Tag Archives: bereavement

Fort Zinderneuf

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It’s about 10am and Mr Mason is talking to the man who has come to fix the dishwasher. The phone rings, disrupting their conversation and the caller is a man called Terry who is a neighbour of Mr and Mrs Mason snr. Briefly, he says he noticed the blinds were all closed at Mr and Mrs Mason snr’s house so he knocked the door. He could hear Mrs Mason so tried his doorkey. It wouldn’t work as the bolts were engaged behind the door. He got a ladder and removed  louvres about the front door and managed to climb in. Mrs Mason says she can’t wake Mr Mason up. Terry calls 999 and is asked if he can perform CPR which he does. Later he says he knew it was too late but he valiantly carried on until the paramedics arrived. Using their defibrilator, the sign comes up says not to resuscitate so Mr Mason is taken away to the morgue at a local hospital.

The blow is phenomenal. Mr Mason comes upstairs to tell me his father has just died and we are distraught. We start grabbing toothbrushes and clothes, dog food and anything else we can think of, shoving them into unsuitable bags, get in the car after asking a neighbour to watch out for a parcel which is due to be delivered and drive down to Hampshire.

This blog would be too long if I included a lot of detail but I’ll pick out the most important parts. Firstly, my father-in-law was a great man; kind, considerate, funny, well-travelled and a great but unassuming raconteur. He loved his wife, his son and the rest of the family unconditionally and could never do enough for us. We loved him back the same way, always looking forward to seeing him and the annual singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ over the phone for whoever was in line to hear the strangled version. His penchant for sticking things to his forehead was another welcome party piece.

Arriving at the house, Mrs Mason snr is sitting on the sofa in a kind of daze. We are also in a daze. People drift in and out. She asks repeatedly where Dad is. We tell her straight that he has died rather than the well-meaning person who tells her he has just gone out. It’s an extraordinary pain to hear devastating news repeatedly. We decide to stay the night and put Mrs Mason Snr in the single bed. The bedding on the double bed is a curious mix of sheets and blankets and we’re told they don’t normally sleep on the bottom sheet as such but sleep on top of the bed. What they cover themselves with, we don’t know. We go to bed early. I haven’t slept at all the night before for some reason and am living on adrenaline. To be honest, the house smells and it’s rather off-putting getting into bed, especially as that’s where Dad (as he will be known forthwith) died a few hours ago. Just before midnight, a confused Mum (as she will be called) comes into the bedroom, muttering about her feet being cold and she slides into bed next to Mr Mason, calling him George and holding his hand. I slide out the other side of the bed and putting a jumper on, go to sleep in a chair in the sitting room, covering myself with a coat. I don’t risk the single bed due to the urinary incontinence which has long been denied but is certainly present and get an hour or two’s uncomfortable sleep. In the morning, we have a cursory look for papers, eventually get a certificate from the local GP, pack a few clothes and leave for home but not before Mum finds a set of false teeth under the pillow I slept on. Hmmmmm.

Mum asks questions repeatedly, the same questions over and over, but she does get into the car without complaining which, given she hasn’t been out of the house for over 5 years, is quite something.

The days after that (and it’s only 4 since I last wrote in this blog) are a whirl of confusion for all of us. We start to get support services into place and I talk to so many people I can’t remember who is from what organisation or what they do. Every time we leave the house we come back to messages on the answerphone. At home, Mum can’t remember the layout of the house which, given she is restricted to kitchen, dining room and sitting room gets a bit frustrating. “Why don’t you go and sit down, Mum?” “Where shall I sit?” “In the sitting room, on the sofa”. “Where’s that?” “The room just through there, with the sofa in it” “Shall I sit on this chair?”, pointing to dining room chair. “No, sit on the sofa, it’s more comfortable”. “Where is it?” and so the conversation goes on until I physically take her there. There are moments of naughtiness when she can’t get out of a chair when her carers come. She becomes a very doddery old lady and the frustrating questions, like “Can I sit here? Am I taking your place? Is it all right if I put my arm on this cushion? Should I turn it over?” The very worst and most annoying repetetive phrases are “I can’t eat this” and “I can’t drink this”, both delivered at the same time as the food and drink are given to her. With the amount of shock and grief she is enduring, it’s not surprising she isn’t hungry but when it’s said every time and several times through a meal, it gets really irritating. There was one exception yesterday when she ate a cream eclair without a single word. Hurrah!

