Soar

Death and dying. I sense a theme. Is it the age I am at? Really? Early forties?! A mite young for contemporaries, but we are exposed to death at any age.

At age of 5, my father died. A few years later, his mother died from grief—god speed Gaga.

The years passed and family friends faded away; some old, many young. Cancer, you fiend, you were often the cause.

Lest you be a stranger, cancer came knocking again. After a seeming lull, you knocked on my door to announce your presence in my husband's life; his leg. You took your pound of flesh, then within a scant few years came calling for the rest.

Thirties—that's what Brad was. Too young, but you don't play with numbers. I have seen children touched by your mark. You are ruthless in your indeterminate arc.

I thought I had made peace with you. After fearing the C-word for most of my life, I saw the other side. Some fought the good fight and won. They looked you in the eyes and met you—survived. They were given a reprieve; the gift of rebirth. Oh, I know it means you lurk forever in the wings taunting with what-ifs, but when given the second chance to cherish every day once more, it is worth the gamble.

But today, you snuck in from the wings. Bert hadn't even seen 60. She lived a good life; rarely drank, drove the speed limit, took care of her mother... No matter. It was enough for you. It seems unjust! She lived for her cats, to do a good job at work, and to make sure her mother was well cared for. Now what? She complained, but not early enough. Surgeons opened her up to find you everywhere. Your chaos was more than anyone could battle. Within a month poor Bertie was gone.

And I found out too late.

No funeral, no mass, no fanfare. It was her way, but leaves me hollow. How does one say goodbye when the guilt of days passed stands in the way of goodbye? I should have called. I could have visited. No more.

I'm sorry Betha. I wish you had been given a fairer shake in this thing called life. More moments, Bigger joy, in depth love to make a heart swoon. It was not to be.

Perhaps this is my reminder to reach for those moments myself. Just this week I noted my lack of joy, the infrequent pangs of love, and the crazy busy life I lead, which, while hectic, doesn't fulfil my heart's desire. Is someone trying to tell me something? Live life before the unknown number of allotted days are gone...

Oh Bert. I am so sorry for your quick departure. I hope you find your way to the next life and discover more joy in it. Blessings to you my friend.


RIP BK. Soar...

Strength

I received an email from a friend, who sent me something she felt I needed to hear today. I guess from my response, that I did. She believes that I have a certain strength that comes from a journey I have been on. Sometimes our journeys are more than any one person could possibly seem to bear. Sometimes we bear them anyway, as there is a knowledge that needs to be learned through the living of it. The lessons that life offers can be difficult, but that is where the strength lies. Today, I share a tale of a difficult lesson that I was humbled by a few years ago, but the growth that came from it walks with me still. I apologize for any heart strings that may be rocked here, but will also offer this tale to the ladies who run Mostly Fiction Mondays and their prompt Growing Up.

***

It was obvious that another one of his headaches was coming on. His face was a mask of pain and concentration, trying to force the knives away. He could not walk. He could barely breathe the pain was so intense. Crisis mode took over, and I scrambled to find a wheel chair. I knew him well enough to know that he would not want to ride in it, but I also knew that without it he would not be able to move anywhere. He forced himself to look up when I returned with the dreaded conveyance, but did not say a word.

“Can I help you get into it?” I asked.

I know he could see the concern dripping off me, but he was in too much pain to fight me.

“No,” he grunted as he heaved himself into the chair with a wince.

“Gimme a second,” he demanded. He needed to regroup before I induced movement that might sweep him away. After a moment, he faintly nodded and gruffly said, “Go.”

The few steps down the hall were excruciating for Brad, but we arrived at Tina’s office. I informed them that we were here and our social worker Tina materialized moments later with one of her big genuine smiles. Her smile faltered when she caught sight of us though.

“What’s wrong?” she queried, instantly looking from me to Brad.

Brad was incapable of communication, so I answered, “Brad has a headache.”

She ushered us into her office and we sat down. Forms lay on her desk, but it was obvious that Brad would not be able to fill in anything in the state that he was in. I hurriedly explained that he had been having headaches that were progressively getting worse for the last month. While Brad normally would have been incensed at my audacity in being so plain, today he heard nothing from the world around him.

