Category Archives: Cancer

Kidspot’s Top 50 – Blog your way to Dunk Island.

I’ve not had a major holiday in a long time. Never since I’ve been with Nathan and certainly not since our children came along. In fact, the thought of a holiday, while sending me giddy with excitement, also freaks me out a little bit because wow, have you met my daughter? She’s a bit challenging. So we’ve never had a family holiday, which is a shame. I’m sure we’re missing out on something.

The last holiday I had, I was 13. I saved up for my plane fares and I went to Adelaide with my grandmother for Easter, and she was, obviously, still alive then. We had a brilliant time working out bus routes into the city and shopping and exploring Adelaide. Oh my word, the shopping. That woman was fun to shop with. We ate sushi for the first time (we were hooked) and it was a blast.

But you know, I was 13 and my Nan wasn’t dead, so I may have my rose coloured glasses on a little here.

Anyway, I was named one of Kidspot’s Top 50 Mummy Bloggers, which is kind of a big deal for me. The sponsors love us apparently and want to send one of the top 50 mummy bloggers to stay in tropical paradise for a week. Which is my ideal holiday, imagine how well my joints would do if thrown into warmth? And not Tassie Pseudo Warmth, but actual real warmth? I digress.

On the flip side, I am up there alongside some amazing women, who desperately deserve a holiday of their own. Tiff for instance, my amazing friend, who has spent more time in hospital with Ivy these last few months than anyone should ever have to.

My last 18 months has been a bit of a nightmare. Cancer diagnoses, hospitalisations, Nan dying, anxiety attacks, more hospitalisations, geneticists, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, a coeliacs diagnosis, Paed appointment after Paed appointment, broken arms and finally, early intervention and the beginnings of a diagnosis that is looking likely to end up as Aspergers for Amy. Yes, I finally said it out loud here, despite not wanting to jinx myself. We think Amy has Aspergers. There is a lot going on with Amy that I’ve not even been able to bring myself to blog about, because how do you tell the InterWebs that your daughter is amazingly talented, but oh my God, I think something is not entirely right here.

I would love a holiday and you can actually vote for me over there. You can also click through and have a look at my three favourite posts and what I’ve got to say for myself.

By the same token, I am absolutely thrilled to have ended up as a top 50 blogger. I’ve been doing this for a very long time now and it’s nice to have someone say that they enjoy reading here. Every email I get, every new commenter who says ‘I get where you’re coming from’ makes me happy.

And sometimes, being happy with what you’ve got is enough, no matter how long ago the last holiday was.

***

Have you been on holiday with your family recently? Where did you go? Where would your dream destination be if you had unlimited funds? (Unlimited funds would send me straight to England to visit my very favourite bloggers over there, before a quick trip to Kansas and then home again.)

I’m half hoping that this summer, we can go and spend a few days on a beach up at St Helens with the kids because that would be lovely and relaxing. Failing that, a day trip to the beach would be nice. Or anywhere I can keep the kids semi contained while I lay in the sun with a book and my sunscreen. Like the backyard. Maybe here, in the depths of winter, I’m just longing for sunshine and warmth. A very real possibility.

Posted in Amy, Blogging, Cancer, EDS, Grief, Headfuck.

21 comments

By Veronica – August 18, 2010
Happiness in Small Things

After Nan died, I moved through my world like I was in a fog. I was shattered and a grey fog seemed preferable to anything else. After all, I had small children and things to do, I didn’t have time to be crippled by grief, no matter that I felt shattered inside.

There is something about watching someone you love die in front of you that can leave you a bit broken you know?

And so that is how things continued. I moved through my days, bundled in a fog of I-refuse-to-feel-anything until I got to the point when I forgot how to feel anything. I internalised all of my grief and hello fog, you’re like a warm woolly blanket. Comforting and a little bit hard to get rid of because I might need you.

Nan died almost 10 months ago and while outside, I am coping, inside I am still shattered.

If I think about it, or her, I fall apart.

So I just don’t.

I don’t look at photos of her, any more than merely letting my eyes slide over them.

And I don’t speak about her, unless it’s a little bitterly, with a dose of realistic philosophical thrown in to stop it hurting quite so badly.

There are still things that make me happy though and at this point, I need all the small doses of happiness I can get.

Watching the world from the other side of a camera lens, that makes me happy. There is something about laying almost flat on my stomach and taking photos of toadstools or flowers that makes everything else easier to deal with. From the other side of a camera lens I feel like I can breathe again.

The simple act of taking photos, and coming inside to see how they turned out, it makes everything easier to deal with somehow.

Focusing on the small things leaves the big things to take care of themselves.

I am also the first person to admit that I can get a little obsessive when things make me feel happier or fulfilled.

A long time ago now, I used to work in a kitchen. The fast paced lifestyle left little time for thinking about other things and food, well, food is a huge passion of mine.

