Okay - so this is one of my "serious" posts. The one where you don't get any laughs. Today marks an anniversary - its one I don't wish to celebrate.
One year ago, my mum, aged 54, discovered that the excruciating back pain she had been experiencing for about 10 weeks was not a pinched nerve or slipped disc. It was actually a number of metastatic tumours in her lower spine. She was diagnosed with lung cancer which unfortunately had spread to a number of sites in her body, but mostly painfully her spine.
I suspect she knew for a long time that she wasn't well. But, mum had clinical depression, a little agrophobia and an extreme dislike for medical procedures. She hated to be poked and prodded and didn't particularly like baring her body or soul to any doctor. I think she put her tiredness and general feeling of being unwell down to her depression. She was a lifelong drinker and smoker and didn't like to discuss this with doctors. She felt huge guilt for these things. I honestly think that deep down, mum thought it was her own fault she got sick, and that she had no right to complain or see anyone about it.
So, a year ago, after some tests, mum found out about her cancer. She and dad sat at their kitchen table and dad phoned both me and my brother (we all live in separate cities) to tell us the news. In that phonecall, which was possibly the hardest I've ever had, life as I knew it changed forever.
Mum was my best friend. There was only 17 years between us and after my tempestuous early teens, she and I become firm friends. We had so much in common but also were extremely different in some ways. We brought out the best in one another and we balanced each other perfectly. We shared a love of food, family and laughter. I could tell her almost anything and I think she felt the same. She was always careful never to offend or say the wrong thing and spent her whole life looking after other people, and in particular, my dad. She was an attentive listener and never failed to have some advice for any situation. She was my rock and she got me through some hugely difficult times in my life. I loved, and still love, her with all my heart.
55 days after her diagnosis, mum died at her kitchen table. With her were my dad, her best friend Von, my brother and me. No-one expected her to pass away when she did. Her death was an inevitability given the terminal nature of her illness, however the day she died, she was on a home-visit from a short hospital stay, to have afternoon tea. She hadn't yet gotten sick enough to be in a hospice and she was still walking, talking, laughing, eating and even putting makeup on. Although the situation was horrific for the rest of us, mum died surrounded by her family, in her own home, with a cup of tea in her hand and her dogs at her feet. It was sudden and fast, but in my heart I believe she went peacefully and she didn't know what happened.
This monumental event in my life is one of those "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" ones. In order for you to get to know me and understand how I got to this point, I suppose you have to hear all the hard stuff. It doesn't get much harder than watching your mum die in front of you while your brother tries in vain to save her and your father watches in horror as his soul-mate of 38 years drifts away. I will never forget that day. Every atom in that room, in those minutes, will be permanently etched in my mind.
But, its true that time is a healer. I have learned to accept what happened. I have learned to replace those difficult memories with all the other lovely ones of mum. And, a year after she was diagnosed, I can say that I am starting to process and deal properly with all that happened in those 55 days. I am still only a short way into my grief journey, but I'm okay.
I think, as time goes on, I will write more about my experiences during the little time we had between mum being diagnosed with cancer and then passing away less than 8 weeks later. I don't have many regrets about that time I had with mum. If I can help just one person, by writing about these tough days, then I think that would be a really positive thing.
Tonight, you should make sure you tell your special people you love them. If you were never to see them again, what is the last thing you would want them to hear?
One year ago, my mum, aged 54, discovered that the excruciating back pain she had been experiencing for about 10 weeks was not a pinched nerve or slipped disc. It was actually a number of metastatic tumours in her lower spine. She was diagnosed with lung cancer which unfortunately had spread to a number of sites in her body, but mostly painfully her spine.
I suspect she knew for a long time that she wasn't well. But, mum had clinical depression, a little agrophobia and an extreme dislike for medical procedures. She hated to be poked and prodded and didn't particularly like baring her body or soul to any doctor. I think she put her tiredness and general feeling of being unwell down to her depression. She was a lifelong drinker and smoker and didn't like to discuss this with doctors. She felt huge guilt for these things. I honestly think that deep down, mum thought it was her own fault she got sick, and that she had no right to complain or see anyone about it.
So, a year ago, after some tests, mum found out about her cancer. She and dad sat at their kitchen table and dad phoned both me and my brother (we all live in separate cities) to tell us the news. In that phonecall, which was possibly the hardest I've ever had, life as I knew it changed forever.
Mum was my best friend. There was only 17 years between us and after my tempestuous early teens, she and I become firm friends. We had so much in common but also were extremely different in some ways. We brought out the best in one another and we balanced each other perfectly. We shared a love of food, family and laughter. I could tell her almost anything and I think she felt the same. She was always careful never to offend or say the wrong thing and spent her whole life looking after other people, and in particular, my dad. She was an attentive listener and never failed to have some advice for any situation. She was my rock and she got me through some hugely difficult times in my life. I loved, and still love, her with all my heart.
55 days after her diagnosis, mum died at her kitchen table. With her were my dad, her best friend Von, my brother and me. No-one expected her to pass away when she did. Her death was an inevitability given the terminal nature of her illness, however the day she died, she was on a home-visit from a short hospital stay, to have afternoon tea. She hadn't yet gotten sick enough to be in a hospice and she was still walking, talking, laughing, eating and even putting makeup on. Although the situation was horrific for the rest of us, mum died surrounded by her family, in her own home, with a cup of tea in her hand and her dogs at her feet. It was sudden and fast, but in my heart I believe she went peacefully and she didn't know what happened.
This monumental event in my life is one of those "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" ones. In order for you to get to know me and understand how I got to this point, I suppose you have to hear all the hard stuff. It doesn't get much harder than watching your mum die in front of you while your brother tries in vain to save her and your father watches in horror as his soul-mate of 38 years drifts away. I will never forget that day. Every atom in that room, in those minutes, will be permanently etched in my mind.
But, its true that time is a healer. I have learned to accept what happened. I have learned to replace those difficult memories with all the other lovely ones of mum. And, a year after she was diagnosed, I can say that I am starting to process and deal properly with all that happened in those 55 days. I am still only a short way into my grief journey, but I'm okay.
I think, as time goes on, I will write more about my experiences during the little time we had between mum being diagnosed with cancer and then passing away less than 8 weeks later. I don't have many regrets about that time I had with mum. If I can help just one person, by writing about these tough days, then I think that would be a really positive thing.
Tonight, you should make sure you tell your special people you love them. If you were never to see them again, what is the last thing you would want them to hear?
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