“We need to get him to lie down,” Tina said.

I began to tremble with tears in my eyes. “But the forms...,”I began.

Tina dismissed my limp words with a wave saying, “We can worry about the forms later. Brad needs to be lying down right now. Stay here and I will get him a bed.”

I sat, numbly staring at Brad, too afraid to even think about what was going on. Tina materialized moments later and took over control of the wheelchair. She quickly pushed him down the hall to a tiny exam room with a crisp, white sheet on the little bed. I mutely followed along after her, somehow thankful that someone was finally doing something, anything to help us. Brad was incapable, but still held onto pride that he could take care of himself. This was bigger than he could manage though. It was more than I knew what to do with either.

Brad managed to crawl out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. The effort left him gray and shaking with its magnitude. Tina lowered the lights in the room and quietly ushered me out.

She turned to me in the hallway.

“Brad is very sick,” she said. “In the state he is in, he is not able to speak for himself. You are his spokesperson now. You need to fight for his rights to make sure that his needs are being taken care of. He cannot do it himself. You know his history best and you know what he wants and needs.”

Tears freely flowed down my face, as she continued.

“I am going to see if I can contact his doctor and see what we can do for Brad,” she said. My distraught face was all that I could offer as response.

I went back into Brad’s room as Tina left to see what she could accomplish. Brad’s eyes were tightly screwed shut, but I knew that he was very much awake.

“Is it still really bad?” I breathed.

An almost indiscernible nod was my answer. I gently put my hand on his back, but his wince made me quickly pull my hand away. I retreated to the corner of my own pain, and waited for Tina to return with some news.

By the time Tina returned, Brad had shifted slightly, but still remained immobile. She addressed Brad, while looking me in the eye.

“Dr. Y is on holidays, but Dr. V is here, and she is going to come down to see you. I advised her that you are in a lot of pain.” Tina nodded at me when she continued and said, “She is going to arrange for you to get something for the pain.”

Brad grunted in response, as I exclaimed, “oh thank God!”

“A nurse will be in shortly to administer something, and Dr. V will be here as soon as she can,” Tina said. She added, "Try to get some rest now." With that, she quietly slipped out of the room.

True to her word, a uniformed woman entered shortly thereafter. She bustled in with a cart to check Brad’s blood pressure. He winced at her noisy arrival and I quietly noted to her that he was having a very severe headache. Perhaps the terrified look in my eyes, alerted her to the need for a little more care and she continued with her ministrations with a little less severity. Blood pressure done, she left promising to return in a moment. She came back with a needle in tow, as well as Dr. V.

“Hello Brad,” the doctor said as she walked in. She faintly nodded in my direction.

“I understand that you are in some pain?” she queried.

I looked from this all-business doctor with chart in hand, to Brad curled into himself trying to stave off the pain that was assaulting his brain. Could she not see that he was in agony? He was a patient of hers as well. She had administered radiation treatments, and discussed with him the process of it. She had seen him in better days, and was aware that he never admitted to weakness if he didn’t have to. But of course, she might not even know who this poor wraith on the table was. He was just another patient, another number.

She turned to the nurse and gave her instructions for administering medication, then turned to go. She had authorized morphine, and then was releasing him. She nodded again, then quickly slipped out the door. The nurse stepped forward to take control and I watched in shock. The morphine was good, but it did nothing for the underlying reason of what was causing the pain in the first place. Once the morphine wore off, the headaches would just come back again. What would we do then?

With Tina’s pep talk of being Brad’s advocate screaming in my ears, I followed Dr. V out the door. She was casually standing at the nurses’ station talking, when I walked up to her.

“Excuse me,” I broke in. She turned to face me with her generic doctor’s smile. I began to shake, but knew that I had to say my peace.