So when I discovered that making my own pasta sauces/jams/chutney and then photographing them gave me a small measure of happiness and fulfilment, I did a lot of it. Currently I’ve run out of jars and I’m itching to buy more strawberries because dammit, at least then you can see the results of all my hard work. I have something to show for working hard at it.

Grief isn’t like that apparently. No matter how hard I work at ignoring it, or even trying to deal with it, I’ve got nothing to show for it. It still hurts just as much when I poke the hole, so I leave off the poking and move back to things that make me happy.

Small things.

Gardening makes me happy. The simple acts of picking my own produce, that’s seeing results from hard work.

We planted our six gum trees on Sunday. When we were done, I wished for another ten trees, another twenty even. Something to show for traipsing all over the yard, digging holes and dragging a hose around. I didn’t want to stop planting, because playing in the dirt, it made me feel something again. And I’ve not been feeling very much since Nan died.

I sat in the middle of the yard yesterday and just sat. With a camera in my hand and more toadstool photos on my memory card, I just sat. And I looked at the sky and I looked at my poultry, free ranging fifty metres away. I thought about how hard missing someone is and how much work grief is, for very little result. I thought about all the little things that make me happy and realised that I need all the happiness I can get.

Because even though the little things make me bounce with excitement, the bigs things are going to be there, waiting to be dealt with. Sitting on my shoulder, just waiting for a stray thought or word to bring me undone.

I am not a bouncy bubbly person. I am realistic and a little bit cynical. I am philosophical and I am rather snarky.

And at the end of the day, I will always be the kind of person who wryly tells her dying grandmother ‘Good thing it’s not leprosy, or you would have just pulled your ears off.’

Because that’s how I cope.

Happiness in small things.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

18 comments

By Veronica – April 20, 2010
Missing

A year ago we sat around an outdoor table, surrounded by family. Easter had coincided with Nan’s birthday and we were barbecuing and celebrating, knowing in the back of our minds that it was likely to be the last birthday and Easter Nan celebrated.

We were of course hopeful that that wouldn’t be the case, but we were wrong.

A year ago we laughed and played and Isaac napped, a small baby still, asleep in his bouncer.

Slowly everyone left and I stayed, curled up in Nan’s armchair, reading her cookbooks and discussing everything under the sun with her as we pointed out likely recipes. Amy ran around, eating chocolate, while we waited for Isaac to wake up.

Nan was in the middle of chemo and horribly sick.

It was hard to watch, knowing that we couldn’t change it, or fix it.

However, it was warm and comfortable, talking.

Of course, we discussed her cancer – we always did.

We didn’t know that almost 10 weeks later Nan would be laying dying in a hospital room while we stood in a ring around her, giving her permission to leave.

Of all the things I miss, the common sense advice, the phone calls, the visits, just because, I miss curling up in the chairs at Nans and just talking more than anything else.

I miss her.

So much.

April has always been Nan’s month, her birthday and Easter intertwined always.

Today would have been her 65th birthday.

Happy Birthday Nan.

I miss you more and more each day it seems.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

22 comments

By Veronica – April 11, 2010
I want…

I want to run myself a bath.

Slip under the water and feel it swirl around me.

I want to lay there, in the warmth and day dream, imaginary conversations between me and people I’ll never meet. I want to let my imagination run wild and emerge, warmed through and ready to write something, anything.

But, it’s the middle of the day and Isaac has just woken from a nap. Amy is asking for food and Isaac is laughing at me.

There is no peace, not for baths. Not for daydreaming or imaginary conversations.

***

Everyone is talking about Haiti.

And I want to ignore it.

Because after getting emotionally involved with Black Saturday, with Hurricane Katrina, with the Tsunamis, with everything, I just can’t.

It comes on the news and I purposely zone out.

I can’t think about it, I just can’t.

I need to protect my emotional integrity, in order to have enough for myself.

I can’t take on board the suffering of hundreds of thousands of strangers.

Not this time.

***

It’s been almost 7 months since Nan died and I miss her more every day.

But it’s been 7 months and it’s harder to say that I miss her when I’m having a bad day.

It’s not an excuse.

It just is.

It’s also the reason I can’t look too hard at the eyes of the Haiti victims.

Because I need my emotions for myself.

And I’m sorry.

***

I thought I was over the bitterness that trying and failing to conceive brought out in me.

I thought I had lanced that wound with the successful birth of a healthy baby boy, who seems to have made it unscathed to his first birthday (more on that tomorrow).

I’m not though.

The announcement of a pregnancy this last week, from a girl who I will say should not be pregnant again, has me bitter all over again.

That poor child.

The mother, and the baby to be.

She sounds pleased about it.

I can think of people who would better deserve a child.

And I’m a bitch to think that, I know.

Who am I to say that she shouldn’t have a baby? Who I am to judge?

I’m no one.

I don’t get a say.

But I still think it.

And I discovered, from this, that having trouble conceiving a baby leaves wounds.

It leaves wounds, that while they might disappear under the surface, they never really heal.

