It was with a sinking heart that I read Simon Mercieca's account of his father's last days on earth (Elections and my father's passing away, 5th June). I only met Mr Mercieca Senior three or four times, but my heart had warmed to him, for I realised that he was a man who had known hardship, but even in his nineties, he still had a twinkle in his eye. He deserved much better than this.

It also recalled the agony of my mother's passing. A stalwart of the WVS, she was nearly seventy when she stopped escorting discharged patients home from hospital, her last client being a woman just over half her age, whom she accompanied by train from Birmingham to Leeds. After that, she was a Deputy Clothing Officer, preparing and distributing second-hand clothing to the needy.

Aged 84, she was admitted to hospital in England with pneumonia and put on a ward with 40 beds. Visiting time was a nightmare, as many of the beds had up to 10 family members around them, chattering away and with their unsupervised children running up and down the central corridor. When I asked Ward Sister about the notices that said, "No more than two visitors per bed" and protested that my mother needed peace, she replied, "We can't do anything, it is their culture." When I drew the curtains around the bed for privacy, I was told I couldn't do it at visiting time, for it upset people if they realised a patient was dying.

When my mother told me to take her walking-stick home: I demurred, saying she might need it. When she replied, "No, where I am going, I won't need it," my heart chilled. When the priest came to give her the Last Rites, he had holy water in a small sprinkler, but for the anointing at the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, his thumb went into a small pot which was clearly empty of oil. Later I asked a nun about this and she sought to reassure me by saying that the oil wasn't necessary, it was the principle that counted, thus going against all that I had been taught in catechism.

Their relationship had always been slightly uneasy, but, just before she slipped away, my mother looked at my wife and said, quite clearly, "Lucilla, you're a good girl," and, too late, a bond was formed.  

Dr Martin G. Spillane

Sliema