My life probably wasn't in the best place when I met you. You were like an angel who appeared just as I needed you, you helped me get to a place in life I wanted to be and now you're gone.
Maybe that's what you were, maybe you were my angel. The question is how do I not fall back into that black hole of five years ago now that you're gone?
I don't want you to be an angel, I want you to be here, seeing in the New Year curled up on the sofa with a coffee and Jules Holland.
I miss you. As of tomorrow it will be last year that you died. That sounds so wrong and time is passing too fast.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Thursday 31 December 2009
Saturday 26 December 2009
Christmas without you
Ugh, Christmas Eve, that came around so fast.
I'm totally organised, my shopping is done, everything wrapped. You'd have been laughing at me, bringing me presents and telling me what a fantastic little organiser I am but you're not here. I'm alone and I can't sleep, Santa has been, alone, without his little helper this year.
Around 4am, unable to sleep I decide to open the gifts you bought. John gave them to me the week that you died, you bought them together but I haven't peeked. They have been safe in the bottom of your wardrobe. You always said you dreaded giving me gifts, I'm hopeless at receiving things and always appear ungrateful, it's because I'm embarrassed, I wish I'd explained to you. Opening them was bitter-sweet. They were beautiful by the way, as they always were. You always choose so perfectly, maybe I should have told you that more often.
I pull on the jacket you bought me and curl up and cry. The next thing I know a voice is calling my name. I wake up, on the sofa, it's you calling from the other room. I run to your bed, "Kath, tablets" you say and as you do you are looking right at me. You lay back, your breathing slows and you're gone, just like that. I can hear myself shouting "breathe, you have to breathe, I love you" the noise of my voice wakes me and then there is another noise. Little feet, "he's been, he's been!" It's Christmas, without you.
The day was ok, I think autopilot is the word. The children loved their gifts and dinner, with the help of my parents was delicious.
Wednesday 9 December 2009
Hindsight
I keep replaying that last weekend in my head, isn't hindsight a wonderful thing? It's not just that last weekend either. Every second of every day is filled with thoughts of you, of things we did in the last five years, conversations we had and mostly signs that were there for so long telling us something was wrong.
Thursday night you had a night out planned with the boys. I didn't want you to go, after the results, the hospital, I was so worried but you were adamant. Off to the Claude you went with the boys from work, a pub you spent many a wild night night in during your younger days and you had a fantastic night. I picked you up early, you were tired but in good spirits.
The weekend went from bad to worse. Friday you were not so good but had planned to go and watch Wales play Samoa at the stadium with some of your family. It was to be a first for you and you were absolutely not going to miss is. Ten minutes before your lift arrived you collapsed, you recovered fairly quickly but you clearly were not going out. All I saw was a bad turn and knocked confidence, hindsight is screaming other things. Now I can see you were fading fast.
The night improved when your son visited, it was to be a night of fun and frivolity, the last ever, although we didn't know it then. You were positively glowing, it was clear how much it meant to you to have him here and say the things you had wanted so long to say. It was pleasant and fun, a few drinks and an incredibly upbeat evening.
Sunday we were supposed to be heading to Amsterdam for a few days, one of the many things we had planned but by Saturday it was clear we weren't going to make it. You needed help and the wheelchair just to get to the bathroom and you were far too ill to go up the stairs. The doctor came and the most useful thing he could offer you was a hospice place, we asked him to leave. You struggled through the day and it become clear your illness had moved to the next stage. Hindsight doesn't agree though, hindsight tells me you were dying before my very eyes.
Sunday morning and we should have been heading off for our next adventure. Instead my parents visited and helped me turn the dining room into a bedroom. You were so distant all day, hardly said a word. Your son was coming and you were waiting for his call, when it came it was to say he couldn't make it, you didn't show it but it was clear how upset you were. Throughout the day after the call you kept asking when he was coming, you had forgotten that he had called to say he couldn't make it and kept forgetting over and over. I made a mental note to buy you a notepad, it became clear that your thinking and remembering abilities were really being affected by the tumour yet still I didn't think I was about to lose you.
You slept well on Sunday night, I came and checked on you several times and it was nice to see you so peaceful after weeks of being unable to sleep. Hindsight, of course sees things differently.