So I can safely say, that while I am happy now, I can still be bitter.

I want to not be bitter.

I want to read her pregnancy announcement and be simply happy for her and not terrified about what it means for everyone else. About what it means for a system already clogged with women like her, babies like hers.

It’s a horrible thing to admit.

***

I want to curl into a ball, and hibernate for a while. I want time to be sad, to be bitter, to ignore the world for a while.

There is no time, not for me.

Eventually.

Maybe.

I’ll be less busy.

I’ll have more time.

***

There will be a doctors appointment soon, where I discuss my panic attacks and hopefully, get something done about them.

Because they’re crippling.

And horrible.

But I have a tendency to be matter of fact about things.

And doctors don’t take matter of fact seriously.

‘Oh that? I just dislocated my shoulder. I’ll be okay.’

‘It’s just my knee. Hang on, I’ll put it right.’

‘Meh, it will be okay.’

I want to say -

I hurt and

I keep panicking

and I’m not sure it’s normal to wake up at 3am and not be able to breathe because you have something sitting on your chest.

But meh.

I’ll be okay.

I just won’t look the Haiti victims in the eyes.

At least,

not until I’ve got my head back together.

***

Isaac turns ONE tomorrow and I will certainly have a post celebrating that. We had a good day today, with my parents coming over to visit and gift him with a wooden train. It was a good afternoon. I’m just a little flat this evening.

If you want to donate to Haiti you can click here to donate through the Red Cross. Just because I can’t watch them, doesn’t mean they don’t need helping.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

15 comments

By Veronica – January 17, 2010
On words, or the lack thereof

I can’t talk about it anymore. The grief, it is crushing and although I laugh and smile, I can’t breathe. Often, I have to remind myself to keep breathing, to keep moving, otherwise I’d be found, struck dumb with tears streaming down my face. Unmoving and uncaring.

I cope by moving through my moments without thinking about it. If I consciously don’t think about her, then I can move through my day without hurting.

Then

something will happen.

And the enormity of what we’ve lost hits me like a truck with no brakes.

Loss is forever and I think that is the hardest part. That this is forever. There are no undos, no fixing this. I can’t make this better because I can’t bring her back.

I said after she died that I didn’t regret anything I had done or not done. That I was at peace with her passing. I told her I loved her lots on that last day.

I think I lied.

Because

I regret that she died at all. That we didn’t have longer. That she was in pain.

In the future, we will have a cure for cancer. It might not be for a hundred years, but in the future there will be a cure. Future generations will look back and wonder how we managed to lose so many people to cancer. They will wonder how we didn’t crack the code sooner, in order to save more lives.

But it will be like us, looking back on the invention of antibiotics. We know that we’re lucky, but we don’t realise how lucky we are. We’re not likely to die from a simple cut anymore. A puncture wound is not going to be our death.

In the future, Cancer will be like that.

I hope it is sooner than we believe.

But until then, we will support the research. We will donate money and time and good humour. We will do what needs doing, even if that means we hold the hand of a loved one while they’re dying.

We do this, hoping that in the future, our children’s children won’t have to go through it.

Because god knows, I wouldn’t wish cancer on anyone.

Posted in Cancer, Grief.

25 comments

By Veronica – November 9, 2009
Anxious

My breath catches in my throat and I’m breathing consciously to get through the moment. My heart races and the familiar feeling of anxiety settles deep into my chest. The world around me fades slightly as I focus inwards, on my own internal struggle to get this under control.

My focus shatters as Amy steps on Isaac and tips forwards onto her hands and knees crying, while he screams his displeasure at being trodden on. The dog bites the cat, who runs away knocking dishes off the sink.

Everything lands in a big heap at my feet and I’m left with scattered plates, screaming children and no sense of peace. The world continues on completely oblivious to me.

I pick up my children, comfort them, make Amy say sorry. I stand and swearing, I clean up the plates, dust off my coping strategies and just move forwards.

One step at a time.

***

I’m stressed is what I’m saying.

Quite a little bit.

The anxiety attacks are back with a vengeance, coupled with a complete inability to actually cope with anything.

I’m spending a lot of time swearing under my breath and stomping around the house.

***

I turn the music up loud to drown out the whining and scrub at the bench. If I can just get this clean then everything else will look better and ohmyfuckingGOD.The mess just keeps coming and coming and I’m not sure I could walk through the lounge room without breaking an ankle.

***

Just stop whining. Please, just stop.

You’re tired? Here, curl up on the couch with a blanket.

No, you can’t watch a DVD, you broke the DVD player.

You want a bottle? But you’re a big girl.

I know Isaac has a bottle, but he’s a baby.

Oh. You’re a baby now too.

That would explain the whining.

Can you stop sitting on me?

Please?

Amy, get off me. You’re hurting me.

OY! Don’t pinch me! What a naughty thing to do. Time out! NOW.

You’re sorry? I don’t care. We don’t pinch. Time out.

Now.

Time out.

Walk.

Now.