“Dr. V, Brad is in a lot of pain. I appreciate you taking the time to come and see us, but giving him morphine and sending him home doesn’t really help us. He has been having progressively worse headaches, and they are debilitating. They happen every day, and he can’t even stand when they strike,” I explained. “You can’t send him home like this. The drugs will help, but what do I do when his next headache comes? We have two kids at home. I can’t take care of them and him when he is in agony. “

She faced me, and only saw me for the first time. Her job as doctor was to treat patients, but she did not treat the people behind those numbers. I know that a high enough proportion of cancer patients die and doctors need to give themselves some space so that they can continue to function for all without being bogged down by the emotional strain of it, but I needed her to be human for me today. I needed her to see the man behind the case number and offer us some compassion. We needed help. I needed help to support my husband, who I feared was dying in the next room, as we spoke. This was me begging for something, anything that she could do for us.

My trembling lips finally touched the nerve that I was so desperate to find. She softened then and gave me her full attention.

“His file says that he is scheduled for an MRI,” she noted. “If we can find him a bed, we can get that to happen right away. Let me contact a few people and see what I can do.”

She handed me a Kleenex, as tears sprang forth from my hard fought composure.

“Thank you,” I managed to mumble, as I dabbed at my swollen lids. I struggled to compose myself again before going back in to Brad. If I was successful, there would be a long day ahead of us and I had no time to have a break down. I had to be strong now. I had to make sure that Brad would be taken care of when he could not take care of himself.

~

Wandering a path not always easy

   I just came in from struggling, straddling  and sweating my cargo roof rack into place on top of the van. Frig, it's hot out there! I am quite proud of myself for getting it up there though. I thought I would have to get some help to hold it in place while I screwed the bolts on (we shall see how good a job I did when I drive down the road - don't drive behind me as I drive over any bumps!). I did it all by my little ole self though, with no help, but an occasional breeze to keep my morale up.

   As I wiped the sweat off my brow, I stood back to admire my handy-work. I could not help but think back to  a lady I know, who is going through a difficult period in her life. I believe she is in her late 60s and her husband apparently is in the process of beginning a cancer journey. They have yet to give a formal title to the kind of cancer he has, but there is a tumour floating around by his kidneys that is approximately 3-5" large. Not mm or cm, but INCHES! For one not familiar to tumours and their size, that is huge; about the size of an orange. I have mentioned at various points in my blog some of the trials I have traversed in my own life with cancer. It is not a pleasant disease and it affects many, many people in the world. 

   Why I think of this lady today, as I claim triumph over a difficult task, is because she is very dependant on her husband. She has a driver's license, but generally does not feel comfortable driving any real distance. She can clean, but cooking is not a skill that she can claim with any true sense. As meal time approached recently, she suggested that she would make dinner (a simple meal of barbequed hamburgers). Someone commented that she would have to start the barbeque and she retorted "oh well, I can't do that! You better do it G." I was floored. She could not even start the barbeque! Perhaps she is not comfortable handling propane, but really it is a fairly straight forward task. What is she going to do if her husband dies? We all die, but with his failing health, one would assume he will succumb sooner rather than later. She is even afraid of confined spaces (elevators to be exact) and worries about what she is going to do if he is admitted to hospital for surgery and is up on the fifth floor for recovery. How will she get up to the fifth floor? At said point, I am aghast.

   Over the course of the cancer journey that I went on with my husband and grief journey I have struggled with since he died, I have had many challenges. Understanding diagnoses, assisting him in his mobility, undertaking more household chores when he was unable were all things that I just did, because I had to. I did not want to, but I did not have a choice. Well, that is not exactly right, as my Mother pointed out to me at points. Another choice could have been to walk away, but that would never have happened. To me it was not a choice. She pointed out the strength it took to be there for my family, that some just do not have. Since my husband died, I have taken on all the cooking, cleaning, bill payments and general running of my household. Again, I have not wanted to do it all and at points was very close to throwing it all away, but somehow I have found deep reserves of strength to push me through. My house is not cleaned as often as some, but I pay my bills on time and make most of our meals from scratch. I do it because I have to. Again, there is always the option to leave, which to me is a non-option. I have a certain level of pride in the fact that I go beyond the mundane chores and accomplish other tasks that need attending to. I painted my living room in the winter mostly by myself. When I had my basement renovated the winter before, I again did all the painting. I have organized having the furnace  and hot water heater replaced, a shed built, and every room in the house (but my bedroom) painted. I have lifted furniture on my own muscle, when I perhaps should have asked for help, but am learning that I do not have to always do it all solo. For me it is not a matter of knowing how to do something, it is more a matter of knowing that I cannot do everything and stepping back to allow others to do what I cannot. There is no glory in being a martyr, I have been told in not so many words. 

