Category Archives: Grief

How am I not insane? I don’t know.

‘How are you not insane?’ asks the Occupational Therapise after we’ve just finished discussing all of Amy’s issues, a list about the length of my arm.

‘I don’t know? I guess, I’ve got no choice?’

And the reality is, I don’t know. Nathan and I get to the end of some days and look at each other, wondering where we’re going wrong.

Only the thing is, we’re not doing anything wrong.

After discussing Amy today for over an hour and a half, the OT looked at me: ‘So, what do you think is up?’

‘To be honest? I think it might be Aspergers. I think there is something more here.’

Of course, the OT can’t make a diagnosis – we need a Paediatrician and a Psychologist to do that. But she works with autistic children every day and knows what they’re like.

‘Look, I know you can’t diagnose anything, but is it aspergers do you think?’

She looked at me.

‘Well, what we’re seeing is in line with an aspergers diagnosis. It’s all very typical behaviours.’

So that’s that.

***

Amy has some amazing strengths:

She is intelligent, oh so intelligent. She speaks well above her age level and she can problem solve with the best of them.

But, her auditory and visual sensory processing issues are pretty major and we’re not sure just how much of what we’re saying is reaching her. She prefers the dark, she can’t concentrate with background noise around and she melts down often.

She needs to reaffirm everyone’s relationship to her, every single day. ‘You are my Mum. Your name is Veronica. Daddy is my Daddy. His name is Nathan.’ She can’t answer some questions and she walks off in the middle of conversations, because they’re too much for her. She doesn’t understand strangers; everyone is her friend.

She has a lot of social problems and while eye contact wasn’t an issue when she was a baby, it’s getting too much for her now. And the OT suspects that Amy isn’t processing pain signals properly.

On top of so many other things that are aspergers related.

On top of the Ehlers Danlos.

On top of the Coeliacs.

She is beautiful and heartbreakingly difficult.

***

I knew it was coming. I knew.

It doesn’t make it any easier and while I know it changes nothing, except the services we can access, I’m a bit shell shocked today.

The OT (who is lovely btw) is astounded that no one has picked this up sooner. Amy has never been an easy child, she screamed for her first 12 months and things never got any easier. Not really.

And it’s getting harder as she gets older.

Everyone missed this – even when we told the Paeds that Amy was incredibly difficult, that she doesn’t listen, that she does what she likes regardless of what we say or do. They all missed it, even when the desperation must have been audible in our voices.

***

We have a lot of work and a lot of appointments and therapy ahead of us. Amy starts kindergarten in February and it is flying closer, faster than I’d like.

And all I can think is that I miss my grandmother an awful lot today, with an ache that hurts.

Posted in Amy, Aspergers, Grief, Headfuck.

33 comments

By Veronica – August 26, 2010
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
A confession. Or, a post where I fall apart a little.

I have anxiety issues.

Which is not much in itself, but after Nan died, my anxiety spiralled to the point where I’m anxious or stressed for most of the day. I have panic attacks and they’re getting worse. If Nathan goes out to get milk, I watch the clock and panic if he takes longer than he should. Worst case scenarios run through my brain most of the time.

And really, I’ve always been a little obsessed with the macabre and the broken, but this is ridiculous you know?

I don’t talk about these things, with anyone really, except to mention them in an understated way. Who wants to hear about how the inside of my head is all fucked up? Plus, my body is so fucked up that talking about any of it threatens to drown me with just how shit it all is. Not letting anyone pity me is my lifeline to not pitying myself and falling apart.

Since Nan died I’ve stopped talking. I used to be able to talk about whatever was bothering me, but now, I’m repressing everything. Every.Thing. Which is annoying in itself, because the sensible part of my head tells me that talking about the issues would make them only half as annoying, but it seems to stick in my throat. I talk to myself inside my head, but I can’t make my mouth form the words. I have panic attacks and breathe through them, not letting anyone see that they’re happening. Or I hide, in the toilet, in my bedroom, in front of the computer. They pass and I resurface.