Don’t go boneless, I’ll just pick you up.

There. Sit there. 3 minutes. We do not pinch. At all ever.

Isaac! I know I’m ignoring you, that’s no reason to squeal.

You’re tired too? Well here, nap time.

Boobs.

You don’t want boobs? You want to look at your sister in time out?

Isaac, fortheloveofgod just feed already.

ARGH! No biting! You’re not hungry.

Bedtime.

You. Back in time out. I didn’t say you could move.

No whining. Stop it.

Sit.

Sleep.

Shutup.

Please.

***

I love my children dearly, but they’re very needy at the moment.

Like -

really needy.

And I’m not sure I can breathe, underneath this mountain of need they have.

***

I knew this would happen. The crash.

Nan died three months ago and for that three months I’ve been caught up in merely moving from one moment to another without thinking about myself. Just getting things done for this family of mine.

Caught up in the coping.

And apparently, the grief has caught up with me.

I miss her so fucking much.

So fucking much.

***

There is stress on top of stress down here and there are only so many balls I can juggle before things start to fall on my head.

***

So I’m turning up the music.

I’m putting one foot in front of the other.

I’m hugging my children.

And I’m letting myself grieve.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

31 comments

By Veronica – September 26, 2009
Useless Books

There is a bookshelf in my house. It reaches to the roof, tall and thin. It sits in a corner of the dining room, slightly wobbly but bolted to the wall to stop it falling over.

My father made this bookshelf, a few years ago, for Nan. He made it to cover a useless doorway, boarded over on the outside but visible and ugly on the inside. Shortly after it was installed it was filled with books, top to bottom. I used to stand and peruse the books, picking them up, hefting their weight in my hands, stroking their binding and then curling up with one to read.

Then Nan died.

And this bookshelf; the bookshelf my father made, got moved into my dining room along with all it’s books. The bottom four shelves still contain her books. Books that I used to read of a weekend, books she loaned me, books she was reading in the hospital before she died.

I can’t touch them. I can’t bring myself to stroke their spines anymore, let alone pick one up read it. There’s too much there, too many memories.

I look at the bookshelves and I have to walk away and remind myself to breathe. My stress levels rise and I start to shake. I have to walk away, leaving the books untouched and the stories unread.

I know it will get easier.

But.

Until then, it just sits there.

In the corner.

Wobbling.

***

I’m starting to get a little bitter. My anger is rising to the surface. Things haven’t been made easy for Mum and I in the last three months and there is still so much work left. The jobs stretch out on front of us, marking time until the house is sold. It’s never ending and never easy.

It’s been …. stressful. To say the least.

I’m a little bitter.

***

My shoulder clicks back into position before promptly falling out of it’s socket again. Electric signals sent down my fingers with alarming regularity reminds me that it doesn’t work properly, not anymore.

For that matter, neither do I.

***

Lileya from In The Fringes wrote:

There is a fine line between trying to look on the bright side and putting on a happy act.

and that is so true. That line, resonates within me.

Too often I put on a happy act.

I’m not okay. I’m sick and tired and my joints hurt and nothing stays put anymore. I’m grieving still. A lot.

And I’m sick and fucking tired of having my grief mean nothing because she was ‘only’ my grandmother. I’m sick of having my pain discounted because you can’t understand it.

I miss her everyday.

My joints dislocate everyday.

Every. Single. Day.

So fuck you Anyonetoblog. No really, fuck you. You can’t be bothered to see my side of it? I can’t be bothered to be nice anymore.

Posted in Cancer, EDS, Grief, Headfuck.

27 comments

By Veronica – September 21, 2009
Daffodil Day

Daffodil Day 3 years ago:

I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having irregular contractions. According to my dates, Amy was 5 days overdue. According to their dates she wasn’t due for another 2 days. I was big, heavy and uncomfortable.

My name called.

Come through.

An American doctor. He was brisk. I told him I was having irregular contractions and he offered to check my cervix. Or more correctly, he offered to have his medical student check my cervix so long as I didn’t mind.

Two checks later, it was ascertained that my cervix hadn’t jumped ship and gone for a holiday like the med student suspected. Nor had it gotten lost, she just wasn’t very good at checks yet.

I was pronounced 3cm dilated and ready to drop. Thrilled, I put my pants back on as the doctor told me he’d probably see me tonight.

We walked out of there happy, certain our baby was on the way.

***

One hospital floor down, Nathan’s father lay in a bed, having just been diagnosed with cancer.

***

We bought a daffodil pin that day, as well as a little yellow bear. Still a little shell shocked, we walked out of the hospital not knowing whether to celebrate the impending birth of our daughter, or cry for the diagnosis my father-in-law had been given.

***

Three years later my father in law is alive after undergoing intensive chemotherapy. It wasn’t easy, but then, cancer never is.

Three years later we’re getting things ready for Amy’s birthday. Despite being told I’d give birth that night, Amy hung around in there for another 8 days. We’ve got presents hiding in the closet and I’m trying to decide on a cake flavour. I’m counting sleeps until and hoping that things will just fall into place like normal.