Monday the doctor came, you told him you'd rather be dead than in the pain you were in. He prescribed morphine. Simple, you'd think but then I had to leave you to collect the prescription and hindsight knows that you spent your last two waking hours alone while I tried to find a pharmacy that stocked it, what a nightmare.
You took the morphine and slept, it was nice to see you so peaceful. I kept thinking that if the pain was under control and you could sleep, even if you weren't well enough to be up and about we could bring the fun to you. I told myself that tomorrow would be a better day.
I checked on you several times throughout the evening and at midnight when you still hadn't woken I sat with you for a while, just stroking your hand, I was hoping you would wake, we always said "I love you" and kissed goodnight but you never woke. I decided to sleep on the sofa so I was close to you if you needed me. I only thank God I didn't leave you that night.
I don't know if this is a normal way to feel, in fact I don't know anything for sure any more.
Thursday night you had a night out planned with the boys. I didn't want you to go, after the results, the hospital, I was so worried but you were adamant. Off to the Claude you went with the boys from work, a pub you spent many a wild night night in during your younger days and you had a fantastic night. I picked you up early, you were tired but in good spirits.
The weekend went from bad to worse. Friday you were not so good but had planned to go and watch Wales play Samoa at the stadium with some of your family. It was to be a first for you and you were absolutely not going to miss is. Ten minutes before your lift arrived you collapsed, you recovered fairly quickly but you clearly were not going out. All I saw was a bad turn and knocked confidence, hindsight is screaming other things. Now I can see you were fading fast.
The night improved when your son visited, it was to be a night of fun and frivolity, the last ever, although we didn't know it then. You were positively glowing, it was clear how much it meant to you to have him here and say the things you had wanted so long to say. It was pleasant and fun, a few drinks and an incredibly upbeat evening.
Sunday we were supposed to be heading to Amsterdam for a few days, one of the many things we had planned but by Saturday it was clear we weren't going to make it. You needed help and the wheelchair just to get to the bathroom and you were far too ill to go up the stairs. The doctor came and the most useful thing he could offer you was a hospice place, we asked him to leave. You struggled through the day and it become clear your illness had moved to the next stage. Hindsight doesn't agree though, hindsight tells me you were dying before my very eyes.
Sunday morning and we should have been heading off for our next adventure. Instead my parents visited and helped me turn the dining room into a bedroom. You were so distant all day, hardly said a word. Your son was coming and you were waiting for his call, when it came it was to say he couldn't make it, you didn't show it but it was clear how upset you were. Throughout the day after the call you kept asking when he was coming, you had forgotten that he had called to say he couldn't make it and kept forgetting over and over. I made a mental note to buy you a notepad, it became clear that your thinking and remembering abilities were really being affected by the tumour yet still I didn't think I was about to lose you.
You slept well on Sunday night, I came and checked on you several times and it was nice to see you so peaceful after weeks of being unable to sleep. Hindsight, of course sees things differently.
Monday the doctor came, you told him you'd rather be dead than in the pain you were in. He prescribed morphine. Simple, you'd think but then I had to leave you to collect the prescription and hindsight knows that you spent your last two waking hours alone while I tried to find a pharmacy that stocked it, what a nightmare.
You took the morphine and slept, it was nice to see you so peaceful. I kept thinking that if the pain was under control and you could sleep, even if you weren't well enough to be up and about we could bring the fun to you. I told myself that tomorrow would be a better day.
I checked on you several times throughout the evening and at midnight when you still hadn't woken I sat with you for a while, just stroking your hand, I was hoping you would wake, we always said "I love you" and kissed goodnight but you never woke. I decided to sleep on the sofa so I was close to you if you needed me. I only thank God I didn't leave you that night.
I don't know if this is a normal way to feel, in fact I don't know anything for sure any more.
Monday 7 December 2009
Going on
I know I want to continue this blog, but going on in here and in life is proving much more difficult than I could ever have imagined.
I want to continue, but how do I talk about you? In which tense do I speak? It's so hard to even think but I owe it to myself to continue the story I began with a blog.
I so want to fill in those last few days but even now, three weeks later I'm finding it so hard to believe you were gone so quickly.
Wednesday, wedding plans, the scan result, such thoughts of frivolity, ideas about having a Christmas that everyone could share.
