One Year On

It has nearly been a year since I embarked on writing this blog. In that year I have reflected on the events, experiences and emotions that brought us to that Singular Moment. There is much more to be addressed in this last year that went unwritten and I may revisit those at some point in the future but for now it is time to consider the present and look, somewhat tentatively at the future. I have to admit that I find it hard to look to the future, mainly because as I have noted before, it scares me. It scares me so much that I can't bring myself to do it seriously in periods of more than three months. The main reasons for these concerns are, as ever, the children and their future wellbeing and secondly, my health. I worry, like all parents do, how they will adapt and how we will cope and work as a family unit. I also worry about my health a lot. Fundamentally, not being there for them and even the slightest notion of them losing me too is incomprehensible. Many people go through their day to day lives not giving their mortality a second thought but I think about it often. It isn't debilitating, it doesn't stop me from functioning but it is there; an ever present itch. I have mentioned before Sherry McAllister's moving piece about what it feels like to be living with the constant threat of cancer and I feel that way too, just to a lesser extent obviously. Although I have no real health worries, I do feel the constant worry of things going wrong and something happening to me. It's very much real and very much palpable. Therefore I feel this blog now needs to adapt to that and will reflect these feelings, the barriers and issues we face and how we will overcome them. 

It has always been my hope that there will be someone out there who may read my blog and find that their experiences align with ours and it may help or comfort them in some little way. I said at the very beginning, if I help at least one person then this exercise will be worthwhile. However, the focus remains the same. The children are first and foremost the reason for this blog. I want them to read this and everything else I post on social media about us and remember these times and learn and understand. I do share quite a lot on social media but I do so in the knowledge that it's out there and will stay out there and they can look back on it at anytime. Every night at bedtime we look at Laura's phone and mine for "Memories", it's a part of our bedtime routine. For me this is what social media is about now, it's a public diary of our lives. I know Laura would think I'm over sharing, as she was always, in essence, quite a private person but I feel it is a good thing to have those memories at their fingertips. We are practically making memories and recording them forever. 

Over the last year many people have said, "I can't imagine what you are going through." This is true. Unless you have been through this, or something similar, then imagining is all you can do. This isn't a slight. It's just the harsh truth. It is simply too terrible to comprehend. So if I also help those people understand the struggles and worries that cancer and bereavement brings and if I help those who are going through similar, then that understanding is a good thing. If you can try imagine what it's like and it changes your outlook for the better, then that is also a good thing. Many couples that I have spoken to have realised that either one of them takes care of all the finances etc, and my story has made them think twice about this situation. I was exactly the same. I've literally had to learn everything from finances to planning holidays to buying clothes! It's good that there are guys (usually!) now considering having a more active role when it comes to the sharing and understanding of household dynamics, due to my experiences. There are positives to be found.

This last year has also taught me how invaluable people are and how inherently good people can be. The love and affection we have experienced over the last year has been incredible. This experience has often lead me to ponder this: How many times have you wondered how a friend is but never contacted them to find out? I'm not writing this with the sole intention to make anyone feel guilty, there are many reasons why you wouldn't or can't. I'm sure those reasons are personal, individual and complex. We all lead extremely busy lives. Between work and family, free time becomes increasingly premium time. I also don't mean to simplify our behaviours by asking that question either. In the past I would do the same, I would think "I must drop so-and-so a line", then something would crop up and I'd put it off. Even if something didn't crop up I'd still put it off. It helps that I am fortunate to have had the same group of friends for decades. Some I grew up with and some I befriended in my late teens/early 20s and that core of friends has always remained the same for many, many years. We all live different lives now and live in different parts of the country, if not different countries, therefore we rarely see each other but when we meet it's like it has been no time at all. Our love and friendship isn't diluted by time or distance. So there's no pressure to drop them a line. Things have changed a little though. I know that I need to do it more. But it's not just close friends, I still get messages from people asking if we are okay and if there's anything I need. I get messages from people that I haven't heard from since school (which was a long time ago!) and from people I don't actually know, Laura's friends and work colleagues and parents from the kids' school for example. It's heart-warming to receive such messages and comforting to know there are people who are still thinking of us. People do care. It is those messages that made me think about the actual effect those messages have and the power behind them. They give me strength. They give me hope. They give me courage. They make me happy. That is why I asked that initial question. Send that message. Don't hesitate. At the risk of sounding like one of those memes with some trite inspirational phrase superimposed over an image of a beautiful sunset: pass it on, be kind. I have said this many times but the phrase "it's the thought that counts" is bandied around quite loosely but there are many occasions when it can actually help. Thank you for the messages. They all mean the world to me.

Finally, I have also been grieving for a year now. I feel my grief will be a long drawn out affair. I guess all grief is. Some peoples grief wanes over time and for some it stays with them forever. My grief comes in waves. It is ever present and is always there in some form or another. It has a baseline but, somewhat worryingly, no perceivable depth. I unashamedly admit to bottling mine up. I feel I have to for the children. I may be wrong in doing this. There will be those out there who think I need to show the kids that it's okay to cry, that it's good to let it out. But, for good or bad, it's not that path I've chosen. This may and possibly will change over time and as they get older but for now it is going to be this way. The kids know how I feel as I tell them that I miss Laura often, just as they tell me, I just don't let it all out; my sadness, my worry, my guilt. I just don't think it will benefit anyone at this moment. It still sneaks up on me from time to time and hits me low, but surprisingly, it also gives me strength. It makes me take a deep breath and allows me to focus on the things I need to do. It corrects me. It guides me. I still do the same things I did before; things that I know aren't in my best interest, or anyone else's, but my grief guides me now. It shows me the way I should be. The way I need to be. I need to find positives where ever I can. And it can be found in the lessons I have learned. It can be found in the love of family and friends. It can be found in the understanding and deeds of relative strangers. And can be found in the most unlikeliest of places, my grief.  

The Moment

It was 8pm Tuesday 14th June 2022. Laura's mam and sister had been at her side when I came into the room. As they left me and Laura alone I noticed her breathing had slowed a little. Our room was warm and bathed in the late evening sun. I opened the window wider to let some more air into the room. The evening was quiet, broken only by the birds singing their love songs to each other in the trees outside. Kneeling on the floor next to the bed, I held her hand and I told her how much of a nice evening it was. I told her the kids were okay and downstairs with family. I told her that we love her. Then I was silent for a while, listening to her slow, peaceful breathing, grateful that she was no longer feeling the pain that she had experienced over the weekend. 

The weekend had been awful. Even the word awful is a gross understatement. Throughout Friday night to Saturday morning she was up constantly in extreme pain. I didn't know what to do. I was woefully underprepared. When we fell asleep on the Friday night after coming back from hospital, I fully expected her to wake up and be communicative and lucid, despite her pain and confusion in the days previous, but that wasn't to be.  During the night the liquid morphine she had been taking gave her some relief but it wasn't long before she would wake up again, doubled over and crying out in agony. I was frightened that her cries would wake the kids. I was at a complete loss. I didn't know who to call or what to do to help. Up until then it was the worse thing I'd ever faced in my life. In her pain, she was more incoherent than ever. There were times during the night when she wanted to go to the toilet, or she led be to believe she did, but just trying to get her to sit upright on the edge of the bed was incredibly difficult. She would cry out in pain, saying she wanted to lie back down, then an instant later she would want back up. She was so confused and I was having to guess what she actually wanted. When she did want to go to the toilet it took ages again to get her to sit upright on the edge of the bed and then up to a standing position. Her pain was excruciating and my heart couldn't deal with the agony she was going through. We slowly walked, step after agonising step, and got through the door to the toilet. Just getting her there and back took half an hour. To this day I'm unsure if the kids actually heard it all. It would be a miracle of they didn't. This fact sits heavy with me. Laura didn't want to be here, the plan was to go to a hospice. She didn't want to house "tarnished" by this event but we had no option, such was the speed in which it happened. I have said many times that it's a sign of Laura's indomitable spirit that she only had to let her guard down once for her very aggressive cancer to take her. It was the first of too many long, painful nights. 

In the morning, when the kids woke up, I jumped up and took them downstairs. I quickly made sure they were settled. I must have been downstairs no longer than a minute when I heard movement upstairs. I ran up to find that she had gotten up and went to the toilet herself. She was still in severe pain but her pride and that inner strength got her there on her own. The task that drained both of us during the night, she pushed herself to do on her own. I couldn't believe it. Yet I could. As I helped her back bed I noticed that she was even more confused and incoherent but added to that she was now becoming upset and angry. I made her as comfortable as I could then I got the numbers I needed and called every number available to me for help. The Macmillan nurses were there in no time. They helped settle her, changed and cleaned her and upped her meds. I hoped she wouldn't have another night like that but sadly I was wrong. The following night was worse. Far worse. Fortunately, my sister stayed over to help me with the kids. That night I called the nurses out 4 times. Even though they had upped her painkillers, the threshold seemed to change along with the dose. I was reminded of when she was in labour with Aden. Nothing could take away her pain; gas and air, painkillers, epidural. Everything they tried during labour didn't seem to even touch the sides of her pain. This situation was similar in a lot of ways. Her pain seemed to increase exponentially with the dosage. 

On the Saturday afternoon I decided it was time to tell the kids. I gathered them close on the sofa and told them as best I could. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I can't even remember what I said. We cried and hugged. They said they wanted to see her but when we got upstairs to the bedroom door they changed their minds. Inwardly, I was glad and I know Laura would have been too. She, we, wanted them to remember her before she was ill. We wanted that to be the lasting memory. We made a deal outside the bedroom door. We would always be there for each other. We would try not to keep our feelings bottled up. We would cry if we wanted to and when we did, we would always have a cuddle. We invented our little mantra of "cuddles cure cries". It hasn't always been perfect but it has served us well.