I can only imagine how she feels inside. We have some small chats when I go and sit beside her, mainly because she is quite deaf but also it’s a good excuse to go and hold hands and find out how she feels. Today she feels sad, not sad with us in the house but sad in her heart. She feels she’s been left. She regularly forgets Dad has died and I can only imagine the impact of that. We’re also grieving amongst the paperwork, wending out way through social services and trying to find papers so we can organise a funeral.

Oh, and yes, there’s me. On Friday we go to see the oncologist to get the results of the bone scan I had before Christmas. There is no sign of cancer in the bone but apparently I am riddled with arthritis. Woo hoo! Never have I been so happy to be diagnosed with arthritis. My oncologist is pleased that my tumour markers are gradually decreasing as well. The arthritis is in my neck, shoulders and spine, hips, knees and ankles. Riddled seems an appropriate term but it explains the pain I have experienced. He is keen for me to reduce my morphine to what I call ouch level – so that I can be aware of the pain and treat it accordingly. I am too tired to think about it or argue. Every appointment I have means we have to take Mum with us so she accompanies us to Chemotherapy, an appointment which only finishes at 6pm, an appointment at the Hospice and another to see the oncologist. She doesn’t complain too much but suggests repeatedly to Mr Mason that they just go home.

So, back to Dad. While the children were young, they spent a lot of time with him during the summer. He loved taking them to the beach, driving them to Marwell Park (when it was open) and they planned to buy a beach hut on Hayling Island until a storm blew most of them down in 1987. While driving them along, he would periodically sing or shout out random phrases or poems. There was the famous “Oh, wiggly stick!” but the classic was “Fort Zinderneuf”, shouted as they drove past the forts along the top of Portsdown Hill.

I can’t really do justice to a man who was so kind to me, who behaved as though it was a privilige to be in my company and who loved me unconditionally. He loved his son and grandchildren in just the same way and we will all miss him incredibly, as will Mum who was married to him for over 70 years and now feels lost and bereft. There are no words for that.

How do I love thee?

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The real question for me today, however, is – how can I live well? Let me count the ways (apologies to Elizabeth Barratt Browning). I just don’t know how to live with secondary cancer and it’s not as if I can just be because that doesn’t seem possible, either. I find it very difficult to explain or describe how it feels to be in my situation. I talk to bereaved friends and tell them there is no one way to mourn someone, no right way, just the way you do it. I should apply the same logic and empathy to myself but I find it difficult. I suppose I am mourning my loss of life – the things ahead of me which I will never be around to see or do. And not knowing when that point will come is, of course, a real bugbear with me as I am a real planner. At the same time, when someone does advance a tentative theory as to how long I might live, I rail against it and feel murderous. The bottom line is I don’t want to die of cancer and not having any choice in the matter I find very difficult. Another stick to beat myself with is worrying about the future instead of getting on with the here and now. Taking time to smell the daisies, coffee or whatever you choose.

In my birth family, idleness is seen as a huge crime so relaxing and watching the world go by often leaves me feeling gulity, that I’ve missed out on something else I should be doing. Old family messages are horrible things. Strong, identifiable and yet difficult to get rid of. You would think by now I could just say “Fuck it” but there’s still a little gritty bit of something inside me that rubs and yet, unlike the oyster, it won’t produce any pearls. Today I try a limited amount of screaming, upsetting the dogs and Mr Mason and possibly bewildering the neighbours. The latter I don’t mind about but all screaming really leaves me with is a headache and sore throat, no peace.