Thursday, results day. I watched you struggle to walk to the ward, let you lean on my arm as we strolled along slowly, thankfully in no particular rush. It took it out of you. Everything else is a blur. Waiting for ages, strange looks from nurses who were particularly chatty, more waiting, blood tests.
The most memorable part of the day was a gentleman, about your age who walked out smiling, when talking to the nurses he said he was good, still dying but much more slowly, he laughed and was gone. That'll be us soon I said.
The consultant, the moment I saw his face I knew. You were silent, we just sat and held hands while he told us it was over, no more chemo, the cancer was in your brain and aggressive. We left, I was crying. "Don't cry" you said, "we have a wedding to plan, I'm not going anywhere just yet"
We never spoke about it again.
Three weeks on, time is doing funny things, it's either on fast forward or complete stop for hours of the day. Is this a normal way to feel?
I want to continue, but how do I talk about you? In which tense do I speak? It's so hard to even think but I owe it to myself to continue the story I began with a blog.
I so want to fill in those last few days but even now, three weeks later I'm finding it so hard to believe you were gone so quickly.
Wednesday, wedding plans, the scan result, such thoughts of frivolity, ideas about having a Christmas that everyone could share.
Thursday, results day. I watched you struggle to walk to the ward, let you lean on my arm as we strolled along slowly, thankfully in no particular rush. It took it out of you. Everything else is a blur. Waiting for ages, strange looks from nurses who were particularly chatty, more waiting, blood tests.
The most memorable part of the day was a gentleman, about your age who walked out smiling, when talking to the nurses he said he was good, still dying but much more slowly, he laughed and was gone. That'll be us soon I said.
The consultant, the moment I saw his face I knew. You were silent, we just sat and held hands while he told us it was over, no more chemo, the cancer was in your brain and aggressive. We left, I was crying. "Don't cry" you said, "we have a wedding to plan, I'm not going anywhere just yet"
We never spoke about it again.
Three weeks on, time is doing funny things, it's either on fast forward or complete stop for hours of the day. Is this a normal way to feel?
Thursday 26 November 2009
11 weeks and 5 days
11 weeks and 5 days we knew you had cancer for and then you were gone. Just like that, you held my hand, your breathing slowed and in a moment you were gone.
There were no fireworks or explosions, the world didn't end. The clock kept ticking and the sun rose.
The only true gentleman I ever knew has gone forever.
This blog will continue however, in what format I'm not sure yet but I'm not leaving you just yet.
There were no fireworks or explosions, the world didn't end. The clock kept ticking and the sun rose.
The only true gentleman I ever knew has gone forever.
Geoff Addicott
27th February 1944 - 17th November 2009
27th February 1944 - 17th November 2009
This blog will continue however, in what format I'm not sure yet but I'm not leaving you just yet.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Wedding planning
It' so hard to keep being positive, you're very down and you're finding it hard to keep your chin up. I needed an answer!
We've been talking about getting married in the spring, but it hasn't gone any further than that so now it's time for wedding planning. We both need something to look forward to but were putting off the planning for fear of you not making it.
Stuff the fear, we need a focus and our wedding is going to be that focus for now. I've bought my wedding dress. It should be a time of celebration and excitement and while it is all of those things it's also scary.
You're very weak, the weight has fallen off you and you are needing help doing the simplest things. Trouble is, you hate asking for it. I just want you to know you can lean on me, I tell you all the time that you're not a burden, to have you around is an honour and if that means I have to look after you then that's how it is.
It's been an emotional couple of weeks, you're pushing through the sale of your house - something your family isn't going to be happy about - it seems I am the bad guy again. I won't tolerate people putting pressure on you though, whoever they are. I know you feel guilty, you want to make everyone happy but you've earned the right to be selfish and do what is right for you. You know I'll support you, whatever you choose and while it's a difficult time for your family, everyone is going to have to respect your wishes.
More results tomorrow, this time for the brain scan. The doctor says you're not allowed to drive now, so there goes blowing your kids inheritance on a Ferrari. Jokes aside that last loss of independence has come as a blow to you.
For now though, we push all that aside while we decide on colours for the wedding, the guest list keeps growing and making plans is exciting so we concentrate on that.
Is this a normal way to feel?