It could be part of grieving, or, I suspect, the grieving has made it easier to repress everything. I don’t have time to fall apart. I pull myself together and go on coping and inside, something is curling up and dying because I can’t acknowledge just how badly I’m doing.

Fake it until you make it, isn’t that what they say?

Case in point:

There is an abandoned house at the end of my street, about 400m away that I want to photograph (again). I live in a tiny country town, on a large highway. I can see the fucking house from my lounge room window, but do you think I can make myself leave the house with my camera and walk up there?

No. I can’t.

I can’t bring myself to leave the house alone and walk, 400 fucking metres away to take a photo. If Nathan stood outside he’d be able to see me the whole time and I cannot do it.

When Amy was a baby, I used to walk into Hobart regularly. I lived about 40 minutes walk from the city and I would just walk. To the supermarket, to the Reserve, to my mothers group. I would walk, everywhere.

Now, I struggle to leave the house and I absolutely can’t go anywhere by myself.

And it’s stupid, it’s really stupid. It’s the little things like having a panic attack because I’m outside alone at 8pm in the dark photographing the sky. ON MY OWN PROPERTY. It’s not like I live anywhere dangerous.

It feels like I’m at the bottom of a well, with the walls closing in on me, telling myself how fucking stupid I was to get in here in the first place and why don’t I just climb out? But I can’t.

I went to a rheumatologist yesterday and left feeling good about the appointment. She’s worked out a new pain management regime for me, including something to help me sleep. Something that in a larger dose, works as an anti-depressant. And all I felt was relieved because now, maybe the anxiety induced insomnia will ease and at the very least, I might be able to sleep.

Last night, I fell apart. Everything culminated and I sobbed for hours. Nathan didn’t know what was wrong because I couldn’t tell him and honestly, after 12 months, it feels stupid to be falling apart because I miss my grandmother. I know it isn’t stupid, but it feels it you know? Like there is a set time for grieving and then we’re meant to be okay. Nathan ended up falling asleep and I sobbed more because dammit, can’t you read my mind?

And funny, I don’t feel any better today. I just feel heavy and tired and sad.

As I sat in the dark silently screaming and letting myself feel the pain that the grief brings, I contemplated running a bath, or going for a walk. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because I’m fairly sure if I’d laid in a bath, I would have slipped under the water and not been able to surface and the thought of walking, even around my property in the dark triggered another panic attack. The dark parts of the night are funny like that.

Instead, I kicked Nathan because he was snoring too loudly and went and snuggled my sleeping daughter for a while.

So this is me, writing about it.

I’m not coping.

I’m sad and heavy and broken.

I’m stressed and snappy and probably damn unpleasant to live with.

My panic attacks are getting crippling.

I can’t talk about it at all, out loud, but I’m hoping that I can write about it – and the people who matter most all read my blog anyway, so I won’t have to talk about it.

And at the very least, the new pain management regime will help with the peripheral issues and make me feel less like I’m only holding onto my sanity by my fingertips.

It’s been 52 weeks since Nan died, exactly 12 months tomorrow and I think I’m falling apart. I think I’m going insane.

Note: I’m going to give the new painkillers and stuff a go for a month. If I’m still not sleeping/falling apart/having panic attacks, I’ll go and see my GP to talk about it. So please, don’t worry about me too much!

Posted in Grief, Headfuck.

46 comments

By Veronica – June 23, 2010
Sleepless, just a little

At 6.30am, I stumbled out of bed, unsure what the time was. I’d heard Amy getting up and down, but assumed that because the TV was still on that Nathan was awake and dealing with it. Nathan is my night owl.

Unfortunately, Nathan had passed out on the couch a few hours prior, leaving the TV and lights on. Amy regularly wakes up to spend a few hours of quality time with her parents around the 2am mark. At least, she thinks it’s quality time. I think 2am is a poor poor time to be having to yell and threaten, but I digress.

Amy had taken advantage of the background noise to cover her movements (I sleep rather lightly, enough so I knew she was awake, but wasn’t listening for what she was up to) and get into all kinds of mischief.

There was a bottle made (milk all over the floor).

A glass of cordial poured (what is that sticky patch?).

