Building something new...

Something just recently struck me. I've been trying to 'fix' the situation and get through this grieving so I can go back to being the person I was before I lost him - that's normal, it's human nature to try to solve it, fix it, get through it, repair it, whatever you want to call it. I'm not rushing it. I know grieving takes a long time. But, all the same, my goal has been to 'repair' the broken me. The end goal being - get 'it' back to the way it was before. But I just realised that's not going to work. Not at all. Now I see the reason why it's so damn hard to heal after this huge loss. We presume we can eventually go back to being the person we were before this life-changing devastating event. We can't. We are changed forever.

We were once single. Then we fell in love and were part of a couple with all that that entails - love, companionship, friendship, laughter, intimacy, a shared history. Does removing one half of that couple leave the surviving half single again - a whole individual, complete but single? No, definitely not.

We are now half a broken entity. But that's okay. Or, it *will* be okay. We can take the broken pieces and make something new, something just as good, if not better, than it was before. We have new raw materials to work with, some are very familiar, some individual pieces are even the same, some are brand new, some are faded a bit on the outside, vulnerable but strong, some seem broken but are actually just different.

I'm going to start working on building the new me - a person I never met before, not a single person, and not a person who's one half of a couple, just a whole new different me.

Out of Synch

The most intense loneliness is the kind that happens when you're surrounded by joy, sunshine and positivity. Dark days, pouring rain, seriously stressed neighbours/colleagues/friends sort of give us a licence to feel lonely - we feel it already but now we have a logical excuse for feeling it. The inner despair is perfectly in synch with the outer grimness.

Throughout July we had a heatwave here - so unusual for Ireland. So for about 3 to 4 weeks there was a holiday vibe - barbeques, beach trips, ice creams, daddys and daughters, daddys and sons, husbands and wives............. and I have never ever felt such black loneliness in my entire life. My Lonely Licence expired, the rules changed, I was now supposed to join in the banter about late night barbeques, last minute hotel deals, sun lotion and how we're finally getting to use it, the "it's like being abroad" comments, the hysteria, the fun.

Surely only a surly, mad, grouchy fool would feel anything but elation when the sun shines for 16 hours and the whole country grinds to a halt to enjoy the summer we waited for for years? Well I guess that's me then - a grouchy ol' biddy, 44 but old before my time, a negative moaning Minnie. Pffft. Summer Scrooge (but without the redemption).

To be fair, for the most part, I played along - 'played' being the operative word. I kept my mask on, agreed that it was great - yes the sunshine's fabulous; yep, nothing like it; enjoying it? Of course. Happy? Jeez, why wouldn't I be? I smiled, faked it. But inside I was dying. I felt completely dissociated from society. Just as our inner despair is perfectly in synch with those lonely winter rainy days, my inner turmoil could not have been more out of synch with the 'shiny happy people' all around me throughout July.

Roll on winter time - it suits me better. Bah humbug.

The Shallows and The Deeps

The hardest part of this awful grief experience has been the broken promises, the awkwardness, the thoughtlesness, of some people. Knowing someone cares, having someone go out of their way to help, having someone who rings up out of the blue to say "I reckoned you're having a bad day, I care" because it's a birthday, anniversary etc, it's worth so so much. 

When the phone is silent, when people cross the road, or when they look at you and know by your eyes that you're hurting but instead of catching your hand they change the subject to something trivial, that cuts through our hearts.

I thought I would lose my mind last year from all the broken promises and abandonment. And the ones who came back on the scene in January, the 1st anniversary, to say 'phew it's a year at last, you can get back to normal now'. 

But, after 15 months I'm content to say I didn't lose my mind AND I've become philosophical about them and stronger for it. 

Now I look at them and know that there are two types of people: The Shallows and The Deeps. The Shallows are weak, cowardly, self-serving people who are all about the drama (hospice, ambulances, funerals) but don't care about your feelings once the 'drama' ends - as if our grief was last year's reality show and the season has ended so it's boring now. They have no integrity and no character traits of any value. Harsh but true. 

Then there are the rare gems, The Deeps, they are the caring, giving, selfless few who will drop everything to come to you, cry with you, laugh with you, let you ramble on about your love, your relationship, your grief, tell you to sit down and "have a glass of wine", won't judge you for the mounting dishes and the child's dishevelled hair. They are gold. 

And here's the thing... it's not a question of only wanting people who talk about Diarmuid. It goes deeper than that. It's knowing that we can talk about anything (perhaps not even mention him) but behind whatever conversation we're having they know, they're aware, they get it. There is pain and there is loss and it's real and they don't hide from it.


I now feel sorry for The Shallows and I'm glad I'm not one of them because I have empathy. My children have empathy - I'm raising three young people from The Deep species. To hell with The Shallows. Honestly, they're not part of my life anymore because they don't deserve to be. 

To the rare gems, the Deeps, the golden few, thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

What's the matter princess?

Diarmuid spent six nights in Marymount Hospice. We slept in the hospice with him. Just 24 hours before he was moved there from the hospital we thought he was coming home and would start chemotherapy a couple of weeks later but instead he was moved to a hospice to die.

My two boys (15 & 17) knew everything that was going on but we hadn't told our 7 year old daughter yet that her Dad had cancer because his prognosis was 18-24 months so there was no need to tell her yet. 

Now, in the hospice, one of the most pressing issues was the fact that she didn't know how ill he was. The boys and I had only found out that morning that his time left was very short.

While they would normally break the news of cancer to a young child over a period of weeks, Aisling would need to be told urgently.

A team consisting of a counsellor, two doctors, a nurse, a chaplain, myself, my sons and my brother, Chris, sat in a room with Aisling to explain to her what was happening. 

