Express & Star

Cathy Stanworth: Glad to see back of my ‘annus horribilis’

You should write a column about this,” said my GP. “Not now, it’s too soon,” I replied.

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Glad to see back of my ‘annus horribilis’

I don’t remember ever telling her about the job I do, but she had obviously picked up on it, over the years.

I was telling her all about what was going on.

How my small and close-knit family was already having to deal with one private crisis, when we were next to be hit with my mother’s death.

Just a few months later another personal tragedy was to come my way – completely out of the blue.

I found myself welcomed into the world of panic attacks for a short time.

The year 2019 has definitely been “annus horribilis”, and I for one will be so glad to see the back of it!

But at least I was prepared for my mum to go.

She had made sure of that, the best she could.

The hospital had finally managed to get mum (then in a coma) moved into a private room, with myself, my brother and sister-in-law still talking to her reassuringly, when she took her last breath, just five minutes later.

I had only had the call from the hospital a few hours earlier.

I held her, telling her between sobs that there was nothing to worry about, she would be alright, everything would be OK.

I don’t know that, but I liked the thought that this could be true, and that she could still hear me, just for a little while, after being told by others that the hearing was the last thing to go.

She had trained me up to deal with her estate after she had gone. “I’m sorry, but it’s all going to come down to you, Katie (my family name),” she said.

From her sickbed at home she would get me to go through her files, sort her paperwork, learn where all the important documents were.

I had helped her with her banking following the death of my dad, ten years before, when my brother and I were granted Power of Attorney.

Then mum and I shared a joint account, but I had always refused to have a bank card or cheque book. That was her money. I just agreed to do her online banking, deposits and withdrawals.

On the same day of her terrible passing, myself, my brother and sister-in-law, sat at her dining room table, reading the list of instructions she had left. The property had to be shut down and sold, insurances claimed, pensions and allowances and taxes sorted, and people informed.

Mum had written down who was to get what in the house, and what she wanted for her funeral.

She had put telephone numbers alongside the companies and utilities listed.

My brother made a call to the funeral directors, to set a date.

I was lucky with my employer, as they were very understanding. Some people aren’t so lucky.

The day after that meeting round the table I was sat there again, alone. I had got all the files out, the list, paper and pens, the post-it notes that were going to end up so useful, and the phone on the table (I hadn’t had it cut off just then).

I sat there feeling terrified of the job ahead. “Just get on with it,” said a voice in my head. Obviously my mother’s. The first day I sat there on the phone, sorting paperwork, putting it into action piles, topped with post-it notes recording what to do next, for over six hours.

Over the weeks there was so much to do, including speaking to the coroner, registering the death, sending off death certificates, organising the funeral and reception (my mother always hated the word “wake”), and visiting the building society to sort out her accounts and her grandchildren’s savings accounts, which she had set up for them.

I remember the oxygen man came round to collect her tanks. He took one look at the dining table and said: “Wow, you’re the most organised person I have ever seen.” Eventually the piles of paperwork were transferred to my dining table at home, and still the work went on, including returning NHS equipment and unused medicines. After the funeral, we sorted the interment for her to join dad. The headstone now needs re-engraving.

Then we had to look at selling the property.

“Get rid of the bungalow – don’t hang on” her instructions stated. So we instructed an excellent local high street estate agent. Then we had to meet with a probate solicitor, to apply for probate, and instruct a conveyancing solicitor. More paperwork to fill in!

The bungalow was popular, and a lot of people wanted to buy it. Just weeks later we had an offer, but unfortunately the sale fell through.

The next buyer came along. We then had the massive task of clearing the property. My brother and I are now fed up of the sight of our local household recycling centre, and charity shop volunteers know me by name.

All this began with my mother’s sad passing six months ago.

So when 2020 begins, I will be breathing a huge sigh of relief, while putting up two fingers to 2019.

And next time I see my GP I can tell her, “I’ve written the column”. She will no doubt say “I know. I read your columns.” Well at least somebody does!