What Cancer leaves behind.

Its been a while since I’ve been here (hoovering has been keeping me busy!) there’s lots to write about (stuff happens in 6 months) but there’s one theme which I keep coming back to.

Cancer took my Mum. When I lost my Mum I lost everything that I anticipated I would. Her touch, her guidance, her energy, her presence. I have struggled with the fact I carry on each day and that somehow I’ve not managed to completely fall apart as expected (you know this already). However my new struggle is where I fit in life after the loss of my Mum. What shape my life is meant to take and whether I’m making the right choices.

When Mum was diagnosed again, her struggle became a huge part of my identity, it was very much our battle together; going to oncologist appointments, going to chemo, calling hospitals and the hospice community team, but mainly spending time together as we both understood the enormity of what was going to happen. I moved home, got a new job and she became my purpose. We muddled through like this for three years (yes the rest of the family were there too, but its a time that we spent closer than ever). So when I lost my Mum, and the loss became my reality, I lost my purpose.

• Why do I live in this town where none of my friends are? 
• My mid 20s were spent in waiting rooms and shadowing Mum …what do I have to show for it?
• Do I go and ‘live life’ or stick to the comfort and stability that have kept me safe?

Those years were dedicated to my Mum. Now, I know I was lucky to have her those extra years, and I know some people lose their Mothers a lot younger than me. I also know that I wouldn’t have done it any differently, that I can look back on those years feeling closer to Mum than I ever have; knowing I spent any time I could with her and that it was precious.

However, here I am, without her. In those years, people have bought houses, got engaged, travelled and started their own families. I stood still; I didn’t get on the ‘train of life’, I’m still very much left at the station, trying to muddle my way through my late 20s wondering where I go from here. What my next steps are and whether they’re the right ones. Mum, you see, was always right. So without her to shadow, I’m very much just lost.

 

A post which I feel is pretty self absorbed, melancholy and doesn’t touch on the enormity of my loss, but does give you a small insight into the reality of ‘life after loss’ and maybe someone else out there is feeling ‘lost after loss’ too.

A year without my Mum

52 weeks and 365 days. Have they been my worst? Possibly not; but it has definitely been 365 days of wishing that somehow, I could turn the clocks back.

So, here are ten things (because 10 is a nice round number, isn’t it?) I’ve done/learnt in this time.

1. Felt guilty. I’ve felt guilty when I’ve laughed, and when I’ve smiled. I’ve felt guilty when I’ve got out of bed each day with ease, and when I’ve gone to work like nothings changed. Most of all, I’ve felt guilty about not crying enough. Not struggling enough and not falling apart enough. I feel like surely the way I  grieve should mirror how much I love my Mum, and if I seem alright on the surface, and I’m  just carrying on, maybe people will think I didn’t love her as much as I know I did.

2. I’m busy. The only time I’ve ever been busier is when I was caring for my Mum. These days I can find any job to do. Dust something, clean something, hoover everything. I don’t know if this helps, I don’t know if its because I’ve carved a new role for myself in Mum’s absence, I don’t know if its that I’m trying to be like her by doing all the bits she used to do. But, I find it gives me some purpose and keeps me from sitting and thinking.

3. I’ve felt lost. 99% of the time in those 365 days, I’ve felt lost. I explained it to a friend as a bubble, floating around on its own without a direction. Without Mum’s guidance I’m unsure of the next steps to take in life, whether it be job, city to live in or this years winter coat. Unknowingly, my Mum’s opinion and views on most things guided me through many of my choices no matter how big or small. Slowly, I’m starting to trust my own judgement more and that of others, but it fails to dissipate the continual ache of ‘What would Mum say?’

4. ‘Talk to someone’ doesn’t help unless I’ve drunk half a bottle of wine. I have had hours of counselling this year (of which I’m hugely grateful for). Yes, counselling has made some difference, but I do not sit there and pour my heart out. I can’t. Once again, my body or my brain will not let me go there because I am so scared of facing the hurt.

