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.
I can’t begin to imagine what you are going through. I’m so sorry.
I donate to cancer research. Always have done. It’s one of the few that I give to regularly (NSPCC being the other one)
It is getting harder. This week has been especially hard. I love you sweetheart.
Hugs, lots of them.
You have described exactly how I cope with my grief over my mums death. With ten years of experience of consciously not thinking about her, I can say that for me at least, it has got easier to not think about her in day-to-day living. The intensity of my loss doesn’t seem to have diminished, but I have reasonable control over when it comes to the surface -ie. I know when to, and when not to, think about her. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but it does get easier.
I’m so sorry.
Yes, here’s hoping we will see a cure one day in our lifetime.
Oh v. The pain flies out of this post in almost palpable waves.
Hugs for you.
Wish there were something better I could say.
Just ((((hugs))))) sweety. Lots of them. xx
Hugs hon. And we don’t mind listening, if you still need to talk about it. I think that the grief of losing someone that integral to your life really ever goes away, it recedes and ebbs and flows, and the pain becomes less intense…but it’s never really gone. My dad was lucky enough to recover from Stage III colon cancer, but not without permanent physical and emotional repercussions. It’s a horrible disease, and I hope hope hope that someone finds a cure.
Cancer has invaded my circle of family and friends too many times. I hate cancer. I don’t understand why such a thing needs to exist – I don’t understand why we can’t make it go away. The offer has been accepted and I know that hurts. I wish it were otherwise.
hugs.
In two and a half weeks it will be 3 years since my dad passed. I still cry. I will be thinking about things, future things, and wishing my dad could be part of them. Or thinking about all that has already happened without him here to witness it. I can’t say it gets easier, but the pain becomes less sharp, less on the surface.
Hoping you can remember the good times.
Hugs
Cancer is a bitch. We need to find a cure and soon before more wonderful people are lost to us forever.
Veronica
I don’t know if there is much to say, it is so very sad but from a ‘work mode’ there is a grief and loss counsellor at the hospital that I can highly recommend. You might think this is a shit idea and that’s fine but sometimes it can help to talk to a total stranger (who is well trained in talking!).
If you are interested, let me know. It is a free service but you would need to come back to the Royal and you may not want to do this either.
Tracey xx
My grandma died a week ago tonight. I’m not sure the reality of it has hit me yet. I spent the last week with almost all of my extended family, and while that was wonderful, the reason we were all together hung over our heads like a thundercloud. She died from surgery complications at the age of 91, which is much different than the circumstances you’ve described in regards to your own family, but that doesn’t make it any easier. She was the rock of the whole family, and we’re all sort of desperate to keep ourselves in place without her. I’ve been wearing her jewelry, the stuff I used to play dress up with, since the funeral. I never wear jewelry so consistently. But it’s my way of keeping her physically near me and a reason to talk about her to whomever asks about what I’m wearing.
I was sorry for your loss when I first read about it here, but I’m even more sorry now that I have an inkling of what you’re feeling. Thank you for sharing.
Veronica, I am so, so sorry. I know there’s nothing to say that makes it better. It hurts. I’m sorry you are hurting.
I don’t handle grief very well. When my grandfather passed, I tried to channel that emotion and took to scrapbooking his family photos, recording the stories I remembered him telling. I don’t know what it will ever mean to anyone else, but to me, it has brought me some peace to feel like I can give a piece of him to my girls.
I’m thinking of you right now and sending lots of love your way.
It’s not fair. It’s not supposed to get harder. It’s supposed to get easier… time is supposed to heal all wounds.
Dammit. I’m so sorry.
lots of hugs.
tis hard to get your head around ‘forever.’
xxx
((Hugs)) Please know that you are not alone…
After 12 years of remission, my mom’s breast cancer has returned. Fortunately, the prognosis is good, but still it’s still scary.
This is a hard time for sure. Your Nan’s house was the last link and now it will be someone else’s home. You’ll look over and see the lights and know that you can’t just drop in anymore. **Hugs**
I’m beginning to think cancer is like the common cold. There’s no cure for that yet either.
hugs V,
Cancer is horrible.
I would never wish it on my worst enemy.
Grief and being the one left behind is hard too.
THere is no right of wrong.
Be gentle with yourself, my friend.
Big hugs from this end of town. Hope you and your mum are finding solace with each other. xx
biggest hugs ever hun..
thinking of you..
Hugs to you… I am so sorry for your loss but glad to wish you a happy birthday!
I know it’s easier said than done but count your blessings and be glad for the time you did have with her. Treasure and dwell on those memories. Try not to waste your energy on the bad memories of her passing.
Gah. Just Gah.
To sass I am so sorry for your loss.
I haven’t been able to get on line this week. Veronica – after all these years that have passed since I lost my grandmother I know I surpressed a lot of emotions when she died. Your blog helps me to deal with the sorrow even after all this time because you tell it how it is and that makes me realise that some things I do now are related and a lot of the way I was in the year after her death were grief driven.
Its tough – no one prepares us for this – I think your friend’s suggestion of grief counselling is good. I wish I had sought specialist support retrospectively.
I can’t mend your broken heart and I just wish I could really.
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