Sunday, 17 January 2016

Dear Diarmuid

It's been four years since you took your last breath. Four years since we spoke.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Life, for me, is divided into two - the 'before' you died and the 'after'. It couldn't be any other way. You were inextricably linked to every single thing I did and felt and thought before 17th January 2012 - every meal, every bedtime story to the children, every holiday, every laugh, every car trip together, every decision about our children's education/hobbies/play dates/doctor's visits. *Everything*. Even when we weren't physically together, we were living this life together. And then you were gone. I had lost you and every aspect of my world changed forever and I had to become a different person.

I'd like to think you'd be proud now. Our boys are men. Our little girl is almost 12. All three are funny, mature, interesting human beings. You should hear the boys play guitar/drums/keyboards. You'd be blown away by them. You should hear Aisling talk about science, books, life. She's incredible. I wonder if you met us now how would you feel? Proud? Surprised?  Shocked? Disappointed? Annoyed? Happy? Sad? Would we feel shy together because it's been so long since we saw you? Would you recognise our personalities? What would you have done differently?

I've tried my best to keep things going. Some days I attack life and I fight hard to help the kids through a myriad of challenges. Other times, I just get too tired and all I can do is muddle through. Then there are days when I just give up. Parenting alone is the hardest thing I've ever had to do and there have been so many rough days since you went, so many unseen challenges. I wish I could say, four years on, that everything is perfect. It's not. There have been too many obstacles to overcome. But I will keep on muddling through. I'll keep on going and I'll keep on trying.

You would be so happy and relieved to know that some of our friends and family have been amazing and have stuck by us through all the rough times. You'd be upset and shocked to know that some have left and the kids and I no longer see or hear from them. They didn't have the patience to wait for us to "get over you" and they didn't have the warmth of heart to want to support us. But I forgive them. I pity them for their weakness. And also I hope they get big puss-filled painful boils on their asses. (I haven't changed THAT much I suppose.)

Diarmuid, my husband, the father of my children, but mostly my best friend, I want to assure you that you will always be remembered and always loved.

"The fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn't mean that they do not exist." [Julian Barnes​]

Friday, 5 September 2014

Bread and Dreams...

Here I am buying bread and eggs, trying to be normal. Trying, in fact, to be happy to be normal but struggling to get those dreams out of my head - those thoughts and yearnings for a different life - not an alternative life but a supplementary one, where I achieve satisfaction. Conversations that make me excited; writing and the thrill of expressing my thoughts; socialising with like-minded people and feeling a buzz from it; passion; affection, living essentially beyond the mundane, beyond the task of carer, grief counsellor, emotional battering ram, nurturer.

It was easier when those dreams weren't there. But they arrived this summer after 30 months of darkness. I'll hide them away again soon so I can simply be happy to give yet another lift, cook yet another dinner, clean yet another room, pay yet another overdue bill, read yet another arrears letter, listen to yet another problem, counsel yet another teenage trauma. That's my role in life isn't it? Those dreams offer nothing but pain. Better not to know a life beyond this, better not to even taste it. The dreams are fading now. Hopefully soon I'll be happy again with my lot.

Friday, 10 January 2014

The Good The Bad & The Sucky

Two years today (10th January 2012) we 'celebrated' the news (from D's oncologist) that D was back on track (after a nasty infection in the stent site in the liver) and that he would be starting chemo in a couple of weeks but would, most likely, be going home "tomorrow". Of course, we still knew he was terminal but he was back on track to have a comfortable 12 to 18 months before a decline. Later that day, having broken the news to the kids, A. made a beautiful 'Welcome Home Dad' card. On the front she drew a picture of an empty tidy hospital bed with a nurse standing alongside it smiling. I asked what it meant and she said "the bed is empty now because Dad was sent home and the nurse is happy that he's better". Well the next day D's hospital bed was indeed empty but only because he was sent to the hospice to die. I don't think I will ever comprehend the 24 hour period between a senior oncologist saying "you'll be going home tomorrow" and then a senior hospice manager saying "we think you'd be more comfortable in the hospice" and then, 24 hours after that being told he would die soon.