We've been talking about getting married in the spring, but it hasn't gone any further than that so now it's time for wedding planning. We both need something to look forward to but were putting off the planning for fear of you not making it.
Stuff the fear, we need a focus and our wedding is going to be that focus for now. I've bought my wedding dress. It should be a time of celebration and excitement and while it is all of those things it's also scary.
You're very weak, the weight has fallen off you and you are needing help doing the simplest things. Trouble is, you hate asking for it. I just want you to know you can lean on me, I tell you all the time that you're not a burden, to have you around is an honour and if that means I have to look after you then that's how it is.
It's been an emotional couple of weeks, you're pushing through the sale of your house - something your family isn't going to be happy about - it seems I am the bad guy again. I won't tolerate people putting pressure on you though, whoever they are. I know you feel guilty, you want to make everyone happy but you've earned the right to be selfish and do what is right for you. You know I'll support you, whatever you choose and while it's a difficult time for your family, everyone is going to have to respect your wishes.
More results tomorrow, this time for the brain scan. The doctor says you're not allowed to drive now, so there goes blowing your kids inheritance on a Ferrari. Jokes aside that last loss of independence has come as a blow to you.
For now though, we push all that aside while we decide on colours for the wedding, the guest list keeps growing and making plans is exciting so we concentrate on that.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Answers?
Another week, another set of problems. The trouble is this time I'm not sure I want the answers. Your mood hasn't improved very much but now that comes with other problems. You are very unsteady on your feet, it's almost as if you are drunk.
We mention it to the oncologist, or actually I do and get shouted at by you for doing so. You feel as though I have betrayed you by saying these things to the doctor, I hope you forgive me.
The oncologist is as concerned as me, I think he could see the change in you too, they want to send you for a brain scan as it could reveal the answers, answers I'm not sure I want to know.
You also can't drive, you're frustrated and I guess you feel like your last little bit of independence has gone from you.
So now it's more waiting, waiting for the scan, waiting for results. I'm not sure it will mean if the cancer has spread to your brain, I was too afraid to ask.
Is this a normal way to feel?
I've forgotten what normal is, I wonder what we talked about before this? I wonder what life was before this, I have forgotten.
We mention it to the oncologist, or actually I do and get shouted at by you for doing so. You feel as though I have betrayed you by saying these things to the doctor, I hope you forgive me.
The oncologist is as concerned as me, I think he could see the change in you too, they want to send you for a brain scan as it could reveal the answers, answers I'm not sure I want to know.
You also can't drive, you're frustrated and I guess you feel like your last little bit of independence has gone from you.
So now it's more waiting, waiting for the scan, waiting for results. I'm not sure it will mean if the cancer has spread to your brain, I was too afraid to ask.
Is this a normal way to feel?
I've forgotten what normal is, I wonder what we talked about before this? I wonder what life was before this, I have forgotten.
Saturday 24 October 2009
Limitations
This week has been a lesson on limitations and I have reached mine. Let me explain.
I love the very essence of you and everything you stand for, you're like a cooling breeze through a barmy hot day. No matter what happens in life, you stay calm, never a raised voice, never a rant, nothing, just you, breezing through it all.
This is the essence of you and who you are, the calming influence. It's that very bit of you that I fell in love with.
I've had to remind myself of this fact all week because that bit of you I love has gone, and I just hope it's not gone forever. It might even be fair to say you appear to have had a complete personality transplant and it's terrifying. I've never known you get cross but this week everything has made you mad, especially me it seems. I'm walking on eggshells.
You've gone out this evening with friends to watch a rugby game and I'm so glad to have some peace, It seems I do have limitations, even though I think I can deal with everything, actually it's more like I can deal with everything as long as you are you.
Right now you're not and I could scream and shout at you but I try not to.
Is this a normal way to feel?
I love the very essence of you and everything you stand for, you're like a cooling breeze through a barmy hot day. No matter what happens in life, you stay calm, never a raised voice, never a rant, nothing, just you, breezing through it all.
This is the essence of you and who you are, the calming influence. It's that very bit of you that I fell in love with.
I've had to remind myself of this fact all week because that bit of you I love has gone, and I just hope it's not gone forever. It might even be fair to say you appear to have had a complete personality transplant and it's terrifying. I've never known you get cross but this week everything has made you mad, especially me it seems. I'm walking on eggshells.
