Screw You

To those that know me they are aware it is not in my nature, I run daily and am watchful to follow the ever conflicting advice about good diet and balance in what we eat the more than the odd aberration on alcohol aside. But grief does sly things with you, it likes to play tricks with you and tests your resilience, strength, fortitude and consistency. Sometimes I have an overwhelming desire to slouch on the sofa, 'wack' some crap on the telly, order the largest Domino's Pizza, pour myself an obscenely large glass of Sue's favourite Chateauneuf-Du-Pape, sink a tub of Haagen Dazs, stick a double two fingers in the air and say screw you, SCREW YOU! Ha, ha.... It makes me laugh......! 

But who am I screwing if you'll excuse the filthy pun? God! No, I've been there before in these blogs, not bothered by him now! The health service, no! The humorous insensitivity of people avoiding anything to do with death, dying, graves, illness or any other 'unmentionables' around me, no none of these. I'm saying 'screw you' to cancer, this despicable, disgusting disease that robs people of dignity, of loved ones and our attempts to live life hoping to avoid terrible tragedy and trauma. By saying 'screw you' often and loud enough we will defeat this illness one day, it will become a disease of the past. Lily competed in a 'Race for Life' and raised over £100 to help defeat this illness. Louise continues to live her life bravely, never forgetting her mum, but living her life, laughing and loving still, by this she is helping to defeat this disease. 

Two things recently that are also an amazing, living illustration of this. I shared a camping field in Oxford with 9 other dads and their children, all strangers to one another before the weekend but brought together by one defining thing, one terrible, tragic and lasting consequence, the untimely and early deaths of our beautiful wives and girlfriends. I came away from that weekend inspired, incredibly moved and humbled by brilliant, inspirational dads doing amazing things with their wonderful children. Playing with them, disciplining them, showing them the boundaries but loving them, caring and cuddling them or offering advice and as a result the children and young adults that were there were free to express themselves, to be themselves and live their lives just like any other child or young adult does despite their appallingly horrific circumstances, for make no bones about it, despite the fun and laughter, something appalling has happened to us all and continues to happen to us but we get on and thrive, despite this. In this way cancer will not defeat us. So for the Mike's and Mark's, Reece's, Richard's and others, to the beautiful children, the Sophie's, Olivia's and Holly's and others and to those beautiful, absent wives, girlfriends and mothers' to these wonderful children, this was our way to fight back, to remember, to get on and say 'screw you cancer'.

My sisters organised and hosted their garden fete to benefit Sue's charity, A.M.M.F. In brilliant sunshine we bought cakes, eat burgers, played human fruit machine, hooked a duck and sack raced our way to raising £500. I was humbled by incredibly personal but brave stories of defeating cancer and people, strangers listening to Sue's story. I like sharing this! It helps to communicate about what has happened. It's even better to tell people how amazing she was. If I could only tell the whole world how amazing she was, how brilliant Lily and Louise are at getting on, my wonderful sisters and those amazing dads and children, I would. 

Screw you cancer, screw you!

       

Milestones

7.13am. "Keep going babes", "I love you, we're nearly there....", "We're nearly at the hospital darling, you're doing great.." "Keep with me babes, keep with me...." The last frantic words I ever said to my wife as the ambulance raced to the hospital on a sun-kissed Wednesday morning will remain as a sort of fateful milestone in my journey of grief, of life now actually. The last desperate, dramatic, heartbreaking moments of a beautiful life fading into perpetual darkness and my eternal memory is etched inexorably in my mind as a page, a chapter that began on Monday 10th February (sunny, un-seasonably warm outside) with diagnosis and ended on Wednesday 09th April with death.  

But like any good book, this one is a real page turner because as one chapter ended desperately, frantically, violently the images of pulling, ripping, pumping, bumping in a speeding ambulance the next chapter began. 

The next chapter is numb though. It consists of disbelief of a numbed un-acceptance that this tragedy has indeed happened and it isn't some shocking charade or vision where I'm waiting for normality to return and Suze to bounce  back in the room and shine like a diamond. It's filled with things of course, because it's the void that I desperately sought to avoid, so it was filled with things, stuff! Necessary stuff mind you. Cards, flowers, friends, respect, tears, words of comfort, words of disbelief, organisation of a funeral, Tuesday 15th April (grey, rolling clouds) eulogies, orders of service. And the days, weeks that followed, return to work, return to school, new job start-up for my amazing step-daughter Louise, Tuesday 22nd April!  Moving back home, Saturday 19th April, setting up our changed family. 

All important, not so much for what it was, perhaps more for what it did,  to fill that void, that blackness, that horrible, horrible hole that is grief, the empty bottomless well of 'that's that', 'never again', 'shocking lonliness', shrugged shoulders and a heartrenching feeling of a mother to two daughters gone forever. Other things filled this void as well. Better things. Laughter with friends, just being with people who care, Friday 16th May, 'Children of Eden' with the beautiful Miles', random kindness, messages of love. Saturday 17th May my family help me at home. 