The watermelon I had bought yesterday had been hacked into tiny little pieces (ick, something cold just exploded between my toes).

And finally, she had obviously decided that the cats looked hungry and fed them some bones from my stock that was in the fridge, cooling overnight.

Yay.

So sleep. It’s been in short supply.

***

We’re coming up to the 12 month anniversary of Nan’s death and well, let’s just say I’m not finding it that easy. There is a countdown in my head and I can’t seem to shut it off, no matter what I do.

And so I’m not sleeping properly.

Again.

Plus, it’s cold, my children are being exceptionally needy because we can’t go outside and my body is about ready to pack it in. Yay me.

On the upside, I have enough new (to me) books, thanks to internet friends, to keep me sunk into a world that isn’t this one for a month. Which is my plan.

***

Ads and advertising!

I had a lovely lady contact me about a month ago, offering me a free voucher from Menulog. Sadly I explained that I live in the middle of nowhere, my daughter has coeliacs and it just wasn’t possible. After thinking about it though, I offered her adspace on my sidebar – win win for both of us.

On top of buying a month’s worth of advertising, she offered me a discount code for all of my lovely readers.

So my lovely InterWeb friends, if you decide you would like to eat out this month, here is a $10 off discount code especially for you.

Get $10 off on your first delivery order using this voucher code: 5CD87C

Note: Available for participating restaurants only (which display the “accepts vouchers”) sign.

This voucher is valid until December 2011 (wow!) – so if you regularly eat out, take advantage of me and order through Menulog.

(Please note, I was not paid for this post, I received payment for the ad on my sidebar and that’s it. I thought that my readers would be interested in the discount code, seeing as a lot of them are living in areas which have access to these restaurants.)

Posted in Amy, Blogging, Grief.

10 comments

By Veronica – June 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
Pillows

You don’t know this, but I have a thing about pillows.

I like them.

A lot.

So much in fact that when we were cleaning out Nan’s house, I ended up with all of the pillows. Seems Nan liked having lots of spare pillows about too.

We used her spare pillows to pack the furniture as we moved it, shoving them into glass cabinets and between things to prevent breakages. They did their job and nothing broke.

Today, I found 4 pillows on the floor of my bedroom, all sans pillow cases – it seems Amy likes naked pillows as much as she likes her naked self. I picked them up and went hunting for pillow cases.

Thinking about it, I remembered that out in the shed, there were more pillows, packed still into the glass cabinet that’s in storage here. It’s coming up to winter now, the weather is cold and the cats have a plethora of mice that they can’t kill fast enough.

Side note: It’s probably not going to be that long until you start seeing posts like this. and this. and this and this and this.Wow, seems I wrote a lot about mice last year.

I went out into the shed and unpacked all of the pillows, not wanting the mice to start nesting in them.

One, two, three, four, five, six pillows, packed into the cabinet.

6 pillows.

I rummaged around in the shed and brought inside anything else that I thought mice might find interesting, then I came inside to put pillow covers on all of the pillows.

You know, almost 9 months on, those pillows, they still smell like my grandmother.

And that kinda sucks.

***

I have Nan’s overcoat sitting in the back of my closet. Despite hanging around with my clothes, it still smells like her perfume. Every now and again, I’ll lean in and breathe in her smell.

Then, I’ll take a deep breath and walk away; back to my daily chores, back to the blogosphere; back to life.

I’m not sure what I’ll do when it doesn’t smell like her anymore.

***

A few months ago, maybe month 6, maybe month 7, I stopped talking about Nan. It hurt too much, there were too many tears unshed and so I just stopped.

I dragged my brain away from thoughts of her and refused to think about it.

At all.

Mostly, this works for me.

I don’t have to think about her, or speak about her, or cry anymore.

But, it’s funny. Still, most days, fuck, every day – something will happen and it will run through my head like a litany.

I miss my Nan. I miss my Nan. I miss my Nan.

In time to my heartbeat; in time to my breathing.

Because I do. I miss her so badly it hurts.

I just don’t talk about it anymore.

It’s been almost nine months.

Posted in Animals, Grief, Life.

21 comments

By Veronica – March 22, 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