What have I achieved in the two years since he died? And, on that note, why is life all about what we achieve? Why is it never enough to just 'be' or just 'get by' or just 'exist'? But it's not. Getting by is never enough.

Well, I'm glad nobody's critiquing my life (not officially anyway though no doubt people do judge). What can I do now that I couldn't do two years ago? I can drive. I can cook dinner for three kids (two adolescents and one kid really) alone and do it almost every single day. I can (mostly) get two kids to school and back all by myself. Woohoo. But I still can't keep the house tidy; still can't pay all my bills; still can't get on top of the mortgage (designed for two but being paid by one); still can't keep up with the laundry; still can't make my children happy or make their grief go away; still can't get rid of my anger; still can't cope with my exhaustion. What's changed for the worse? My eldest boy has given up school and, in turn, will not be going to college like he wanted. My second son is not coping. My 9 year old is doing okay but, of course, missing her Dad like crazy.

I feel ashamed that I haven't done a better job with the kids. I did set out with the best intentions i.e. put my grief on hold and look out for the kids. Sadly, while they're still here and they're fed and clothed (just about) their education has taken a battering and their lives aren't healthy and two out of three of them are unhappy.

I'm trying very very hard to act normal. It's exhausting. But I 'get' it. It's either be alone and turn into a hermit or pretend to be normal. I tried the hermit thing. It didn't pan out. So I try the acting thing now. We had visitors over Christmas. To everyone else that was nothing unusual. For me it was huge. It was our second Christmas without him and I made the effort to have people here visiting, food, drinks etc. three different evenings. I'm proud of that. It was lovely but exhausting. So much work.

I'm visiting my two older friends later. I love them but I also dread seeing them. I'm filled with anxiety. They don't get my grief. It's been two years. They expect me to be my "old self". That person is gone. They cannot adjust to my "new self" so I smile, make small talk, try very hard to listen to their issues and then pat myself on the back that I didn't cry, I didn't mention him, I didn't go on again and again about my problems, my kids depression, my loneliness, mortgage default etc. Like a good girl I sat there and listened to their problems. Heaven forbid I should mention by dead husband.

Perhaps in two years I'll have moved on. Even a little bit?

Saturday, 31 August 2013

Grief, you shall not pass.... well okay so, just for today...

It's a slow and tiring day and another one that has caught me by surprise. I regularly decide to knock grief on the head - it's been 19 months after all. Yeah, I know grief has no timeline, it's different for everyone, it can't be rushed yada yada yada......

But on a regular basis I say "I'm done. Grief, listen up, you do *not* define me, you will *not* hold me back, I am better now, I am healed, I will *not* be a martyr to you." I mean it when I say it. Who wants to be in a permanent state of sadness and bewilderment? There has to be some light after 19 months. So I shake myself and say "to hell with it". What if I just accept that I am single and this is my life? Yes it's sad that he's gone and I'll never forget him. But what if I start here? Right now. Start fresh.

So I try. I briefly get excited by the notion that I can fix my financial problems by starting my own business again, working my ass off, taking the kids on holiday. The excitement lasts a while, I feel good, I feel Diarmuid would smile his approval. And then BANG. Out of the blue, no warning, no build up, grief comes back uninvited and throws me back down again, spinning me around violently not too unlike Gandalf doing 360s in Saruman's gaff. Grief is a sneaky bastard.

I'm tired. Tired of being tired, tired of being knocked back down, tired of being positive and having it fail fast, tired of constantly trying to re-invent myself. Tired of wading through molasses. I'll just have a quick lie down in it.

Grief won't win. I know that. But for now I'm just a bit too tired to tackle that monster again. The score for this particular battle, here and now, today: Me 0, Grief 1. Grief won this battle but I intend to win the war.