Grief

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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