You've gone out this evening with friends to watch a rugby game and I'm so glad to have some peace, It seems I do have limitations, even though I think I can deal with everything, actually it's more like I can deal with everything as long as you are you.
Right now you're not and I could scream and shout at you but I try not to.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Thursday 15 October 2009
Good news, bad news
Chemo was gruelling again this week but you coped well as you always do. You have horrendous mouth ulcers and are fed up of being tired all the time but you've muddled along and made the most of it.
Now it's over again, for a couple of weeks this time and you have more colour in your face, your appetite is returning and you're a little less tired, I wonder if it's just me and because the chemo has made you so ill but you look better than ever. Better than you've looked for a year maybe, before this disease took over our lives.
Then the cough starts, I have never known anyone cough so much. By Tuesday you are in agony, something hurts in your chest and you can hardly move. Maybe I was imagining you feeling better because suddenly you seem more ill than ever. I call the doctor.
You've broken a rib coughing, if it wasn't so sad and painful I'd laugh!
It's not the best news but there is good news, bad news. Apart from that the doctor says you look well, listens to your chest and says your lungs seem to be working much better. He's not an oncologist he tells us, but he thinks the chemo is working.
I joke "It's only a broken rib, stop grumbling, you could have cancer for goodness sake". You laugh, it hurts but we do have something to smile about, a glimmer of hope, for now.
It really is a rollercoaster and I'm guessing this is a normal way to feel.
Now it's over again, for a couple of weeks this time and you have more colour in your face, your appetite is returning and you're a little less tired, I wonder if it's just me and because the chemo has made you so ill but you look better than ever. Better than you've looked for a year maybe, before this disease took over our lives.
Then the cough starts, I have never known anyone cough so much. By Tuesday you are in agony, something hurts in your chest and you can hardly move. Maybe I was imagining you feeling better because suddenly you seem more ill than ever. I call the doctor.
You've broken a rib coughing, if it wasn't so sad and painful I'd laugh!
It's not the best news but there is good news, bad news. Apart from that the doctor says you look well, listens to your chest and says your lungs seem to be working much better. He's not an oncologist he tells us, but he thinks the chemo is working.
I joke "It's only a broken rib, stop grumbling, you could have cancer for goodness sake". You laugh, it hurts but we do have something to smile about, a glimmer of hope, for now.
It really is a rollercoaster and I'm guessing this is a normal way to feel.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Tomorrow
When you're a child, all that matters is tomorrow. Tomorrow I start school, tomorrow it's the school play, tomorrow it's Christmas, tomorrow I'm going to a party, tomorrow I go up to big school, tomorrow I'm going to see a band, tomorrow I'm going to the pictures with my boyfriend, tomorrow it's my birthday. That's the stages the children are in.
Now we find ourselves living in the same way. Let's have a break before we go for the results. Our friends made some dreams come true before the chemo started, let's have a couple of days away between chemo sessions, let's have a weekend with friends.
We are like children again, living for the next thing and not looking beyond. Is that a bad thing? probably not and we'll stick with it for now.
Acting like a child, not a bad thing surely.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Now we find ourselves living in the same way. Let's have a break before we go for the results. Our friends made some dreams come true before the chemo started, let's have a couple of days away between chemo sessions, let's have a weekend with friends.
We are like children again, living for the next thing and not looking beyond. Is that a bad thing? probably not and we'll stick with it for now.
Acting like a child, not a bad thing surely.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Wednesday 7 October 2009
Chemotherapy
And so the hell on earth that is chemotherapy begins. No matter how much people who have had experience tried to prepare us for how awful it was going to be, nothing could have prepared us for this. How can something that is designed to make you better, make you so very, very ill.
Friday was chemo day and you were superb, I thought you were one of the lucky ones. By Saturday night you were feeling a little ill, Sunday you felt fatigued all day and by Monday you couldn't get out of bed.
For all we had prepared for how ill you would feel, to see you with a mouthful of ulcers, unable to eat, with no energy for anything is horrendous. It certainly makes you ponder on life, quality or quantity? We already know it isn't a cure and what's the use of having longer to spend it like this.