5. I’ve found out who my real friends are. Its true. They say that you find out who really sticks by you when you hit your lowest times and it seems to be the case. My eyes have been opened to the people I call my friends this year. A few, have been incredible and many have been useless, even awful. The silver lining of which, is that you get rid of the latter and invest more in those good ‘uns.

6. All you need is love. At the end of the day, at the end of your days, it is people you need to be surrounded by. Their love are what you breathe and fight for. Their love is what keeps you company when you most need it.

7. Little moments that get you. I can be fine until I see a beautiful photo of my Mum that I’ve not seen in years, when all the memories come flooding back and the ache pushes itself to the surface. Then I’m a mess.

8. You can’t recover all at once. Routines will fall apart and you might fall apart, but I have to trust yourself and time. I loved running, not only because it kept me slim, but mainly because it was time on my own with my thoughts where I could make plans or go over the days events. I still haven’t got back into a running routine. Too scared to have that time to think, I might try a run now and again when I’m feeling brave and overly fat but I’m yet to get back to trusting myself that I can run without falling apart. I guess its just another chunk that will come in time.

9. There are some really, really dark days. I’ve had days where I’ve been arguing with everyone, not spoken to friends for days and not spent any time looking after myself and everything becomes too much. Its on these days that I feel sorry for myself, and feel angry for Mum. Its on these days that I can’t see a future where I will be happy again without my Mum in my life. These days come, and thankfully they go, but only with the help of others.

10. I miss my Mum. I hate that time moves on and that with each day I am further away from my last with my Mum. Missing her doesn’t diminish over time, and I hope it never does.

 

Any of these resonate with any of you?

I’ve lost my Mum.

In every sense of the word lost; I can’t find her. I drive her car, I walk around our house, sit on her bed, wear her jumper, and yet I still can’t find her. 

Photos fail to breach the distance. They fail to bring back the feeling of her touch. Her words. Her thoughts. 

I struggle to remember our ‘normal’. I question if I imagined it. I wonder how the sun keeps rising, the earth turning and we still live without her here. 

I didn’t know how without her would feel. I couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t believe it. 

Maybe we’re both just lost together. 

DANGER – No Entry.

Winnie the Pooh says: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard“.

Its the word ‘goodbye‘ which I struggle with. Which I struggle to accept and to tackle. About a month ago Mum stopped treatment; Exhausted and fed up of battling on she took what everyone tells me is the brave decision to say ‘enough is enough‘ which inevitably results in our ‘goodbyes’.

Since then I have busied myself. Hoovering is my go – to. I also find cleaning, cooking and having numerous ‘Spring Cleans’ great distractions. A distraction from the thoughts of the’goodbye’. From the thoughts that the children I (hopefully) have will never laugh with her, that my Dad won’t get another summer evening reading in the garden with her, that she won’t be there the day I get married. But, when I stop to really consider what I’m doing, I’m barely having to distract myself from thinking about the ‘goodbye’ because my body is unable to even let me near those thoughts.

The body is incredible; writing this is one of the closest times I’ve been in considering this word and its meaning since treatment ended. Why? Because my head won’t let me go there. Some sort of ‘Fight or Flight’ instinct. Even now, pushing myself to think of the reality of my situation, my head will change the subject; like there’s a huge flashing neon light screaming ‘No Entry – Danger’ to the area where this consideration will take place. This I know, is because of the pain. I know and can anticipate the pain and the ache that I will feel and I know the noise of the screams of the longing that will come from my mouth, that verbalise the ache.

The reality therefore, to consider our ‘goodbye’ is too much. Too terrifying, too painful. As a result, I busy myself caring and cleaning, we discuss funeral plans and bank account admin like its a normal conversation to have in a day. Through this busyness, by ploughing through our reality, we get by. Day by day together, getting a little closer to our danger zone’s. And a worn out carpet where its been hoovered one too many times.

Sunday Morning Dementor

A second post in just a few days; things must be bad.

Have you ever woken up to hear someone you love sobbing? I don’t mean crying, sniffling, a little upset. I mean truly sobbing out of despair. How does that feel? Welcome to this morning’s reality.