Eventually I manage to get myself on track. I spend a long time in the shower, making the water as hot as I can stand and that feels good. I potter around the garden with the dogs which eventually leads to a little weeding and then picking up windfalls and then we are sorting and wrapping apples for the winter. As I write, Mr Mason is in the kitchen peeling and chopping apples for our various ways of preserving them. A couple of years ago, I would have led the preserving charge with verve and enthusiasm. These days, I don’t quite have the spark. Not at the moment, anyway. But things can always change.

And having put a tremendous amount of faith into a politician, my message for Jeremy Corbyn today is this:

Don’t go breaking my heart…

Half an orphan

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This week has proved to be a momentous one. On Monday, I hear my mother is not well and is in hospital. She has spent less than twelve hours in a respite home when they call an ambulance for her as she is bringing up what looks like coffee grounds. This, I know, is a sign she is vomiting blood. On arrival at hospital, she has what look like grazes on her nose and her glasses are missing. It seems logical that she has had a fall and probably broken her glasses but the respite home staunchly denies this. As the week progresses, it seems less important yet it is something we touch on from time to time as we sit by her hospital bed.

By the time we arrive on Tuesday, she is not conscious although she can squeeze my hand when I hold it. She is breathing noisily and is positioned so her mouth lies wide open and it is obviously dry and uncomfortable as she frowns and moves her hand towards her mouth repeatedly. At this point, all treatment has been withdrawn and she will only receive pain relief and a swab to provide moisture in her mouth. My niece, K, has worked with the elderly before and is able to confidently do a lot of things I am unsure of.

For 3 days, on and off, we sit by my mother’s hospital bed, holding her hand, stroking her face and talking to her. K stays overnight with her so she is not alone at any point. Driving the 70 odd miles each way every day, stopping en-route to drop Dog off with Mr Mason’s parents, is exhausting. I squeeze a meeting in on Wednesday morning along with my usual group at Maggie’s but it feels as though our lives are put on hold for the week. No washing or cleaning gets done. Usual chores are left and the house goes to rack and ruin. My sleep, which is always variable, becomes worse and I feel beyond exhausted with a cluster of bad fibromyalgia headaches.

Master Mason comes with us on Wednesday afternoon and I am touched to see him gently hold his grandmother’s hand. On Thursday, we travel down earlier and spend just a couple of hours at the hospital before going on to see my father. As we are talking with him, the phone rings and it is K, telling him he should come back to the hospital. My mother’s breathing has been steadily declining but K thinks it has changed in a meaningful way so we take my father back to the hospital. We stay for another hour but the traffic has been challenging for the last two days and we don’t want another late night. K also reassures us the end will be soon but not within the next hour or so. We collect Dog and then drive home, arriving at 7pm. As I am literally on the doorstep, my brother phones to tell me my mother has died peacefully. Her breathing slowed and finally stopped. She had company all the way through her journey and had, I think, a good end.

By Thursday evening I am beyond tired and actually sleep well, heavily and solidly throughout the night. On Friday, I sit and try to catch up with work admin while resting. The surgeon has referred me for a body scan and has marked the appointment urgent. It arrives in the post and is scheduled for when we are taking the first holiday we have had since my diagnosis. The past 18 months have been an incredibly stressful time, mentally and physically. I feel people don’t understand because I know I didn’t understand before I had cancer. I didn’t realise how the effects of cancer keep going, long after the disease is invisible and, we hope, banished. It was only this time last year that it seemed death might be on the cards for me.

On Saturday morning, after a night of sleeplessness and finally dozing, I wake shouting for my Mum. It takes me a few seconds to realise what I’m doing and I can’t remember the last time that happened.
The coming week is going to be a challenge in so many ways. Getting my head back together in time for 2 meetings and a trip to the House of Commons, trying to be competent, chair meetings and appear on top of things. And I realise this blog is pretty much factual without the emotional content. I think that’s all I can do for now.