An Angel

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Geoff Addicott
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.

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?

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.