I’m sure you’ve guessed that the person I’m talking about is my Mum. What makes it worse is that she’d been trying to call me for help as she’d been sick and got a searing headache. So there I am, jump out of bed and try to get dressed quickly, into Mum’s room where Dad is trying to give her water and pain killers. Shes managed to get herself out of bed to be sick but isn’t leaving the bed for the rest of the day. A quick call to the hospice nurse and she’s round within 30mins. We’ve managed to stabilise Mum’s pain in the head in the meantime but aren’t aware of the bigger picture. From what the nurse tells us, this is the side effects of the brain tumour we thought wasn’t too much of a problem. A shit load of steroids might help for a few days but its time the oncologists look at radiotherapy again and fast.

Sunday morning. We (I) should be hungover, trying to get a Full English down me. Cancer stops for no man or woman though does it. So, the short term is to nurse Mum today. Keep the washing up to scratch (get Nan to do the ironing) and somehow cook a roast dinner without the help of my selfish bastard brother (a whole other story that I won’t bore you with). I can’t cook. At least by concentrating on administering pills, food and sleep we (I) don’t have to think about the bigger picture. I feel that coming at me like one of those bloody dementors sucking all the happiness away in Harry Potter. Actually, perhaps that’s what cancer is. A dementor; sucking away all the happiness and the light in the world. I’m sure I’m not the first to think that either.

So for now, I’m off to try and cook roast beef. Something that will sure enough give us a laugh in whats another bloody awful day.

A drive for Adrenalin?

What is it about driving fast that makes you feel so free? In the midst of my current life struggle, I find driving with my foot down past the hoards of other cars to be about the most refreshing part of my day. Sad isn’t it.

So I’m struggling. Mum’s situation doesn’t seem to be as bad as we first thought (the brain tumour has been there a while & has been slightly treated by her chemo) but my life seems to be cancer. I moved home because of it. I come home from work early because of it. I’m telling myself I can’t live without my ex because I’m done with dealing with it on my own. I’m torn between whether or not I can move out because of it. I lead an overly cautious life with the want and thirst to break away and be happy because of it. I sit and watch my Mum struggle in pain and breathlessness because of it.

I’m completely aware how self indulgent this post is, but I find at 26, driving along motorways too fast with music too loud is my only out. My only escape and I’m more than aware of how desperately pathetic that sounds. See, when you’re in this situation, people are ‘there for you’. They have good intentions, they listen to you on the phone, but once that conversation ends they go back to their life, whilst you return to the reality. I guess I’ve turned to some people I can’t rely on. People that make me happy and allow me to escape for moments, at a time when I need some longevity in that escapism. When I’m desperate for it. So I instead, I find myself driving. Driving away from the reality and pretending through those adrenaline fuelled moments, that everything is ok; that Mum is healthy and I’m happy.

 

The solace of the South Downs

Tuesday morning and I find myself in my car on the South Downs. The weather is as gloomy as my mood, and it seems that this is the place to go when you want time alone; and by that I am referring to the cars that drive in and out of the car park once they know they’re not alone, soon to be found in an alternative car park quietly looking for solace. 

It’s 9am and I should be at work, but my boss has kindly sent me home because I can barely string a sentence together through my crying. I don’t want my family to see me like this and so I end up here, in a car park in the drizzling rain. 

I am here because yesterday I was told my Mums cancer has taken hold of another part of her body and moved to her brain (it’s already bone, liver, lung and lymph nodes but apparently that’s not quite enough). Knowing for the last two and a half years that I was going to prematurely lose my mother because of this heinous disease is something I’ve learnt to live with and to an extent, accepted. 

The trouble is, when someone is telling you that the struggle to control this is getting harder, and that time is looking shorter, that acceptance flows out the window and in comes premature grief. My mother is my world. In my mid twenties I look forward to getting married and having babies with the belief that my Mum will be there to help and advise. I don’t know my life without her outspoken, cut throat views on how I’m dressed or how I should be spending my time. I don’t know my life without her comfort or her praise. 

Sitting in my car on the South Downs I tell myself to not think about this. To cry, pull myself together and go home and make a bacon butty because really, what else can I do? And someone else needs to car park.