What I wasn't prepared for was how emotionally fraught you would feel, I guess it's easy to be philisophical about dying when you feel so alive, when you're feeling half dead it's a little more difficult. It's so hard to keep you positive and yesterday you sobbed, I've never seen you like that but can totally understand how you feel. I sobbed too, but I waited until I had gone out and sobbed in the car in a supermarket carpark.
All of these feelings after just one session, Friday it starts again.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Friday was chemo day and you were superb, I thought you were one of the lucky ones. By Saturday night you were feeling a little ill, Sunday you felt fatigued all day and by Monday you couldn't get out of bed.
For all we had prepared for how ill you would feel, to see you with a mouthful of ulcers, unable to eat, with no energy for anything is horrendous. It certainly makes you ponder on life, quality or quantity? We already know it isn't a cure and what's the use of having longer to spend it like this.
What I wasn't prepared for was how emotionally fraught you would feel, I guess it's easy to be philisophical about dying when you feel so alive, when you're feeling half dead it's a little more difficult. It's so hard to keep you positive and yesterday you sobbed, I've never seen you like that but can totally understand how you feel. I sobbed too, but I waited until I had gone out and sobbed in the car in a supermarket carpark.
All of these feelings after just one session, Friday it starts again.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Thursday 1 October 2009
Living the Dream
I've been neglecting the blog a little, maybe that means we're coping better. I doubt it, I think it just means we have been coming to terms with things.
I still can't get over how brave you are, how accepting. I still feel so cheated and you do too, it's so difficult.
But I refuse to talk about you as if you are dying, I can't think of you that way when you are so very much alive and that's why it's time to start living the dream. That's why I haven't been writing, we've been having fun living.
A family holiday last weekend, making memories and doing things we've been putting off for various reasons. It was so great to see you smile and laugh, even though you found it tiring.
There will be time for tears.. Later. Now is not the time, now is the time for living, having fun and living like there's no tomorrow.
Is this a normal way to feel? I sure hope so!
I still can't get over how brave you are, how accepting. I still feel so cheated and you do too, it's so difficult.
But I refuse to talk about you as if you are dying, I can't think of you that way when you are so very much alive and that's why it's time to start living the dream. That's why I haven't been writing, we've been having fun living.
A family holiday last weekend, making memories and doing things we've been putting off for various reasons. It was so great to see you smile and laugh, even though you found it tiring.
There will be time for tears.. Later. Now is not the time, now is the time for living, having fun and living like there's no tomorrow.
Is this a normal way to feel? I sure hope so!
Sunday 20 September 2009
Cottage Cheese
Yesterday was an awful day and I wondered how I was ever going to get through this and watch you go through the worse time of your life, at what would be the end of your life.
Today is different, your children came the other day, it was lovely to see the relationship you have with them. While I've been searching the net for new treatments and pioneering therapy your daughter has been looking up alternative treatments.
Flax seed oil and cottage cheese she said. I thought how can cottage cheese cure cancer and I must admit I dismissed her thoughts. Today I thought I would look for myself and found an interesting website.
I'm going to share it with you, in the thought that people in my position may be reading this page and taking as much comfort from my words as I am getting from typing them. Click here if you would like to read about the alternative therapy we are going to try, it's called the Budwig diet.
Will it work? I don't know, but it's not going to do any harm. They've already told us they are going to try chemotherapy to shrink the cancer and although we still believe this is still the best option, cottage cheese and flax seed oil is not going to hurt it is?
You? Today was a good day, the steroids they prescribed are kicking in and you're feeling well, the colour is back in your face and I walked in the room earlier and much to my dismay you were cleaning the windows.
I'm smiling, we've laughed. Is this a normal way to feel?
Today is different, your children came the other day, it was lovely to see the relationship you have with them. While I've been searching the net for new treatments and pioneering therapy your daughter has been looking up alternative treatments.
Flax seed oil and cottage cheese she said. I thought how can cottage cheese cure cancer and I must admit I dismissed her thoughts. Today I thought I would look for myself and found an interesting website.
I'm going to share it with you, in the thought that people in my position may be reading this page and taking as much comfort from my words as I am getting from typing them. Click here if you would like to read about the alternative therapy we are going to try, it's called the Budwig diet.
Will it work? I don't know, but it's not going to do any harm. They've already told us they are going to try chemotherapy to shrink the cancer and although we still believe this is still the best option, cottage cheese and flax seed oil is not going to hurt it is?
