This has been a rough week for various reasons, so a day of pouring out my heart and head into my art journals has been good for me. I don’t sleep well some of the time, and when things are rough I tend to have bad dreams. I process everything that’s going in complicated dreams, often with my long-dead parents in them. I haven’t been doing that this week, but have been very wakeful, so hopefully getting lots of thoughts down in my art journals – many unreadable – will help settle my brain a bit! People say art is cheaper than a therapist, but I’m not sure they’ve seen my journal and paint supplies 😉
Tag Archives: grief
7 years: a second ago, & forever
It’s 7 years today since Mum died. She was very ready to die and we knew that. Ailsa and some of her family were here, by coincidence, and we spent the last 36 hours by her bedside at the home.
Released with love? Yes. Grateful she could finally let go? Yes. But…
Tony and I were Mum’s caregivers for 14 years, so Mum was a big part of my adult life. I miss her company. I miss telling her random stuff about my day. I miss reading to her from A A Milne, or new picture books that I think would make her laugh. She loved the ‘Walter the farting dog’ series.
We bought her a hospital bed and it had a wonderful memory foam mattress – I used to nap on it in the sun on a Sunday afternoon while she snoozed in her lazyboy chair. Mum sometimes said, as I held her hand to cross the road, that we’d swapped roles from when I was a toddler, and that was true. But as she watched over me while I napped, she was the caregiver again.
My brain is always restless for a couple of weeks prior to today’s anniversary. It’s not as awful as it was the first few years, when I had disturbing dreams. Once today is over, I come right.
Someone asked me, kindly, last night if there was some guilt I need to let go of? Maybe – Mum had wanted to die at home, but spent 6 months in the rest home (of her own choosing). Or perhaps it’s just that today marks a massive change in my life and the restlessness is my way of acknowledging that.
Either way, I miss you Mum. I’m pleased we had those 14 years together. It was hard work, but I got time with you most daughters don’t get, and that’s a privilege in today’s busy world. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Beam me up
As is often the case, I’ve turned to a song to say all the things I can’t find the words for. I love writing letters & blogging, and I’m a fairly slow deep thinker. Yet, when it comes to emotions, I’m suddenly voiceless.
It’s the same for many addicts. Saying what’s in the deepest recesses of our hearts and minds is too hard, too scary, and makes us too vulnerable. On the flipside, that vulnerability is very healing. Through counselling, a lot of effort, and patient friends, I’ve healed a lot in the last year or so; healing that will help me maintain a healthy weight as I get further and further post weight loss surgery.
This page uses the lyrics from P!nk’s song ‘Beam me up’ and refers to my angel babies, and also to missing Mum and Dad.
Art heals – thinking about Mum
Every year, as Mum’s birthday on June 30 approaches, I sleep badly and have vivid dreams. Mum died in 2012; we let her go with love in our hearts, knowing she was very ready to die. Yet my brain persists in this hyper-awareness every year. As in previous years, working in my art journal helps. Art really does have the power to heal people.
This photo was taken in 2011, her last Christmas, with her grandson Rowan. I have no idea now what they were talking about, but I can remember it being quite animated! I have put a heart over her face because sometimes I can’t bring her face to my mind, which is such a scary feeling. Mum may be gone, but love remains. The good memories are wrapped firmly round me heart.
A different kind of Christmas
When life changes sometimes the impacts are obvious, and other times there’s what a friend would call collateral damage that keeps on appearing for ages afterwards. Last year I had my birthday on the 11th December, Mum died on the 15th December and, to be honest, I have no recollection of Christmas Day 2012 at all. By New Year’s Eve I was at A&E as a result of damage collateral damage to my wrist, caused by injury to my shoulder in a car accident 6 months earlier. This year my sister, brother-in-law and nephew came down for early Christmas on the 14th and we out Mum’s ashes in with Dad on the 15th.
So what does Christmas Day mean to us now? I’m not sure to be honest. A phone call to Tony’s daughter and grandson, to my sister and her family, and Tony’s brother. Connecting with a few people via email and Twitter. My best friend’s birthday. What does all that mean to me? Not a lot really. I could phone them any time, and do.
I’m not a Christian, I have no children of my own, and none of our extended family lives close. We choose to stay home because of our pets, as we don’t think it’s fair to ask others to housesit at this time of year. Really it doesn’t mean a lot to me, but I guess over time we’ll find ways of making it special for us as a couple; with Tony unwell our guess our focus is on other things.
What I do have is a greater understanding than ever before of how hard Christmas can be for some people. A Twitter friend, a librarian in Australia, said as someone who suffers from depression she started the day “bawling at 7am”. My heart goes out to her and all those who are feeling similarly lonely or sad. Whatever today means to you, stay safe and be kind to yourself.
It’s 22 years today since Dad died unexpectedly, a month before his 66th birthday. He retired at 60 and spent his days helping farm mates, pig and deer hunting, and going fishing. He and Mum made 3 trips to Asia once he retired. He was a busy, and seemingly fit, man.
He went fishing at Waverley Beach one Sunday morning and had a massive heart attack. The young man next to him did CPR but had to leave him to get help and, by the time he got back, Dad’s heart had stopped again. As bad as we all felt for the young man who had tried so hard, I’m pleased Dad did not survive. He’d have hated being a patient, being told what to do, being incapacitated. As Mum used to say “Mansel got it right, he just died ten years too early”.
So today, and every day, I remember him with love. He was a hard working, patient man who gave huge bear hugs. I miss him.
As many of you know, until May of this year my Mum was being cared for at home by Tony and I, and had been for 14 years. She had a stroke and decided to go into a rest-home as she no longer felt safe alone when we were at work. In the months since her health has got progressively worse, despite the wonderful care she has been receiving. Her kidney and heart problems were reaching end stage.
Mum spent 3 weeks in hospital recently and we decided, along with medical staff, that Mum would return to the rest-home and never go back to hospital. If she got sick we would use comfort care only, and if she got an infection such as pneumonia we would not treat it. Mum had simply got too sick.
Friday last week her health deteriorated rapidly overnight and the palliative care nurse was called in. We got to the home at 10am and basically never left again. We had a quite rough afternoon and evening but by midnight Friday she was comfortable. I went home for 3 hours sleep, and Ailsa went for off for a bit when I got back.
Ailsa and her family were down because we had already planned an early family Christmas, so both Ailsa and I and our husbands, and most of her grandchildren were able to spend time with her. The rest-home manager, Judy, sat with Mum for an hour while we had Christmas lunch – Judy said Mum would be proud of us for doing the family thing for her.
Mum slept all afternoon with us stroking her hands and hair, and talking to her. She passed away peacefully late afternoon Saturday with Ailsa, Tony and I right with her.
I am glad she found the peace she needed to be able to let go and join Dad. I will miss her terribly but I am grateful she is no longer in pain.
I want to share some of the things I wrote to say at the funeral: I ended up only saying part of it, for various reasons, so here it is: