness, and I respect that but he can never replace my dad, who died 40 years ago. They never married.
George phoned me last Sunday night to say that mum had been taken to hospital, and I made immediate arrangements to travel down from Glasgow to Birmingham to be there to help and support. Unfortunately I arrived at the hospital just an hour too late to say goodbye. I phoned George to say I'd been to the hospital and received the news, and seen my mum, and that I would be with him first thing in the morning. What George hadn't told me on the phone was that mum had been in hospital for a week; he'd given me the impression that she'd been rushed there that day.
On Tuesday morning I went to see George, who had clearly taken things hard and wasn't very together. We all have our own ways of coping with grief and mine is to get busy, also mindful of the support mum needed after my dad died. He insisted there was nothing we could do until we had a death certificate, which being a hospital death would have to wait three days while the medics covered their backs. I made George tea, phoned the DWP to inform them and then phoned some funeral directors for quotes. We agreed on one that seemed a very good family outfit with good credentials. Then I felt I needed some space to get my head round the death of my mother. I know where I can get access to some very restful gardens and I offered to take George with me, but he wanted to stay where he was. That was the last I saw of him in the week.
The following day I repeatedly tried to phone him but he wasn't answering – he has no answering service, nor mobile, nor email. I went to the hospital to see if he'd been there – he had, so I left a message and went on to the funeral directors to see if there was anything that could be done informally before firming it up on receipt of the registration. He'd been there too, insisting again that he couldn't do anything until he had the certificate but had given a preferred date of 5 September. One thing we could do was book a time slot at the crematorium, so we did. It left me nearly two weeks to kick my heels so after a couple of days trying in vain to catch up with George in order to cooperate with him and support him, dropping a poem I'd like to read at the funeral directors, and having tea with a good friend I hadn't seen in ages, I came home.
Today I got a letter from George, ostensibly notifying me of the funeral arrangements but in fact berating me for interfering, being patronising and trying to turn the funeral into an ego trip. Now I'm really upset when I was coping in my own way before. What's a girl (I'm 62!) to do?