The Invisible Mam

I still can't think about her too much. Yes, I think about her every day but I can't just sit, clear my mind of everything and think solely of her. I can't. I feel it would overwhelm me. The feeling of loss comes in waves and at the most innocuous times; a picture, a song, a smell or random thought, there doesn't have to be a full connection, it can be subtle or tenuous. I feel like if I let it all in then I would drown. I can't give myself up to it. Not yet. But it's there. I'm standing on the beach and I know the tsunami is coming. I can't run from it. I won't run from it. It'll come in its own time. And I will be there. It is something I have to face and I will face it alone.  

I've been so busy since she left us in June. There's so many things to do, so much paperwork and admin. In a lot of respects it kept me busy. I still don't know if keeping busy and ignoring it is a good or a bad thing but it has held back my grief, held back the tide and kept it at arms length. I went from that stage straight into the kids summer holidays. Six weeks of concentrating on them. Six weeks of planning. Six weeks of showing them that our lives can still be fun. Six weeks of memory making. Six weeks of grief management. Six weeks of trying to avoid the waves. 

Now the kids are back at school I'm beginning to think about the house and her presence here. She is this house. She designed it and filled it with her ideas. It's like her gift to us. But beyond the fixtures and fittings, her clothes are still in her drawers and in the wardrobe. Her makeup bag, her perfume, her hair straighteners, her toothbrush; all still there. Her trainers are at the door and her coats still hang in the cupboard under the stairs. Along with all her shoes. Sometimes I manage to convince myself that she is just away for a long weekend with the girls and when she comes back she's going to tell me off for not doing things right. I do know however, that she's going to be secretly proud that I've entertained the kids sufficiently and that I haven't left the keys in the door again. And also that I've managed to keep the place relatively tidy.  There are signs everywhere that suggest she is just away and her return is imminent. 

Her mug sits in the cupboard with a teabag in and her favourite teacake is still there too. Unwrapped. Uneaten. Untouched. 

She is everywhere and nowhere. 

When I drive I still look to my left and expect to see her staring at her phone or snoozing. 

When I come through the door I expect to see her on the sofa watching her soaps.

When the kids say "that's Mammys" or "Mammy likes that" or "Mammy and Daddys room" it feels right.

When I go for a food shop I struggle to buy things that are just for me. 

When I hear the intros to One Day Like This by Elbow, Datoka by The Stereophonics, Gravity by Elbow, God Only Knows by The Beach Boys or Rule The World by Take That, I find it hard to breathe. 

When I watch the TV I struggle with the fact that all our shows and her soaps on the planner will go unwatched. 

When I look at pictures of her my brain cannot accept I won't see her again. 

When I'm about to fall asleep my heart sinks.

And when I wake up I know it has happened. That it actually happened.

I don't want to lose any of this even though it hurts. I don't want to move any of her things. I want to be reminded. I need to be reminded. I know in time this will change but I can't imagine that time. I simply cannot comprehend that time. We need to feel her here. Always.

So I will be standing there still. Waiting. But one of those times I will let it in. One of those quiet, solitary moments I'll let it in and let it engulf me. I'll hear it coming; that sound of blood rushing in my head like the distant sound of waves gathering momentum. It will fill my head. I will catch my breath again like I have done on many occasions before. Those times when people have asked me if I'm okay and I get that lump in my throat and that sudden emptiness in the pit of my stomach. All those times when I have fought it back as it welled up inside me. Those times when I've been unable to hold myself together but I've managed somehow to regain my composure and force it back down just as my voice cracks. But this time I won't fight it. I'll just let it in completely. I'll know myself that the time has come. I imagine there will be an element of panic combined with fear and resignation. I must face it alone. And just when it's upon me and that sinking feeling covers me, I know I will feel a small, warm hand taking mine to my left and to my right and I'll hear a voice behind me, whispering in my ear the words I said to her every time she got upset; "don't worry, we'll be okay, we love you". 