Three years later I’m grieving my grandmother, a victim of a cancer she was never at risk for. She, who’d never smoked a day in her life struck down by lung cancer. Her second run in with cancer, leaving us broken without her. Stronger, maybe, but flawed. Always flawed. Grieving.

Three years later I’m not sure how I’m going to get through Amy’s birthday without Nan. I’ve spent so long coping and just doing what I’ve got to do that I haven’t taken time to cry or process anything. I’m starting to be very not okay anymore and I don’t know how to handle that.

Three years later I don’t have the time to grieve alone. These children of mine have wants and needs and their wants are mostly louder than their needs.

Three years later and the edge of my purse still has the daffodil pin stuck in it from so long ago. A pink ribbon has joined it.

Showing support for the people who suffer; the people who die.

It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

20 comments

By Veronica – August 28, 2009
Tired and Sad

Today was the first day since Nan died when we were back to a normal routine. Nathan got up at god-awful o’clock and left for TAFE (welding course) and I was left at home with the two children, one of whom is still sick and completely unable to be separated from me. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love snuggling with Isaac, but when it’s the 5th consecutive hour that you’re doing it and you’ve only had a few (non-consecutive) hours sleep, then it starts to get a little old.

My shoulder and lower back are complaining rather a lot at the extra 7kgs of badly distributed weight. Sigh. I feel old today.

Old and sad.

Sad and tired.

Nan was a huge part of my life. I catch myself thinking I’ll just ring Nan… and then, fuck. And then I cry.

***

When I rang Nathan that Wednesday morning to take me into the hospital, I stopped breathing properly. It was almost like hyperventilating, only not. I flew through a shower and getting the kids ready. Nathan walked in the door and we walked out of it 30 seconds later.

I didn’t breathe again until I hit that hospital room and Nan was still breathing. She looked awful, but that is part and parcel of cancer and steroids. She got quite distressed until David and I had hugged her. Apparently she’d spoken to Mum prior to her downhill slide and said that she needed to let Davey and I know that she knew we were there. She definitely managed that. I hugged her, laid my cheek against hers and told her I loved her.

We settled in to wait.

The waiting was the hardest part.

We took turns holding Nan’s hand and she had enough energy to occasionally give us a squeeze. Visitors came and went and still we sat. Talking, laughing, reminiscing, waiting.

Eventually Nan’s breathing got worse. She pulled her oxygen mask off and rolled onto her side. She opened her eyes and looked straight at her mother (Kath*) before closing her eyes again. Kath held one of Nan’s hands and I held Kath’s other hand and her shoulder. She gripped me like a drowning woman as her daughter started to slip away.

Mum said ‘You can go now Mum. You don’t have to stay here for us. We love you.’

I echoed ‘Yes. We love you Nan.’

Her breathing slowed and then stopped completely.

It was peaceful. She was done fighting.

At 2.10pm on the 24th of June ’09, my grandmother died, surrounded by family.

*I’m calling her Kath for this blog post to prevent confusion. In real life, she is just Nan.

***

I can remember everything about that afternoon, even down to how the room smelled and how it felt to clean the room afterwards. We organised clothes and flowers, books and magazines and then we left the room and Nan behind.

***

I think those first few days were easier to deal with.

After the funeral, the hustle and bustle died down and the reality of Nan’s death set in. I can’t ring her. I can’t visit. I can’t do any of the things I used to do on a daily basis. Nan was such a part of my life; to have her gone leaves me with a gaping hole and a pervading sense of sad.

I can still smell her perfume on the clothing she gave me before she died. I wander around the house and suddenly, I can smell her.

And it hurts because it’s not her and eventually, the smell will fade no matter how I try and preserve it.

***

I threw the last of the flowers out yesterday. The lilies that had been in her room withered and died. An empty coffee jar sits on my counter with no flowers left to fill it.

***

It’s the middle of winter. It’s cold and icy and horrible outside. I yearn for warm days and blooming flowers and sunshine that warms my soul as well as my body. I know that spring will come in it’s own time. I know that eventually the keen knife edge of hurt will fade. I know this.

This hurt is a wound that will eventually heal, leaving me with just a scar and memories. Knowing that this will happen doesn’t make the days in the interim easier though.

***

I’m a writer and I won’t appologise for ripping open my soul and leaving it here on my blog for you to read, even though I feel like I should be appologising for my lack of humour.

I hope that you can hold my hand and walk through this with me as I process it. That said, if you find it hard to comment, or can’t make the words come out right, don’t feel you have to comment profoundly. Simply knowing you’re reading still is enough.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

46 comments

By Veronica – July 6, 2009
Nan

Nan passed away around 2.10pm this afternoon surrounded by family.