The doctor and the counsellor asked Aisling to describe what had happened to her Dad. She told them how a few weeks ago he wasn't feeling well and he had seen a doctor and was vomiting and sore. They listened and validated every word. Then they told her about cancer — how there are bad cancer cells and that even though it's often fixable, Diarmuid's particular type of cancer was very bad. They said that they had done everything they could but, at this point, all they could do was ease his pain.

Aisling stared from them to me, to her brothers, to her uncle. She was mute. I could see the realisation slowly dawn. Her little face was full of desperation — she so badly wanted someone to say, "But...", as in, “But of course he'll be okay", or, “But he'll go home soon". There was total silence in the room. Then she looked at me for an answer. I caught her hand, put my arm around her, and I said, “I think that even though the doctors have tried everything... I think Daddy is going to heaven". She turned white. Her innocent little face fell to pieces. The tears poured out of her. Everybody cried — the nurse, doctors, counsellor, me, Chris, my sons, Aisling. The tears flowed freely. Everyone hugged her in turn including her big brothers. Then she urgently wanted to leave the room. She said, "We must tell my Nanas. We must tell everyone. They should know".

Across the hall there was a day room where my family and friends waited that whole week, taking turns to support us and to visit Diarmuid. At that moment Aisling ran into the day room with tears pouring down her face — she threw herself into the arms of her auntie and her grandmothers and said, "My Daddy's going to heaven, my Daddy has to go to heaven". Then she sobbed and sobbed and she ran down the corridor to her Dad's room shouting, "I have to see Daddy". I followed. 

She threw her arms around him and cried her heart out. Diarmuid gave her a big smile, rubbed her hair and said, "Hey, what's the matter, princess?" She looked at me, looked back at him, and instinctively knew that he didn't know he was dying. She didn't mention heaven. She just said, "Daddy you have cancer". He said, "Yes, but I'm fighting it, princess". He still thought that chemotherapy would be happening. She hugged him tightly and let the tears flow. He looked at her and looked at me and I think in that moment he knew his life was ending.

Four days later Diarmuid passed away with Emmet holding his right hand and Daniel holding his left hand and me rushing into the room as he took his last breath. Within minutes of his dying, Aisling came into the room (she had been out for a walk with her auntie), and I knelt down and told her, "Daddy has gone to heaven, my love". She cried and held him and, along with her brothers, myself, our family, our closest friends, we stayed with him all day, saying our goodbyes.

She sleeps in my bed and I look at her sweet innocent face as she sleeps and I'll tell you something. There is no pain worse than the pain of watching your children's hearts break. My boys too. My handsome wonderful boys. Sobbing over their Dad's body as he passed from this world. It was just so awful. It IS just so awful. This pain... the agony of watching your children yearn for their beloved Dad... it's indescribable.

Focussing on what I DO have...

"Focus on what you have in life, not on what you don't have."

I read that line today and although at first the cynical part of me (i.e. 98%) wanted to shoo it away as more self-help clichéd nonsense, I quickly realised there could be some sense in it and perhaps it will help. Is there anything at all to be said for focussing on our loss? Will some good or some reward come from imagining if I still had my life with my friend, the father of my children, the man I was with for 23 years? It's good, of course, to always remember him and to honour him but at the end of the day what good can come from focussing on what we are missing out on?

So, I'll attempt to focus on what I have. My two sons and my daughter are at the top of this list. I also have friends, some a bit fair-weatherish! But some are really wonderful. I have my two brothers, my mother. My brother is one of my closest friends. I'm grateful to have friends who care without conditions; they care without pity. And it's not just their caring that I appreciate, it's the laughter I share with them. Although I don't have work, I do have plenty of work skills and those skills will help me to find new work and a better financial future. I have a certain amount of sanity remaining. It's not all gone down the toilet. I have a love of books and a love of music, both of which are slowly coming back. I have a lovely city within 15 minutes of me with theatres, restaurants, cafes, bars and live music venues. I have a home (for now at least).

My heart is confused and my stomach is tight with stress; I'm struggling to keep that black cloud away; but already just writing that paragraph above, focussing on what I DO have has made my load feel much lighter. This could be the way forward.

Rain... Misery...

This is just shit. It's pouring rain here. I slept through the alarm. Damn, damn, damn. This seems to be getting harder. I'm getting angrier. Money's getting tighter. My plan to possibly escape for the summer with the kids to a nice holiday home by the sea is definitely well and truly gone to pot. I can't afford it. So it looks like we're stuck here for the summer, with the usual mess, housework, demands, rain etc. etc.

Yesterday was Father's Day. Like we needed another reminder of what we've lost. I went to the grave with my 15 year old and 8 year old. We stood in the rain and put a plant and flowers on the grave. Our hearts broke. What did my children do to deserve this? They've always been good. They've always loved their Dad and been loved by him. Their lives are just starting and all they're left with is me to guide them and reassure them. Honestly, that realisation is enough to push me to the final stages of insanity.

Fuck off life. You suck.

EDITED TO ADD: A strange thing just happened. The day that D passed away I took his wedding ring off his finger to save it. Later I attached it to a gold chain and wore it to the funeral services. But the day after the funeral I had a red raw rash running right around my neck. Turns out the gold chain was more like tin and rust (thanks Mam!). So I took it off, put it down and later that day I saw the chain on the floor with no ring. Oh god! I really thought the dog had swallowed it or somehow manhandled it enough to bury it. I was just washing up some plates and cups and I have a little container next to the sink to hold sponges and cloths. There was the ring sitting right there. Well I know I've cleaned that container plenty of times in the last few months. How did it get there? I am very relieved.