   So when I look at this woman, who will be in such a disastrous place when her husband dies, I feel a certain level of anger, confusion and disbelief. I have wished and wanted someone to be there for me to help with running my household, spending quality time with and enduring this thing called life. I am sure that someone will enter my life at some point, that I will want to share and care with. I am learning to like and love me and respect my abilities and weaknesses. Really though, I am content to spend time with me, getting to know me and my path. I would love to have more companionship, but I do not need someone to survive. That level of dependence is scary for me and I just cannot fathom it. I had someone ask me if I had talked to this woman directly, and admitted I had not. In crisis, you survive as best you can and she seemed to be pulling back from her usual outgoing self. I could not and did not want to put myself out there and tread in my own recent memories. I cannot change her world. She will have to survive it the best she can and all I can offer her is the strength to face the day. 

   I realize I have gone on here, but just want to offer a link to a support system that has buoyed me up over the years for any of you challenged by a cancer diagnosis. Wellspring is a wonderful organization that offers emotional support to individuals, family and friends of anyone dealing with cancer. It is a Canadian organization that has branches all across the country and I have utilized their services often. I have not always been as strong as I am today, but they have been there to hold me up whenever I have had a need. As I have trudged a cancer path, I know how difficult it can be. Any of you that need an ear are always welcome to chat. Peace to you all.

Normal

   An epiphany of a sort has been creeping in this week. Perhaps it was highlighted by the loss of a sweet woman in the blog-o-sphere. This woman brought back many images of me and my family in my darker days. She battled cancer and sadly succumbed to the disease last week. I follow a few blogs that were touched by this woman and her family's plight and many candles have been lit for them. I too walked the chaotic path of cancer within my family unit and was overwhelmed by its power. That time period will be with me always and I feel deeply and with such sorrow for any that have to walk that path. My cancer journey was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, but the grief journey that followed was even harder. I was shocked at the amount of work that it takes to process grief and am often still surprised by the knock and reminders that will live with me forever about these difficult days. I would never have believed how many tears could be shed, but I somehow survived and face a new day every day of my life. 

   What has struck me this week is something different though. Weeks before my husband was diagnosed, we had just had our first child. Ten months before that we celebrated our love by tying the proverbial knot (no need to do the math -she was our honeymoon stage gift!). Our days before that were filled with wedding planning and home renovations to our newly purchased home in a new town. For a period of about five years, I think that I hit a ridiculous number of stressors (good and bad) on the scale of stress factors. I seemed to only be able to function if we were going through some change or transformation. When Brad died, a big piece of me went with him. The death of my cousin a few months following, was just another in a long line of stressors that I just could not deal with any more. I caved and leaned on whatever supports that I could. Other friends and family disappeared at that time, but time refused to stop. I held on treading water and with help have moved through a seemingly insurmountable amount of carnage. And now...

   Now, I am normal.

   This week I looked at myself and noted that I have nothing going on in my life. I am working part-time and am happy with that. I am writing in this blog and working on two books when I can. I do yoga, participate in a drum circle and am part of a book club. I have two beautiful daughters that I love more than my life. They give me a reason to get up in the morning and put a smile on my face when I am not scolding them for some little thing that is normal for children their age. I have friends that enjoy my company and family that cares about what I feel and do. My worries and stresses are the everyday bland kind of stress that everybody goes through. My grief is still mine, but it does not rule me anymore. I face the day and the worst of it could be deciding what to make for dinner, scheduling a vet appointment for the cat, or making sure the bills are paid on time. All normal. Normal. Wow. You probably do not understand why this affects me so, but it is an epiphany that I noted for me this week. I am just like everyone else. I can shed tears for others today and do, but my life is okay just the way it is. And I think I like it.

Revisited Memories

I was on Facebook yesterday and noted a status update from an old friend of mine. She was "looking to the sky", which I immediately knew meant that she was remembering the passing of her aunt. Her aunt died from cancer a year ago; the third in a string of cancer deaths in her family. It reminded me of a post I had written around that time regarding cancer and how to deal with its ramifications. My history makes me an expert of sorts in the field. I thought I would repost this in Joy's memory and also in Brad's.

Saying Goodbye

I talked to a friend this morning to catch up on things. She recently had a double mastectomy, due to a disconcertingly high risk factor for developing breast and/or ovarian cancer. Her Grandmother and Mother both died from Ovarian cancer and her Aunt (her Mother's sister) sounds like she is finally losing the battle to cancer herself. With her Aunt slowly winding out her last few days/weeks at home the family is preparing for her death. My friend has two young daughters, the oldest one being very close to her Great-Aunt. My conversation touched on what to say and how to explain death to young children. She wanted to know how I explained Brad's final illness and death to my girls.

T was 2 1/2 years old when her father died from cancer. She knew her father was sick and may have understood he was getting sicker. In his last month of life he suffered from extreme headaches that were extremely debilitating. I often had to tell her to play quietly because Daddy wasn't feeling well and his head hurt. She drew into herself in her Daddy's last month, I am sure not really knowing exactly what was going on, but knowing that it was something serious. Where television had never held any interest for her, it suddenly drew her in. No surprise when Daddy napped often and Mommy withdrew and cried a lot more. TV was a happy place where everyone was having fun. At our house everyone was serious. Even with doctors trying to be nice, I suspect she sensed how much angst the doctors caused for her adults. She did not have a lot of warmth for them, despite the smiles they offered her.

Brad was hospitalized in his last few days. He essentially had a stroke, and seizures at the end left him in a coma. I was terrified and desperate, and not sure what to do. We had been seeing a social worker at the hospital and she helped to give me ideas of how to handle this final turn of events with the girls. R was only 10 months old at the time, so was intellectually beyond being able to comprehend what was going on. I tried to have familiar caregivers surround her and tend to her needs. When Brad was stabilized, I took T to the hospital so that she could see her Daddy. I explained that Daddy was very, very sick and that the tubes coming out of him were to help him breathe and give him medicine. Essentially I described Daddy as alive and sleeping, but very sick. I told her that if she wanted to touch him or hug him she could. It was a bit much for her and she was not comfortable with that. She did not want to touch him and did not really say anything. We had brought her favourite bunny on the suggestion of the social worker and I gave it to Daddy. I told T it was so that Daddy would know that she had been there and would have a piece of her to hold onto. She was okay with that, but we left fairly quickly.

The next morning Brad died before anyone could come and visit him. I believe that he decided it was time and did not want anyone to uncomfortably hover over him fretting, worrying and not knowing what to say. His parents were there moments after he died and I arrived shortly thereafter. My Mother and Father got the girls fed and dressed, then brought them to the hospital. The social worker and Brad's palliative doctor took me aside and counselled me on what to say to T. The tubes were removed from Brad before we brought the girls in, so as to lessen fears and stresses. R was brought in and shown Daddy and told he had died. T came in and I held her as I explained that Daddy had died. That meant that he couldn't breathe anymore or eat. He could not drink, walk or move his body. The medicine that the doctor's had given him had stopped working and Daddy's body couldn't fight off his sickness any more. Daddy loved us all, but he was gone and not coming back. It was some of the hardest words that I have ever had to wrench from my lips and I wanted to vomit for saying them. The truth was as hard for me to understand, as for her to hear and comprehend. Reality is not pretty or kind in situations such as this. The mixed blessing of it all was that grief does not touch children the same way that it affects adults. That being said they are affected by the grief process and even R felt the vast changes that were going on in her world. Children may not be able to understand all of the complicated emotions that adults grapple with, but they see the people in their world being affected by it and feel sadness in their own way. Time brings the reality of their loss into a reality that they can absorb slowly. It can take many years for children to fully understand and come to grips with such a significant loss. My own experience of losing my Father at the age of five has taught me this.