Mum and I are keeping our shit together by being as practical as we can. Thankyou for everyone’s thoughts.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

59 comments

By Veronica – June 24, 2009
Today is not a good day

So this morning when Amy woke an hour earlier than normal, you could hear me exclaiming, ‘today is not going to be a good day’.

When the phone rang at 7.30am and it was Mum who had been called into the hospital with Nan at 4am, again I said ‘today is not going to be a good day’

When Mum rang again at 9am to tell me that the doctor thought that today would be Nan’s last day with us. Again, ‘today is not going to be a good day.’

A phone call to Nathan later ‘I need you; come home’ and I was in the shower with Amy, mind running 100 kph (much faster than my body was running I should add).

We got ready at the speed of light and we were ready to walk out of the door as Nathan got home. 40 minutes later, I’m sitting in a hospital room with her.

So.

Today is not a good day.

It’s been 12 months exactly since Nan was diagnosed with Lung Cancer.

Thoughts appreciated.

Posted in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck.

17 comments

By Veronica – June 24, 2009
This Shit Sucks

Mum had to have Nan admitted to hospital on Saturday. [read post here]

Amy says ‘My Nanny is very sick’.

Nathan says ‘But your nan is my friend!’

And I say ‘This shit sucks’.

I don’t think she’s getting out of hospital. [And if she does happen to get out of hospital and gets better and reads this and growls at me and says 'ner ner' then it will be so worth it that I won't care that she is growling at me.]

Today, for the third time, we will make the trek into The Hospital with two children in tow. We will walk Amy up and down the halls and let her play hide and seek in the Chapel. We will sit in the room and talk to Nan while I wonder how many more times we will do this. She is very very vague now and confused. We’re hoping that the medication they gave her to reduce the calcium levels in her blood will reduce the confusion by Friday.

I wonder, did we take too much for granted? Did we take her strength and her verve and her spice for life for granted? Even though we knew this cancer was terminal, did we not realise that once the true decline started, then everything was going to go to hell? I look at my Nan and don’t know if I can do this.

I’ve heard people say ‘a terminal illness gives you time to prepare, time to deal with it’. Hell, I’ve even said it myself. Unfortunately, there is nothing you can do to prepare for the kick in the guts feeling you get when you see your loved one tucked up into a bed, looking progressively smaller by the day.

So I say it again. This shit sucks.

****

I was 14 when I moved out of home. I left Mum and Dad’s house and headed down the hill to live with Nan. I let myself in after school most days (the days when I didn’t have soccer, or go to my boyfriends house), mucked around a bit with music and school work and then started cooking dinner for when Nan got home from work. Her spare room became my bedroom, with my stuff in it and my stuff on the walls. (No, not posters, it was mostly all my artwork from school)

Moving out was great. It gave me and my parents the space we needed from each other to have a good relationship. My childhood was far from horrible, but sometimes, things were very very strained. There was a lot of stress. We needed space from each other. I love my parents, but living with them was hard. We need space from each other in order to cope.

When I tell people ‘My grandmother is sick; dying even’ I don’t think they realise just how close we are. I love my mother, but Nan? She is like a second mother to me. Who on earth am I going to complain to when my mother is giving me the shits? My Nan is my go-to person when I am stressed. Unlike Mum, she is not likely to cackle at me (why YES, my mother does cackle. In a good way you understand) when Amy is driving me up the wall.

We are close and I’m not sure how I am going to cope with this. I’m as close to Nan as I am to Mum and I don’t know how to get through this.

So, this is not just my Nan tucked up in a hospital bed. This is my friend.

Posted in Cancer, Headfuck.

38 comments

By Veronica – June 16, 2009
Fuck You Cancer

I’ve been reading a few posts around the blogosphere that have been sponsored by the American Cancer Society, which is great. Raising awareness is a fantastic thing. Everyone needs to know about cancer. In fact, everybody probably knows someone who has had cancer, fought it and won.

I am however, taking objection to the request that the bloggers participating in this awareness campaign have been asked to keep it positive. It appears the ACS want people to hear the positive side of things, to show that people can beat it and that while it is a headfuck, it doesn’t always mean a life sentence.

Yada yada.

However.

Not everyone beats cancer. Sure we can all tell the happy side of things, talk about the cakes and the parties afterwards when you hear the magical words, ‘you’re in remission.’ In fact, I’ve been to a few of those parties, I’ve been thrilled to bits for people and breathed a sigh of relief. My best friend in primary school beat leukaemia when she was 10. My great-grandmother beat breast cancer in her 70′s. Nan beat thyroid cancer 10 years ago. Nathan’s father spent the first year of Amy’s life beating cancer. We’ve all got the positive feel good stories to tell. We can all say ‘this doesn’t have to be a death sentence, this doesn’t have to be IT.’ We push the bad memories so far down so that we can move on and forget how that chemo ward smelled, or how sick our loved ones truly looked in the moment.