I know I'm not alone and I never will be. 

She is here and everywhere. 

Secondary

In December of last year Laura started to feel pain in her right shoulder and some discomfort in her lower back. Not once did we think it was anything related to cancer. She thought it was the strain from how she was sitting at her desk when working from home. Apart from that everything was fine over the festive period. The expected pain and occasional discomfort from her lymphedema was no real cause for concern. She had a check up CT scan due at the beginning of February so all seemed to be okay. Christmas and New Year brought new hope and we looked forward to the new year with a renewed sense of change.

Of course there is always the lingering worry that everyone that has had cancer has. The worry that it will return. It is summed up brilliantly, yet disturbingly, by Sherry McAllister when she talks about it being a gun at the back of your head. Laura asked me to read it after she had been given the all clear and it was only then I realised the full scale of not only what she had been through but what lay ahead. It never ends. It's not just a case of you get the all clear and it's back to normality. 

It. Never. Goes. Away. 

I'm ashamed to admit that this was generally my mindset, although not entirely, I preferred to remain optimistic. It would have been foolish and somewhat selfish to think that after all she had been though, that I could just forget it and crack on as if it had never happened. I didn't want to entertain the notion that it could return. Then at the beginning of January she started to feel short of breath a lot. This shortness of breath started to really take hold and she would struggle to walk any distance and even getting upstairs was a chore. So she went to the doctors to get what we thought was a lung infection checked out. The doctor referred her to hospital where they decided that her lungs needed draining. The effusion of her lungs and the results of the drain gave them cause for concern and the CT scan was brought forward. 

When Laura called me from hospital on Thursday 28th, she was concerned that what she had read online indicated that the cancer had returned. On Friday 29th she rang me and told me that they had found traces of cancer in her lungs. It had returned. They had said to her if she wanted me there before they told her the news but she wanted to know. So I made my way to hospital where I found Laura sitting up in bed, in pain mentally and physically with a resigned but calm demeanour. I cried for the whole time I was there. Tears of anger and frustration, of sadness and worry. Laura, who was 13 years my younger was meant to outlive me. She was the better half. She was more than half. How could I, we, possibly cope without her? It was just so crushingly unfair. I had to leave and go get the kids but spent about 10 minutes crying in the corridor of the hospital. I had no care that I was sitting there openly crying in public. I then had to straighten myself out before going to pick up them up. My head was spinning and I felt heart sick but she asked me to put a brave face on for them, so I did. And I continue to do that to this day.

We were given an appointment to see our oncologist and she confirmed that not only was there cancer in her pleura but it had also spread to her liver. Its hard to describe your feelings when you hear such news and I think my brain actually chose to ignore the finality of it. It's just shock. Laura was the same. We sat there in silence as the oncologist told us when was asked her how long in her opinion Laura had. She told us a year to a year and a half. She then went on to tell us that she has set up chemo for her and that was recommending immunotherapy too. Immunotherapy basically stimulates the immune systems cells to fight cancer, whereas chemo kills the cells. She also suggested that we be put forward for medical trials but Laura had to get herself fitter before being considered for that. The doctor did try to stay positive, telling us how the treatment can work and extend life expectancy but we both sat there quietly as our world collapsed round about us. 

 

Secondary cancer. There is no cure. There is no miracle. The only miracle you get is living longer than your original prognosis, which, in the big scheme of things, makes the word miracle seem like anything but. It's respite. It's borrowed time. We made plans. Laura worked on her Living List. It's not called a Bucket List. That list is something you make up when you have time and relative health on your side. We worked on that list but didn't even do half of it. It's not easy to do things when chemo floors you and/or you just don't have the energy. She tried. She tried so very hard. Her determination to still plan and try things despite the physical and mental pain was superhuman. I am and always will be immensely proud and incredibly humbled by the way she handled everything. It was truly inspirational. 

We were given a year to a year and a half. 

We got 5 months.