These are inexorably good things, wonderful things, magnified so much in grief as to be almost an addition to this life changing chapter. To live my life thinking more of others, caring more about the people around me, kindness and care. Just like Suze did, just as she was! 

And then to the next chapter, learning to live with grief. The getting on, the getting by, the letting go, the never saying goodbye. Glastonbury and waving Sue's flag, the 27th, 28th, 29th June. Wednesday 09th July, 3 months to the day! Lily's graduation, Thursday 10th July, shockingly sunny, hot day, so amazing and fantastic recognising brilliant young people, raising expectations, refusing to give in to the age old moans and winging, just an amazing expression of a wonderful school having done amazing things with exceptional people. Sue was smiling on as Lily collected her certificate. Proud, beaming of our wonderful, inspirational, courageous daughter. 

The end of another summer term for me and the beginning of the long summer break, Thursday 10th July. I know what I want, I know the milestones I want to happen. Balmy days snoozing on a sun-kissed beach as afternoon fair weather clouds roll by, making, sharing and storing memories of London's bustle with Louise and Lily sipping cocktails in a Thameside bar, running long distances with the sun in my face and the corn swaying in the fields, wet feet from getting caught in a shower wearing only sandals, the sound of my daughters laughter, the sound of people together enjoying one another. These are the things, the stuff I hope for this summer. These new milestones, the next chapter. Friday 11th and Saturday 12th July camping with dad's and kids who have gone through loss at such a young age like me. Sunday 13th July, my sisters garden fete in aid of A.M.M.F. Saturday 30th August, Louise's birthday, Tuesday 02nd September, Lil's starts new school, Tuesday 16th September, babes 45th birthday. 

Dates, milestones, anniversaries, birthdays, part of the pages, the content of each chapter. Positive, bright, good times,all in her memory, how she would want us to be. Remembering what Lily wrote, "To me she'll live on in my heart and my mind, her beauty and fun and being extra kind. My mum was so special, her smile and her touch, good night my sweet angel, I love you so much!" We journey on babes but we never forget.

 

Time

I have agonised since Sue's death about the fact that we did not tell our youngest daughter what the matter with her was. The agony is questioning why we did this and more importantly whether I can ever answer if this was the right or wrong choice?

 Part of the agony is that what was once a joint decision; shared, discussed, thought about together, rationalised as mum and dad, husband and wife not just a mere few months ago is now pondered, ruminated on and lost in my present isolation. We didn't tell her because we wanted to spare a young child something to fear, the natural instinct of protection. We also didn't tell her because we never gave up hope, if we were going to tell her then at least be able to couch it in "but we're getting better, mummy's really fighting it." We just needed to wait until a bit more time gave us the chance of firmly setting us on the road of hope. But inevitability and death I have now come to see are no respecters of time. We ran out of time more sudden than it takes the hand of a clock to stop, the ticking to cease. I now think another reason we were waiting, not telling,  was because of our own fear!  

Only time will now tell whether this will have any lasting effects or impact. Maybe good, perhaps not so. There's that thing again, time! At the time we only did what we thought was best, what my dying wife actually wanted, so at the time this was all that mattered, end! Others I am sure might have done things differently. One thing I know, no-one, no-one actually knows the truth, the right answer or solution especially if they have never experienced it themselves, especially this. So I think about these things all the time and I think about whatever might have been done or said can never be undone. It can never be undone but it might be possibly mended, so now we try to talk. Trying to talk is important even if it doesn't always happen, in fact I guess it rarely happens, routine goes on, but it is there, my step-daughter and I are there!

Hope was loaded at the time with the biggest irony. If what I talk about is an expression of the adult to child relationship, then what of the adult to adult? Friends to friends, family to family. Who knew the seriousness of it all? How much of this was shared? Who spoke to whom and about what? Who dared to, or stay silent? Secrets, half-truths, hope, blind hope! Knowledge, facts, statistics, hope, phrases. "Have you Googled it?" The Internet! Vocal intonation, miracles, body language, facial expressions. "You do appreciate this is very serious." Palliative care. Life expectancy."It's not good news I'm afraid."  Wards, corridors, trolleys, uniforms, bags of pills! Disinfectant, sanitiser, car parking, hills, bags of pills! Tea, coffee, coffee, tea, water, sweets, tea, coffee, coffee, tea, water, toilet, bored, "Hi mum", bags of pills! Wait, waiting, minutes, hours, iPad, Independent, D.V.D, nurse, staff nurse, Macmillan nurse, consultant with nurse, pull the curtains round and silence, looks, moments then news, bad news!

I love my step-daughter. I care about her. She helps me by advising me about my youngest, that's a good thing. At Glastonbury my daughter and lovely friends remembered Sue in a place she loved, that's also a good thing. We laughed and joked, eat, drank and by god did we endure those toilets. We cried at songs as we waved Sue's memorial flag. Fluttering high in the wind for all to see, 'shining bright like a diamond', just like our memories of Sue. Just like them!