But for some people, it is it. This is it. This is how they will spend their last few months, with cancer hanging over their heads and invading their bodies. A reminder with every twinge, that this time, you and your family fell on the wrong side of the odds and to be honest, it feels a little disrespectful of the ACS to ask people to try and be only positive when writing about their experiences with cancer. I wasn’t going to link to the blogger who posted about this. I didn’t want my anger to dilute her post. I am so pleased that they got their happy ending and their remission parties. Life was forever changed, but it was not halted. Not that time. I wouldn’t wish what we’re going through on anyone else.

Sometimes treatment doesn’t work. Sometimes there is no hope for forever, just hope for more time. We will be dealing with the after effects of cancer for a very long time. It’s not easy. I don’t think about tomorrow, or next month or how I’m going to cope. I don’t have a plan for how I’m going to hold it all together, but I know that I will because I have to. We’re the ones left behind. The ones no one wants to talk about because our story doesn’t fit into the message of hope they want to send.

At the end of this story, there will be no happy ending. There will be no cake, no parties, no congratulations. Our story will fade quietly into into the distance, leaving just us behind to pick up the pieces.

I have not had cancer. That does not mean I will not be a cancer survivor.

***

For anyone just joining us now, my Nan was diagnosed with Lung Cancer (NSCLC) almost 12 months ago. She’s never smoked a day in her life. Surgery wasn’t an option and radiation and chemotherapy, while buying us more time, didn’t cause the cancer to shrink or stop growing like we’d hoped it would. She’s having palliative radiation at the moment, in order to shrink some bone mets in her spine and lessen her pain.

I was going to close comments, but I think I’ll leave them open. Remember that Nan reads and she is more than happy to growl at you in the comments if you’re too morbid about her. She’s not gone yet. In fact, I expect a phone call tonight growling at me for writing this.

I want to know, how has cancer touched your family? Do you have a positive story to tell, or did everything go to hell in a hand basket. I want to hear, the good, the bad and the ugly. We’ve all got stories.

Posted in Cancer, Headfuck, Soapbox.

56 comments

By Veronica – June 10, 2009
Wakeful Baby

Wakeful baby. Is wakeful.

It’s 11.35pm and I am awake with Isaac.

[Updated: it is now 12.09am and he has successfully nommed himself to sleep. Think of me as I move us both from the loungeroom to bed]

Now if I was more together, this post would be coupled with a photo, but cut me some slack. I just went to change Isaac’s nappy and I am so tired I forgot HOW to change him, half way through the change. In fact, I think I may have forgotten that I was changing him at all. I don’t quite remember now. I know that I eventually remembered what I was doing and his little bum is now all parceled back up.

And boobs! He wants BOOBS, RIGHT NOW plskthnx.

Couple this with the flailing and the om nom nomming and the wiggling and the snuffling and oh god did I mention the flailing?

He’s a good baby though, especially of a daytime when other people can see him. He naps like a champion – in my arms – my naked boob right in front of his mouth just in case he needs a little more. He is content for whole minutes at a time, so long as he is Up! And looking about! And being talked to! Less content if he is down in his bouncer at ankle level. I can only imagine that the fun things to look at do not reside at ankle level.

He doesn’t cry much either, but then he is only 3 weeks old and if I recall, it took Amy about 5 weeks to find her voice. Some days I wish she would lose it again.

And the best bit? He stays mostly asleep overnight, waking only to feed. He is however, the noisiest, fussiest sleeper I have ever seen. He snores, he fusses, he snuffles and growls. He also seems to need the tip of my little finger in his mouth all night.

I am still trying to work out what is better; a pink and wrinkled little finger that has been sucked on for hours, or a soggy nipple that has had the same thing happen to it.

Needless to say, I’m not exactly sleeping lately.

To be honest, it’s not exactly the easiest time to be dealing with constant breastfeeding and entirely sleepless nights (although, it does mean my blog name is good for a little while yet). Nan’s tumour has grown. Lots. And faster than we expected too. After the great news in November that it had shrunk so much, it’s now back and spreading.

Not content to do what most cancer does though, her cancer has spread to her heart. Not something we were expecting. If it had of spread, the liver ‘should’ have been it’s next port of call. Funnily enough, her liver is clear and healthy. Heh.

The crappiest bit though? Yeah, there isn’t anything left that they can do. Chemotherapy will just make her sicker – and the radiation that she had before isn’t an option anymore. (She developed Radiation Pneumonitis from the last lot, therefore, no more.)

It’s shit. Actually, it fucking sucks. It all fucking sucks.

The doctors are saying three to six months. Knowing Nan, we are counting on twelve. Still not enough. No where near enough.

It’s not meant to be like this.

***

Also, does anyone know how to get lanolin based nappy cream out of toddler hair? I have shampoo’d it once, but then Amy tipped the entire bottle of shampoo into the bath water and etc etc, so I didn’t get around to shampooing it a second time. She had a severe case of naughty today. Sigh.

Will try and shampoo it again in the morning.

***

Finally, remember that Nan reads my blog, so keep that in mind when you are commenting. She might just decide to growl at anyone that gets too morbid.

