"It’s a person you love, the happiness they give you and the craziness they give you. The whole lot of it."
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Sandrany was carer to her Mum Soo for the last few years of her life. Despite Soo’s decreasing mobility powers, they specialised in travelling, socialising and adventures.

My object: A bottle of Shiraz

It came to me straightaway, the object that reminds me of Mum. A bottle of Australian Shiraz - “Jamshed” -  it’s quite sweetish. She loved her glass of wine right up until the end. I suppose I also associate it with growing up in the East End of London. We used to have a lot of gatherings with friends and family. Mum and Dad had met on the ship from Mauritius and he told her there and then: “I’m going to marry you one day.” Sure enough, on January 23rd 1963 they did.

We were always having parties and my dad organised dances for the community at various locations. Mum always had her glass of red but she used to do all the cooking so she deserved it. Eventually Mum and Dad lived apart. Dad liked his ladies. He was a bit of a ladies man. His name was Greshar  but people knew by all sorts of names: Harry, Ali, Mr. Charles. Mum became Soo eventually (because her name was Soomeet)  - or Daisy, a name adopted from family and friends back home in Mauritius.

But Mum had a great life. A busy life. She did all sorts of jobs. She worked in the Robertson Jam factory, she looked after neighbours’ children, cleaned a doctor’s surgery. Then she took up nursing. She wanted my sister and I to have nice things. I was really proud of her. Mums are a bit special. They bring you into this world, love you, nurture you, work for, produce dinners for you. It’s amazing how much they do.

I became her carer I suppose when she was about 85. Until then she’d always been very independent. She’d had a few little niggles and I’d go to some appointments with her as I lived next door. In 2012 we’d tragically lost my sister and I’d noticed Mum seemed to be getting a little forgetful. My dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a while ago and I saw some similarities. Heart trouble and diabetes was beginning to slow her down too. But she still lived on her own and liked her independence. “Carry on with your friends,” she used to say. “I’m all right. Leave me alone.” She used to ward me off sometimes.

I miss it. I miss being her carer. I’m going to cry in a minute. It’s the joy I remember. It’s a person you love, the happiness they give you and the craziness they give you. The whole lot of it.

She wanted to do her own thing right up to the age of 90. Even then she was still washing herself, sometimes she could still dress herself. The only thing that baffled me was the amount of toilet paper we went through. I used to buy loads of it. “My god, what are you doing with it,” I used to say. But she was self-sufficient to the end.

Then Mum developed a little cough. She seemed heavier on her feet. Exhausted. Lethargic. By the weekend she didn’t want to eat or drink. It’s a sign that things are changing but I didn’t know that then. I phoned the GP surgery on Monday but they had no-one to come and see Mum that day. I stayed overnight in her spare room. On guard to see if she was OK. A care team came in the next day and diagnosed pneumonia. They gave her antibiotics and Mum opted to stay home rather than go to hospital. I stayed with her

I made her some Heinz chicken soup and a buttered baguette and took it upstairs to her. “Please please try and eat something,” I said. She looked at me and said “It’s OK” She wasn’t struggling, just taking everything in her stride.

I was bathing her the next morning, washing her feet a bit like a ritual, when the doctor arrived on the doorstep. Mum was very, very low. He told me we had to take her straight to hospital and called an ambulance. I packed her a little case and we went to A&E. I never left her side. They X-rayed her chest, gave her antibiotics and two nurses were with her to give her an oxygen mask. Then they stopped and looked at each other. A doctor was there. “Do you want to step out for a minute,” he said to me. “It looks like you Mum is just passing now.”

We’d only been in the hospital for 40 minutes and her time had gone. She’d gone peacefully. She went quietly and I was there with her.