They say that it is good to talk but that doesn't always ring true. Sometimes, it isn't. Sometimes it's best not to. Especially when it's been a good day, things have gone well and for a day at least we forgot that we were going through this. Sometimes it's best not to mull things over and talk things through. She didn't need reminding of the inevitability of it all. Sometimes it's best to just lie there, in the dark of night, in silence, like I did every night, hoping that she had fallen asleep free from feelings of impending loss and of limited time.
However, I doubt that ever happened.
Every night I used to lie there awake, wishing I could take it from her, the anguish, the torment, the pain, the cancer itself. I'm 13 years older than her. She, all things being equal, should have lived longer than me. She would have been better placed to do the job. If one of us could cope without each other and raise the kids, Laura would be better equipped for the task. This isn't an admission of not being up for the task, I'm simply stating the fact that Laura would be better at it. I wanted to trade places with her so much. I'll never know how she managed day to day. I couldn't imagine how it was in her mind. We didn't talk about it. Only once did I allude to how she managed to handle it and it ended up in tears, so I didn't do it again. It was too upsetting. Why talk about things that cause hurt? I don't think I could cope with the knowledge of finite time. I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing the kids anymore; not seeing them grow up, not witnessing all the events and milestones, and not being a part of it. I simply couldn't imagine it. No one can. Try it. You can't, can you? It's too huge to comprehend. It's too hard to put yourself in that position. Hopefully you will never need to. I marvelled daily at how she managed and I still do. It was an incredible superhuman feat. So, only that one time did we talk about coping. It went unsaid. We both knew. Sometimes I feel like I could have done better or more. Something, anything to make her feel better. I don't know if I did enough but even though I don't really know how she coped, and how difficult I would have found it, I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat.
We did speak in the beginning but even then it was hard to express ourselves clearly through the tears. Throughout the first few weeks I would lie there and hopelessly listen as she cried herself to sleep. Words were little comfort.
She would sleep on her good side with her back to me. I couldn't put my arm around her as that was the side where she had her lymph removal operation. So most times I would gently put my hand, palm up, on her back or just hold her hand, so she knew I was there. It may seem like a futile gesture in the face of it all, but she would fall asleep and the next morning she'd wake up do it all again.
Five weeks after the Secondary diagnosis, Laura turned 40. Those five weeks had been difficult. She struggled to come to terms with the finality of her diagnosis as it was all too much comprehend. It was decided that her oldest friends would come over and help celebrate her birthday. They ordered food from our favourite Thai restaurant and they had a little night to themselves. I was upstairs with the kids and once they had fallen asleep I sat and read whilst downstairs I could hear Laura and her friends chatting and laughing. It was a beautiful and glorious sound to hear. When joy is missing it creates a void. They filled that void and more. I sat upstairs, smiling whilst I read. Smiling properly for what felt like the first time in an while.
Then it came. The part of the evening I was dreading. The room fell silent. I knew Laura was talking and her friends were listening. I knew exactly what it meant. They let her speak and they listened. They let her pour it out. I couldn't hear a single word that was being said but what I could hear clearly was the crushing sound of five hearts breaking.
The next day and throughout the following week, things changed. She was different; same but different. It wasn't a radical change but it was change. She took the first steps to being back in control. She made little plans. She made big plans. She started on lists. Healing her body completely wasn't an option, she accepted that, so she worked on what she could heal; she became mentally stronger. She became determined and focused. Or should I say more determined and focused. There were still nights when we would cry and the hopelessness of the situation would get to her but she focused on the here and now, and the kids happiness to get her through.
That night with her friends was the catalyst. Although it started with Laura talking, contrary to what I've been saying about not talking, the actual key to this is listening.
We should always encourage those who feel sad, those who feel down, those who feel there is no hope, to talk. That is a given. But we also need to learn how to listen. Listen with all your heart. Listening in such situations is actually a hard thing to do. Often when listening, get side-tracked by our own opinions and we feel we need to air them there and then or we let our emotions cloud our ability to listen properly. If you know of anyone in a similar position, listening is what they want most. Laura didn't want to hear "you got this" or "stay strong", she knew that, it was exactly what she had been doing every hour of every day. What she wanted was comfort and a sense of normality. She didn't want to be treated different. She ended up using the phrase "make it weird" a lot with those friends after that night with them. She got it from a meme about making it normal to tell your friends you love them and to make it weird in doing so. It tickled her. But it also told you so much about her state of mind.
Find new and interesting ways to express your love. Even if the weirdness makes them squirm a little. The short term discomfort will be a long term gain. Life is short and unpredictable. Find joy where you can.
Listen.
Make moments count.
Make your feelings known.
Make it weird.
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