My conversation this morning brought me back to my not distant loss. While sad to delve into, it is my reality and will always form a part of my world. The glimmer that made the conversation more dear was the recognition from my friend that my words may help her when it comes time to tell her daughter about a loved one's loss. My story is painful, but my story can help others. I am not alone in my pain and neither should anyone else be.

a day; a life lived

   Hmm, what fabulous thoughts that run through my head are worth spilling forth this evening? Dare I comment on the Christmas decorations that went up today, that thrilled my girls when they came home this evening? Carols graced my ears and put a remembered smile on my lips. Heritage and history float in the air on the magic of the season within.

   Or shall I remark on my yoga practice today, that is always a highlight of my week. It shines in my life as an integral lifeline and sanity. This is as much for the emotional support I receive from my beloved Wellspring members, as for the actual practice itself. I could not face the day today without holding in my heart the thought of loving kindness and grace that has filled me up on a little mat sitting on the floor. The ting of Valerie's tingsha instantly melts my heart and releases unknown tensions from the day. (Tingsha creates a meditative vibration but is more commonly used for calling one into the here and now. The striking sound of the Tingsha has the ability to call one forth as well as clearing any disturbing energies in the moment. The Tingsha brings clarity and spaciousness to any space - http://www.stonesforbones.com/page/934329) Namaste!

   What about my conversation with a fellow yogini who has also lost a partner, fallen to cancer? Her husband was 59 and died three weeks after being diagnosed. The future is always out there, but it is ripped away in the face of this insidious disease. It is hard to truly write that though, as I have had many unexpected gifts in this journey. One of them has been me. The me that is here right now with you sitting at your computer reading these words. Cancer destroyed my world as I knew it, but handed back the seeds to germinate a new one. My new life still seems to fit loosely, but I am allowing myself to try it on. I did not want it, but the wretched gift continued to lie staring from the floor where I left it. It will not be ignored. The gift has been the sharing of it. A hard gift that is prickly to hold on most occasions. A gift that I cannot give back. And I won't. I shared my gift with a fellow journeyer this afternoon as the rain began to sprinkle down softly on our heads. She seemed so strong for so early into her journey. That strength is a garment pulled on for the benefit of a world that does not want to see our pain. I know she has had her bleak moments, but has the will somehow to work through them. I guess I do to. Don't mistake me for feeling poorly as compared to my compatriot. I know I am further along than she. I know the putting on of face for the day only to loose the stomach for it by night fall. Tears by the ocean have washed through me. That is not today though. I feel and remember.

   Perhaps I remember more today for the scab I picked at yesterday. Yes, I felt it all day, despite the Christmas crooning that tempted soothed spirits. After dinner last night conversation flowed with dear friends over a bottle of wine. The children were downstairs, lulled by a movie and our conversation somehow stumbled into my memory land. How it gets there I wonder somehow, but I have been told I have the gift of gab. When encouraged stories flow. When some of the painful memories spill forth, they must be followed through from beginning to end. I have had times when a story starts, but the thread is broken and I feel lost and broken. I have to let it out when I get there. As I tell my tales I am right back there. I feel glazed over going into this inner world of memory that seemingly tortures me. The stories must be told though. Last night I wandered through the day that my cousin was torn from my life. At fifteen it was much too early and too harsh an experience being five months on the heel of Brad's death. It led to another death, this a living kind. My in-laws dissolved from my world at this time and I still tell the tale. I lay in bed thinking on them last night. They still haunt my thoughts and I offer up my pain and regret to the ethers. A shame, a shame. Loss of a life, to bring on a new. I think that is where my rambling will end tonight. No grand epiphanies tonight. I take a kiss from the wind and curl into my pillow with it.

sweet dreams...