You? Today was a good day, the steroids they prescribed are kicking in and you're feeling well, the colour is back in your face and I walked in the room earlier and much to my dismay you were cleaning the windows.
I'm smiling, we've laughed. Is this a normal way to feel?
Saturday 19 September 2009
Watching you sleep
I woke early this morning and lay there watching you sleep. You're so beautiful to me and I really could burst with love for you.
Positive thoughts we said, to concentrate on life and the things we can cram in. I want to stay positive, I really do but lying there watching you sleep, listening to you breathing and the trouble that simple act is causing you is breaking my heart.
The thought of you being in pain, the thought of you suffering and struggling for breath. I'm finding myself thinking about how the end will be and I'm scared it's going to come sooner than we hope.
I thought I'd come to terms with losing you, I thought I'd come to terms with you having cancer and now I have I have to come to terms with how hard it's going to be in the end.
Tears are falling, you wake and look at me. "Look at you, silly sausage" you say. I wipe the tears, paint on my smile but the thoughts are still there and I seem to be incapable of shaking them off today.
I wonder what you're thinking behind your smile and I wonder if this is a normal way to feel.
Positive thoughts we said, to concentrate on life and the things we can cram in. I want to stay positive, I really do but lying there watching you sleep, listening to you breathing and the trouble that simple act is causing you is breaking my heart.
The thought of you being in pain, the thought of you suffering and struggling for breath. I'm finding myself thinking about how the end will be and I'm scared it's going to come sooner than we hope.
I thought I'd come to terms with losing you, I thought I'd come to terms with you having cancer and now I have I have to come to terms with how hard it's going to be in the end.
Tears are falling, you wake and look at me. "Look at you, silly sausage" you say. I wipe the tears, paint on my smile but the thoughts are still there and I seem to be incapable of shaking them off today.
I wonder what you're thinking behind your smile and I wonder if this is a normal way to feel.
Friday 18 September 2009
Palliative care
Palliative care, the words that blew my world apart. I was watching you and how brave you were, not a tear despite words such as inoperable and secondaries. I was determined to be as brave as you were and I was succeeding and then those words came. Palliative care.
I guess we were always hoping for the best while preparing for the worse but nothing prepared you or I for what they said.
You always had to be different, you couldn't have a normal tumour they could cut away, not you. You had to have a rare type of lung cancer in the lining of your lung. The most aggressive kind you can get and it's already spread to your kidneys and your adrenal glands.
You didn't want chemo so you asked the question we didn't want to know the answer to. How long without it? Four months she said, then your mask dropped, I saw you visibly recoil as if you had been slapped and it broke my heart.
In the quiet room the tears came, you're angry, I'm angry. Facing the darkest thoughts and trying not to give them words, as if putting them out there into the air will make them real.
Now it's time for living, not thinking about dying.
Is this a normal way to feel?
I guess we were always hoping for the best while preparing for the worse but nothing prepared you or I for what they said.
You always had to be different, you couldn't have a normal tumour they could cut away, not you. You had to have a rare type of lung cancer in the lining of your lung. The most aggressive kind you can get and it's already spread to your kidneys and your adrenal glands.
You didn't want chemo so you asked the question we didn't want to know the answer to. How long without it? Four months she said, then your mask dropped, I saw you visibly recoil as if you had been slapped and it broke my heart.
In the quiet room the tears came, you're angry, I'm angry. Facing the darkest thoughts and trying not to give them words, as if putting them out there into the air will make them real.
Now it's time for living, not thinking about dying.
Is this a normal way to feel?
Wednesday 16 September 2009
D Day
After all the waiting we should be getting some results. Tomorrow is D Day, assuming they don't move the goalposts again.
Part of me, and you I'm sure would rather not know, the outcome is scary and no matter how much I try and prepare my mind for what may be the worst possible news I just cannot envisage losing you.
You have to be ok, I'm not sure I can face my life without you. I know you're getting worse, your breathing is affected, you can't eat and everything is a huge effort. I keep telling myself all that might be worry, anxiety maybe and not the cancer, it's not working.
You've found a lump on your wrist and your stability and dexterity has been affected, since a cough two weeks ago you are suddenly very ill. I'm scared and for the first time you've admitted you're scared too. You cried, I cried, it's ok to cry, even if you're my big strong man.