Posted in Cancer, Headfuck.

43 comments

By Veronica – February 8, 2009
And then.

It’s glaring; the blank page I sit in front of. Many nights I just can’t face it and so I click away, without writing anything. I think about plenty of things that I would like to share with you, but when it comes time to put words onto the screen, my articulate nature fails me and nothing feels right.

Things beep in the background, the dryer is running and I watch TV as I comment on your blogs. My attention feels constantly half diverted. Listening for a waking toddler, listening for the silence that heralds naughtiness of all kinds.

My brain races at 100 thoughts a second, I try and pull a singular thought out to share with you, but it slides away eel like; out of my grasp. There is so much to share and yet, I draw a blank.

The baby wiggles and I can feel her/him a little more every day. A little more regular, a little stronger. I am looking forward to the day when I can feel movement enough to share with Amy, but for the moment I am content to keep it all as mine. Selfish. The movements keep me sane through random bleeds and days of emotional instability.

I must admit, I can’t be the easiest person to live with at the moment.

You see, the news we got back about Nan wasn’t good. As well as the primary tumour, there are cancerous lymph nodes and what looks to be secondary tumours in both lungs.

Inoperable.

Treatment will be given and taken accordingly, but it has left me struck dumb.

And so, I sit in front of the blank screen, unsure of what to write about. Sure life goes on and more so life with a toddler, but trying to avoid thinking about something always leaves me thinking and wondering.

Amy however, has none of these issues and continues to drive me insane. She climbs the walls, LITERALLY. How the fuck am I meant to keep anything in order when she can CLIMB? UP MY WALLS!

Actually, how the fuck am I meant to keep anything in order full stop.

So.

Tell me a story. Make me laugh. Direct me to a post of yours that needs comment love. Distract me my lovely internets. If you really can’t think of anything, tell me who your favourite blogger is at the moment [so I can stalk them too].

Posted in Cancer, Headfuck.

41 comments

By Veronica – August 2, 2008
Results

I had a whole long post written in my head, but then Amy went to bed and my tiredness schwacked me in the head, so I will be brief.

Biopsy showed that the tumour is definitely cancer. The tumour is covering all three of the major openings to Nan’s left lung, so surgery would require the whole lung to be removed.

But, surgery is a possibility, depending entirely on the results of a PET scan. PET scans take about a fortnight to book into too (waiting list) and we will have to travel to Melbourne to get it done.

Then, after we get THOSE results, treatment options can be discussed.

The good news though? The cancer is a “squamous cell non-small cell lung cancer” which means that it is a slower growing cancer. (Name is provided for anyone wanting to google it or whatever. Also for Mum).

So, I need everyone to pray that the nodules of possible cancer that the CT scan picked up are not in fact actual cancer. I need you to pray that the lymph nodes are not involved. I need you to pray that the pain Nan is feeling in her side is not the cancer moving to her bones.

Okay? Because having the PET scan show that those things haven’t happened would be fantastic.

And I need that right now.

Posted in Cancer, Life.

43 comments

By Veronica – July 9, 2008
Stretched Thin

My firewood was supposed to arrive today. So, I didn’t spend the day locking us in Amy’s room and sleeping, I didn’t spend the day playing in a warm bath with Amy, and I didn’t spend the day in my pajamas on the couch with a book.

I would have much preferred to do those things, rather than waiting endlessly on a guy who never showed up.

BEFORE the weekend he said, I’ll make sure I’m there he said.

I say HAHAHAHFUCKINGHAHA.

Next time I’m just gonna stay in my pj’s and bugger everyone else.

I did however get things done today. Like the cooking for Nathan’s birthday lunch tomorrow (I could totally have done it in my pj’s). And Nathan cleaned up the trainwreck of a house and washed the dished while I dried.

[Again, I could have stayed in my pj's for that]

I spent 2 hours trying to get Amy to nap, before giving up and letting her get back up. I didn’t let her pour salt all over the kitchen floor, but she did it anyway.

I wouldn’t have let her fingerpaint with guacamole had she given me a choice. Unfortunately when you are 22 months Mummy’s wants and needs are very unrealistic.

[Leave your nappy on. Do not stick that in your vagina. Don't feed the dog your lunch when you are still hungry. DO NOT empty my kitchen drawers onto the floor. Stop shaking your drink all over the floor. GET YOUR BLOODY FINGERS OUT FROM MY CHOPPING BLOCK WHILE I AM CHOPPING THINGS.]

And to add to the stress, Nan had her bronchoscopy today. Thankfully the doctor was able to take a sample of the primary tumour for testing. This means that Wednesday when we see the doctor we will know what we are dealing with.

We will hopefully know what type of cancer it is and how fast it is likely to move without treatment. Nan will hopefully be able to discuss a treatment plan.

We will know more than we do now.

Knowledge is power and all that.

I feel stretched thin.

Posted in Cancer, Life.

14 comments

By Veronica – July 4, 2008