Headfuck

Fatty Lumps and Dirt

by Veronica on July 9, 2009

in Garden, Headfuck

So firstly, the lump in my breast? It’s just a fatty lump. Nothing to worry about.

Thank GOD. I was really really stressed this morning prior to the ultrasound. [So was Mum. So stressed in fact that she came to the appointment with me and played with Amy in the waiting room] The lump may or may not grow, I’ve just got to keep an eye on it and if it gets bigger, possibly think about removal.

So there. It’s always good to be told that you don’t have breast cancer.

***

I’ve been digging a garden. Sure it’s nearly killed me and somehow I’ve got a bruise that runs from the heel of my hand all the way to my elbow, but it feels good to look outside and see pretty dirt, just waiting for me to plant vegies in it.

So far, I’ve got peas, spinach, parsley, mint, kale and silverbeet planted. Also some mignonette lettuce and broad beans.

It looks good. Fresh. New.

Exactly what I need.

Dirt to centre myself and to cry into if need be.

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Tired and Sad

by Veronica on July 6, 2009

in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck

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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Don’t piss the universe off

by Veronica on July 2, 2009

in Headfuck

The morning of Nan’s funeral dawned grey and bitter. Awoken by Isaac looking at me and smiling, I was hoping like hell I could feed him and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, Amy woke up part way through the feed, so I was listening to her yelling ‘Mummy! I AM awake NOW!’ while Isaac kept breaking off to smile. I dragged myself out of bed and looked at my outfit hanging on the door ready to be put on. It wasn’t going to be a good day.

Mum forwarded a copy of the Eulogy to me. It was a first draft put together by my uncle. It was good, but it needed editing and polishing. So, I rang Mum, we talked and then I rewrote parts of the Eulogy and tied it all together into a cohesive speech before sending it back to Mum.

Just a heads up for anyone else who may or may not be involved in organising a funeral. Rewriting a eulogy on the morning of the funeral? Yeah, I don’t recommend it.

I was so stressed that my uncle would be upset with me for rewriting parts of it, but I pulled myself up, tucked myself in and figured that of course he wouldn’t be annoyed, it was only a first draft after all and it was too long and missing chunks and it was better now.

Right?

Eventually we were all ready and packed into the car.

Turn the key. Click click click goes the car.

Nothing.

Again, turn the key. Click click ffffft.

Nothing.

Fucking fuck of a fucking car. Fuck.

Dressed to the nines, we were standing in our very soggy front yard with a dead battery. FINE. We’ll just change the battery from the other car. Nathan jumped into the other car and checked to see if that one would start. Click click whirrrrr fffft.

Two cars. Two dead batteries. What are the odds? Dear universe. I know that you can fuck things up if you choose to, but really, don’t we have enough going on? FortheloveofGOD.

A phone call later, Mum and Dad were on the way to help get our stupid fuck of a fucking car started.

I have never been so stressed in my life. We quickly rearranged Amy’s care arrangements, knowing that no way in hell we had enough time to get her out to his parents AND back to the funeral.

Mum arrived and after enough swear words to make a sailor blush, our car was started and running.

I had the shakes, I felt nauseous and I was more than ready to be done with this day.

We got to the funeral uneventfully. Just as the car died. In the car park.

Oh my fucking god.

But we’d made it and everything could be sorted later. My stress levels were through the roof (have I mentioned I was a little stressed?) as I got Isaac out of the car and into his pram to walk in.

I flicked my head back, drew in a deep breathe and walked through the glass doors. My uncle saw me, looked at me and then immediately looked away. I didn’t notice really, I was too busy looking for Mum. I was about to fall apart.

I found Mum and started swearing about the car. Nothing better than a minor emergency to take your mind off the big things.

I was keeping my shit together fine, until I saw two of my parent’s friends walk through the front doors. Two men, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. Two men, who weren’t there for any other reason than to say goodbye to Nan and provide support for US.

I burst into tears I was that pleased to see them.

The service was lovely and I cried the entire way through it. All the work put in and it pulled together perfectly. I made it there on time and Isaac was good throughout. You can’t ask for anything more, can you.

And if a certain family member of mine refused to acknowledge my presence there, merely exchanging polite words when I initiated conversation, well then. That’s not my issue. That’s his.

****

In other things:

I asked and I received. I had my big girl panties all ready, but it turns out I didn’t need them. Not really.

Go on, go and read it.

And… I had my breast checked by a GP today. Definitely a lump there and it feels mobile so that is a good thing. In most cases, mobile lumps are benign cysts. I’m not terribly positive that it does move though and I’m the one feeling it at every available opportunity. HOWEVER. We’ll just not think of that. I am off for an ultrasound of it (‘it’ sounds weird. I almost feel I should name it) next Thursday. I’m much less worried now that I’ve seen the doctor and we’ve got things in motion for checks and stuff.

Right.

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Happy Birthdays and Goodbyes

by Veronica on June 30, 2009

in Headfuck, Life

Happy Birthday David. I’m truly sorry that we’re burying our Nan on your birthday. This last week has sucked. Sucked LOTS.

So, even though we’re spending today in a funeral home, surrounded by lots of family we may or may not get along with, I’m wishing you a happy birthday. I do love you. Even when you pulled all the clothes out of my dresser when you were a toddler. Even when I dressed you in girls clothes and makeup when you were five and you wouldn’t let me photograph you. Even when you kept interrupting me and my boyfriend on Mum’s say so.

Even then.

Mums and Amy 081

Nan’s funeral is in a few hours and I’m desperately stressed. I’m going to miss her more than I can articulate.

Nanhappy

Lyn Rossendell – 11.04.1945 – 24.06.09

Goodbye again Nan. You know I love you. I’ll never stop missing you.

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In an alternate universe.

by Veronica on June 27, 2009

in Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Headfuck

This Universe:

‘How are you doing?’

‘Oh, okay. You know. We’re coping.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

An Alternate Universe:

‘How are you doing?’

‘Let me see. The plumber spent almost 8 hours here yesterday and I still have a leak, although I do have a pretty shiny new hot water system now. The leak is so bad you could throw buckets of water at my bathroom floor and it would be drier than it is now. He was meant to come back this morning and finish the job, but guess what? We haven’t seen him. Instead, we’ve taken a bunch of his equipment hostage and he can’t have it back until we’re all dried out. First rule of Tradies. Don’t leave your gear behind. Ha.

I originally thought this plumbing issue was going to cost around $1000. Now? I’m doubling the price in my head. I’m also practising pulling money out of my arse, because god knows that’s the only way it will get paid for. Anyone want to put an ad on my sidebar? I’ll do it cheap.

I spent most of today cooking a cake, only to reach dinnertime and realise, I had no fucking idea where the day went and no idea what to cook for dinner. Good thing Amy likes pasta.

My wrist has dislocated a fuckload of times today. It’s even floppier than before and that’s saying something. Unfortunately, it’s my right hand (I’m right handed, obviously). No hand jobs for Nathan. Also no blow jobs because my jaw dislocates when I sneeze and Nathan really doesn’t need me to start screaming and seizing up when he’s in a rather vulnerable position.

I think I’m feeding a small possum in my sleep. At least, it looks like I have been. Chewed nipples, scratches. Surely my son isn’t doing that?

And have I mentioned I have a lovely little lump in my breast? And I am a TAD STRESSED?

I keep stopping to laugh at everything and crack jokes, because DUDE, you can’t make this shit up.

Oh look! Something shiny…

Wait, what were you saying?’

‘I said, how are you doing?’

‘Oh yeah. Okay. You know.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

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