They say this is a normal way to feel.
Part of me, and you I'm sure would rather not know, the outcome is scary and no matter how much I try and prepare my mind for what may be the worst possible news I just cannot envisage losing you.
You have to be ok, I'm not sure I can face my life without you. I know you're getting worse, your breathing is affected, you can't eat and everything is a huge effort. I keep telling myself all that might be worry, anxiety maybe and not the cancer, it's not working.
You've found a lump on your wrist and your stability and dexterity has been affected, since a cough two weeks ago you are suddenly very ill. I'm scared and for the first time you've admitted you're scared too. You cried, I cried, it's ok to cry, even if you're my big strong man.
They say this is a normal way to feel.
Moving the Goalposts
The 3rd September, just a couple of weeks ago now but it seems like a lifetime. A million thoughts, a barrage of tests, the whole scale of emotions, a biopsy,tubes, blood tests, more worry and a CT scan, at every appointment they tell us they’ll have answers at the next.
But then they keep moving the goalposts, we’re still waiting and you’re so brave. Cancer is such a scary word but you don’t complain or grumble even though it’s clear you’re feeling dreadful, you don’t take it out on your loved ones, even though you feel cheated and frightened. All you do is worry you are being an inconvenience.
That really is the last thing you are. You’re kind and funny and even when you’re not much company there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side, even if that is just to sit and watch you sleep.
It’s a rollercoaster, up and down feelings, one day we wake up feeling positive, throwing positive chit chat back and fore, talking two years down the line, getting married, extending our family, holidays, seeing the children growing up. The next day the black cloud is back and seeing just to the end of the week seems impossible.
We’re told this is a normal way to feel.
But then they keep moving the goalposts, we’re still waiting and you’re so brave. Cancer is such a scary word but you don’t complain or grumble even though it’s clear you’re feeling dreadful, you don’t take it out on your loved ones, even though you feel cheated and frightened. All you do is worry you are being an inconvenience.
That really is the last thing you are. You’re kind and funny and even when you’re not much company there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side, even if that is just to sit and watch you sleep.
It’s a rollercoaster, up and down feelings, one day we wake up feeling positive, throwing positive chit chat back and fore, talking two years down the line, getting married, extending our family, holidays, seeing the children growing up. The next day the black cloud is back and seeing just to the end of the week seems impossible.
We’re told this is a normal way to feel.
Tuesday 15 September 2009
He taught me how to laugh
This is me, Katie Crunch. Actually as you may have guessed this isn't really my name, it's a name I was given in college for my inexplicable ability to find trouble and mishaps wherever I go. The years have passed but not much had changed, my ability to veer from one disaster to another had been so well practised it became part of my character.
Many years, various disasters, two children and a few hundred miles later then one day all this changed. I'd met a man, a real gentleman, just what I needed and the most stabling influence I had ever met in my life. He taught me how to laugh again, something that had been long forgotten and he taught me how to slow down enough to take in the wonders of every day, enjoy my children and to just generally enjoy 'being'.
Last week after five years together the crushing news came that this man, who brought so much into my life has cancer. Suddenly, after taking laughing for granted for so long I remember what life was like before I met him and I'm scared I'll forget how to laugh again.
He's being tough, worrying about everyone else because that's what he does. He worries about being a burden on me and I wish I could put him inside my head with the myriad of thoughts I have and show him how I feel. That every second spent in his company is an honour.
We're told this is a normal way to feel.
Many years, various disasters, two children and a few hundred miles later then one day all this changed. I'd met a man, a real gentleman, just what I needed and the most stabling influence I had ever met in my life. He taught me how to laugh again, something that had been long forgotten and he taught me how to slow down enough to take in the wonders of every day, enjoy my children and to just generally enjoy 'being'.
Last week after five years together the crushing news came that this man, who brought so much into my life has cancer. Suddenly, after taking laughing for granted for so long I remember what life was like before I met him and I'm scared I'll forget how to laugh again.
He's being tough, worrying about everyone else because that's what he does. He worries about being a burden on me and I wish I could put him inside my head with the myriad of thoughts I have and show him how I feel. That every second spent in his company is an honour.
We're told this is a normal way to feel.
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