 

Saying Goodbye

I talked to a friend this morning to catch up on things. She recently had a double mastectomy, due to a disconcertingly high risk factor for developing breast and or ovarian cancer. Her Grandmother and Mother both died from Ovarian cancer and her Aunt (her Mother's sister) sounds like she is finally losing the battle to cancer herself. With her Aunt slowly winding out her last few days/weeks at home the family is preparing for her death. My friend has two young daughters, the oldest one being very close to her Great-Aunt. My conversation touched on what to say and how to explain death to young children. She wanted to know how I explained Brad's final illness and death to my girls.

T was 2 1/2 years old when her father died from cancer. She knew her father was sick and may have understood he was getting sicker. In his last month of life he suffered from extreme headaches that were extremely debilitating. I often had to tell her to play quietly because Daddy wasn't feeling well and his head hurt. She drew into herself in her Daddy's last month, I am sure not really knowing exactly what was going on, but knowing that it was something serious. Where television had never held any interest for her, it suddenly drew her in. No surprise when Daddy napped often and Mommy withdrew and cried a lot more. TV was a happy place where everyone was having fun. At our house everyone was serious. Even with doctors trying to be nice, I suspect she sensed how much angst the doctors caused for her adults. She did not have a lot of warmth for them, despite the smiles they offered her.

Brad was hospitalized in his last few days. He essentially had a stroke and seizures at the end left him in a coma. I was terrified and desperate and not sure what to do. We had been seeing a social worker at the hospital and she helped to give me ideas of how to handle this final turn of events with the girls. R was only 10 months old at the time, so was intellectually beyond being able to comprehend what was going on. I tried to have familiar caregivers surround her and tend to her needs. When Brad was stabilized, I took T to the hospital so that she could see her Daddy. I explained that Daddy was very, very sick and that the tubes coming out of him were to help him breathe and give him medicine. Essentially I described Daddy as alive and sleeping, but very sick. I told her that if she wanted to touch him or hug him she could. It was a bit much for her and she was not comfortable with that. She did not want to touch him and did not really say anything. We had brought her favourite bunny on the suggestion of the social worker and I gave it to Daddy. I told T it was so that Daddy would know that she had been there and would have a piece of her to hold onto. She was okay with that, but we left fairly quickly.

The next morning Brad died before anyone could come and visit him. I believe that he decided it was time and did not want anyone to uncomfortably hover over him fretting, worrying and not knowing what to say. His parents were there moments after he died and I arrived shortly thereafter. My Mother and Father got the girls fed and dressed, then brought them to the hospital. The social worker and Brad's palliative doctor took me aside and counselled me on what to say to T. The tubes were removed from Brad before we brought the girls in, so as to lessen fears and stresses. R was brought in and shown Daddy and told he had died. T came in and I held her as I explained that Daddy had died. That meant that he couldn't breathe anymore or eat. He could not drink, walk or move his body. The medicine that the doctor's had given him had stopped working and Daddy's body couldn't fight off his sickness any more. Daddy loved us all, but he was gone and not coming back. It was some of the hardest words that I have ever had to wrench from my lips and I wanted to vomit for saying them. The truth was as hard for me to understand, as for her to hear and comprehend. Reality is not pretty or kind in situations such as this. The mixed blessing of it all was that grief does not touch children the same way that it affects adults. That being said they are affected by the grief process and even R felt the vast changes that were going on in her world. Children may not be able to understand all of the complicated emotions that adults grapple with, but they see the people in their world being affected by it and feel sadness in their own way. Time brings the reality of their loss into a reality that they can absorb slowly. It can take many years for children to fully understand and come to grips with such a significant loss. My own experience of losing my Father at the age of five has taught me this.

My conversation this morning brought me back to my not distant loss. While sad to delve into, it is my reality and will always form a part of my world. The glimmer that made the conversation more dear was the recognition from my friend that my words may help her when it comes time to tell her daughter about a loved one's loss. My story is painful, but my story can help others. I am not alone in my pain and neither should anyone else be.