Grief

Progressively expanding

by Veronica on July 26, 2012

in Grief, Pregnant. Finally.

Here I am at almost 35 weeks, by the original reckoning. Of course, no one knows anymore exactly how far along I am, so who knows? It’s possible I’m 38 weeks, and probable that the babe is measuring close to 39 weeks at this stage.

Me however, I’m in the hell that is prelabour. Crampiness, pressure, bloody show and not a baby to show for it. It’s pretty crap. The hell that is prelabour means that my creative thoughts are limited to:

“Prelabour sucks.”

“God I am sick of being pregnant.”

“Dear baby, can you just come out now?”

“This sucks.”

Which, as you can imagine, is not terribly conducive to writing a blog. I’m also trying to get my headspace sorted out, because the last time I was this pregnant, my grandmother was dying. It’s a bit headfucky and I miss her terribly right now.

In conclusion, I’m very ready to meet my daughter, and grief is not a linear event.

How are you?

 

 

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Three years.

by Veronica on June 24, 2012

in Grief

Sometimes, time is not enough.

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Three years is not a long time in the scheme of things. Especially not in the timeline of grief.

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Time passes and suddenly we are here again

by Veronica on June 21, 2012

in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck, Pregnant. Finally.

I haven’t felt like writing the last few days, which is unusual for me.

Amy has been back at school after the holidays and Isaac has responded to the routine change by becoming increasingly rigid with his wants and needs, whining lots, screaming lots and being generally very high maintenance. Not to mention the middle of the night wakings, where he insists that it’s morning and he needs to watch cartoons on the couch.

Last night he was screaming at 3am because I wouldn’t do what he wanted. That was fun.

I’ve been faffing around on twitter, and throwing in a little bit of facebook here and there, but aside from having my ire raised by Mamamia, all I’ve felt like doing is curling up in bed with a book, or crappy TV.

A lingering virus I thought. Exhaustion maybe. Pregnancy, probably.

And then I realised that the last time I was this pregnant, my grandmother was dying. I was spending a lot of time in and out of hospital appointments with her, radiology and oncology and waiting rooms. Coffee and cake while we learned to read CT scan reports and afternoons spent at her house while we discussed the probability of her death.

On Sunday, she will have been dead for three years. I will be 30 weeks pregnant with a baby she will never meet. My daughter barely remembers her and my son does not remember her at all. I am left with my memories and the remembered feel of her very soft, very dead hands.

Parenthood and grief are remarkably similar when it comes to time passing. The days are long; the years are short and at this stage, I am left looking back over the last three years and wondering where the time went.

We lost the first year in a haze of shock and pain, grief and angry abusive family. We sold her house, portioned up her possessions and struggled through. Some bridges will never be mended, some words never forgotten. That is what I remember of the first year.

Where does the time go?

I thought I was doing okay, but apparently I am not and it’s okay to say that.

Grief is grief is grief and missing someone does not go away, which is both fortunate and unfortunate.

It’s hard to miss someone this much, Internet. So very hard.

 

 

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And the rain just keeps coming

by Veronica on May 4, 2012

in Grief, Headfuck

It’s been raining for days.

Not that I’m complaining; not when the tanks are filling up and there are puddles covering the paddock, making the ducks happy. Not when the garden is thriving and the grass has gone a pretty green colour, as the raindrops sparkle in the light. Not when the sky is darkly dramatic and interesting to watch.

Still, it has been raining for days and being a country girl, it feels like it should be an auspicious start to May and the middle of Autumn, the season of hot soups and hot water bottle nights.

The trees have dropped their leaves and stand bare naked, inhabited by crows in the early morning light as we drive Amy to school. Birds nests stand out in stark relief against the sky as I wonder about stopping and photographing them, before the rain falls down ever harder and I huddle inside my jacket in the slightly steamy warmth of the car.

And it continues to rain.

I dream of my grandmother nearly every night and wake up with a headache and scratchy eyes, damp patches on my pillow. I watch her die, again and again, before dreaming that she is alive and all is well again.

I replay old scenarios in my head, the post death fallout that I was subjected to and wonder that it has the power to hurt me all over again.

Anne Lamott tweets:

If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.

And I hold onto that when I contemplate writing essays about things that hurt, in an attempt to lance the wounds that fester. Yes, I’m angry with you. I’m still angry with you – all of you.

In the middle of all of this, the fetus continues to grow, while I wait for the end of winter. Her birth will herald the coming of my spring and I cannot wait.

In the meantime, it continues to rain.

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Facebook keeps telling me it’s her birthday

by Veronica on April 11, 2012

in Cancer, Grief

That’s the problem with social networks. They don’t know when someone is dead.

It would have been her 67th birthday today. We would have wrapped our Easter celebrations into a birthday celebration as well, and it all would have gone smoothly.

Instead, it’s been almost three years since she died and there is so much she has missed. How is it fair, to have someone you love, miss some of the biggest milestones in your life?

April 2009, we were moving through the cancer haze. A mess of appointments and treatment and long conversations in cafes. Of learning to read a CT scan report so that the doctors couldn’t gloss over the worst details. Of knowing, in depth, what metastasize meant in a real way, rather than an academic kind of way. Dropping cake crumbs on my new baby’s head, as he was carried to and fro with us.

It’s never pleasant to walk the path with someone dying, and yet, we were honoured to be able to do it.

—

Winter is coming.

It sounds trite and ripped from Game of Thrones – and you’re right. It is.

But it’s also how this time of year feels. April heralds the beginning of the dark months, as we move through birthdays and anniversaries. I could read back through my blog and find out what appointments we were attending three years ago, but I don’t want to.

April moves into May, which moves into June – the darkest of the months.

Cancer moved from her lungs, to her lymph nodes, to her bones.

Life moved on to death.

That is how this time of year works.

—

Death leaves a hole in your life that is unfillable. It will scab over and eventually scar, but you will always miss them. Sometimes with a deep ache, sometimes with a smile.

And sometimes, with piercing pain.

—

Happy Birthday Nan.

I’m sorry you’re not here to watch my children grow up and life continue on – I think you’d be amused at how similar Amy is to Mum.

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