I also made the decision not to let anyone outside family visit her. This was an incredibly hard decision, because outwith the kids and family, her friends were her life but she was so distressed that I didn't want to risk upsetting her and upsetting anyone that visited. I also know that, like the kids, she wouldn't have wanted any of them to see her in this way. She had said this to me many times. It was her wish and I hope that her friends will forgive me.

The following nights were still distressing and I had to call the nurses out again on more than a few occasions. On Monday, unable to cope with seeing her in constant pain, I requested that they increase her painkillers fully and let her go in peace. All I wanted was for her pain to end. It had been too much to bear. 

It was time. 

At a few minutes past 8, in our bright and sunny bedroom, when I broke the silence once again to tell her that everything would be okay, that she needn't worry, that we loved her, I noticed her breathing had slowed even more. Then at 5 past 8, time stood still for a moment. Just a fleeting, peaceful moment. There was no sound. A momentary pause. Silence. Then the silence grew. It grew beyond the room. It enveloped everything around me and everything the sun touched. Everything stood still. Everything I know, everything I knew and everything I am, was contained in that fleeting moment. My world stopped. Our world stopped.

And then in another second, when nature willed the world back to life, there was just me. Me, alone. Only Laura remained in that moment that was, fixed and frozen in time. The only sound that marked that moment passing was the deafening hush of my heart breaking; the only sign, the unending torrent of my tears. 

This Time Last Year

Every day when I wake up one of my first thoughts is: This Time Last Year. I look at Laura's phone every morning and check her On This Day on Facebook but mostly I look on her calendar. She always documented what she or we were doing, our plans, how she felt and what treatments she was on, especially since she was first diagnosed. On this day last year we were informed by our oncologist that she now had months, possibly weeks, left. It is a day I'll never forget no matter how much my mind constantly tries to erase the details.

It's been a hard year. I'm under no illusions that the years to come will be hard too. But soon we will come to the end of this year. This Time Last Year will literally be a thing of the past. Any other variations of reflecting on the last year in the future will still happen but with possibly less regret, sadness and loss. However, I'm not sure if it will be by much less. 

Throughout the last year people always ask me how I am and I always say I'm okay. I'm not lying, I am okay. But I'm most likely okay in that moment because asking me if I'm okay makes me feel okay. But there are many times when I'm not okay. At first I couldn't say it, "I'm not okay." The words would stick in my throat. To say anything otherwise seemed to be counterproductive, like admitting weakness, like saying I couldn't cope. Here it is, I am not okay. Every day is a struggle. But a struggle to varying degrees. Sometimes those struggles have pushed me to the very limit and even though I have been to such limits, it is still difficult to ask for help and it's difficult to accept help. I have no idea why. It's the way I'm wired. This isn't to anyone's detriment. It's not me being so stubborn that I'd risk the kids or my own welfare. I know in myself if it all became too much that I would ask. It's just that in those moments I'm too busy trying to work it out that picking the phone up would be the last thing on my mind. I know that when friends read this they will urge me not to hesitate. Don't worry I won't. I don't know what my coping mechanism is. I don't know if it works. I don't know what works. I don't know how it works. It does seem to work. I'm pretty much day to day and for the last year this is exactly how it has been.

The irony is that I talk about being glad that the kids aren't bottling up things too much but I do. I feel I have too. Not many will understand this: I don't mind anyone giving me advice and I really appreciate it but there's a strong possibility I'm not going to take it. Taking "time for myself" isn't happening and when I do, in what ever form it takes, I more often than not, feel guilty for sitting on my ass. The house work can wait. Yes, so I've got twice as much to do tomorrow. I'm eating and drinking, so yes, I'm looking after myself. This may sound wholly ungrateful. It's not. I will never be able to express how grateful I am that people actually care to offer advice, message me and offer help but this is how I feel and this is who I am. The daily challenges of being a grieving single parent range from the seemingly mundane to the earth shattering. Everyday I'm learning to adapt, everyday I'm having to learn, everyday I'm trying to be both of us. Big and small, they are all challenges. All equally exhausting mentally and physically. I simply get through them. I'm not expecting an award. I'm not the only one going through this. Again, it's how I'm wired but asking me if I'm okay actually makes me feel okay. So thank you.

While the last year has been difficult to reflect on, it is equally as hard to look to the future. The future scares me. I feel that it's best not to. Every so often I afford myself a little glimpse; I imagine the kids growing, how we will deal with the challenges and how we will cope. But then I close it down. It's simply too overwhelming.

This time last year, when we were given the news, Laura told me I had to be prepared. She told me I could do it, that I'll find a way. Despite how daunting it seemed at the time, here we are.

I just want to put it out there. To say it out loud. I struggled this last year. I'll most likely struggle next year and the year after too. Some will do it differently. Some would have done it differently. I'm doing it, I'm coping, just like she said I would. Not solely because she had faith in me but because I have to. It's a struggle but I'm finding a way to get through to this time next year and all those other years.