When we married, we did so with the knowledge that children were possibly and quite potentially out of the realm of reality for us. Sheldon had already been through the rigours of a cancer battle and I had, well... dodgy, uncooperative ovaries.
We talked about it- long and honest conversations that always ended with the promise that all we truly needed was each other. We would then turn our attention to the map of Europe that was blu-tacked to the office wall and plan the great trips we would take.
We married on- quite possibly- the most humid day in the history of North Queensland humidity. I wanted the works- the dress, the pastel softness of carnations and mountains of tulle. I got it all. I laugh at her- that young bride and shake my head when I recall the demands she made in an attempt to have the ideal wedding day- and it was. Ideal.
Not perfect- but so very fun.
The church bells that rang as I arrived in my veiled glory. (yes... I know)
The drunken goldfish.
The jazz band.
Such a lovely day.
We began married life and I had this plan that we would work for a year or two and then pack ourselves up and travel- we wanted to see Russia and Poland. We talked about eating Belgium chocolates in Belgium and drinking German beer in Germany.
And then suddenly.
I had these plans to fill our childless state and then suddenly we were pregnant.
I can honestly say that I thought I was perfectly fine with the idea of possibly never having children- right up to the moment I found out that I was pregnant. The overwhelming tidal wave of relief and desire to hold that child in my arms just about floored me. I wondered if I had been lying to myself when I said I didn't need a child- to protect that part of me that wanted to be a mother. I don't know.
Well- one miraculously unplanned and unlikely pregnancy and subsequent bouncing, gorgeous baby boy was soon (very, very soon) followed by yet another miraculous, unlikely and unplanned pregnancy. Except this time there were two bouncing, gorgeous baby boys. And then suddenly we had three babies.
And we never travelled. We put the map of Europe away and replaced it with portraits of our boys. And we didn't mind. Not one bit. We didn't need to see the universe when ours revolved around our three sons.
And we tucked the travel bug away with promises that when the boys were grown - then we would be that totally fit and amazing couple in their 50's who travelled and sent home postcards from Germany where we would drink German beer- and we would actually really appreciate it, you know?.. Because we were older and wiser.
And then suddenly...
I'm not working at the moment.
I have taken the option afforded to me by my employer to just be with him.
We have spent more quality time together in the past few months then we had in the years of health and business of that before cancer life.
It's been lovely to just be with him.
Sometimes, when we are deciding where to eat lunch, I pretend that we are old and retired. That our sons are grown and settled in their own lives. I sigh that they are just too busy to call their mother. I imagine that we have just come back from our most recent trip- we spent a few weeks touring cathedrals in Venice- and then suddenly.... I wryly smile as I thank my imagination for the chance to be old with him.
I know.
This is a really different tone to most of my writing.
I know.
I sound quite morose and...sad.
Well- sometimes I am.
Sometimes I'm so angry that I can't even function.
Sometimes the tears just don't stop.
Sometimes I'm so tired and wrung out that I can't even... I just can't even.
Not always.
Just sometimes.
This has been a week of rollercoaster type ups and downs. The extremes of these emotional demands has taken a toll on our family..
A rollercoaster of a week. And not a slightly dipping and weaving rollercoaster- no. It's Buzzsaw at Dreamworld.. It's the Tower of Terror. It's sharp and sudden and unpredictable and I want to go through it was my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I fight the urge to scream "Just stop!! I want to get off!!!"
Sheldon was in hospital last week to deal with severe and debilitating pain. He spiralled quickly and looked terribly sick. After the palliative care team had given him the pain killers that he needed and the Do Not Resuscitate forms had been signed, I kissed his head and told him to sleep. I slowly walked towards the car with the knowledge that "it" had probably started.
"It"... the end.
I cried as I drove home and I catastrophized.. prepared myself for what might come.
I prayed...I sighed these wordless prayers that God has come to expect from me.
When I got home, our eldest son was still awake. He crept out as I sat, wilted and spent, in the lounge room.
He asked, in a quiet whisper, where his dad was. I saw it- the same expectation of the worst to come.. right there in his eyes.
He 's 9.
Not even double figures. And everyone knows that you don't have to grow up until you hit double figures.
"Dad's fine." Was it a lie? I waged a battle right there and then. What weight can I put on these little lives? How much of my personal pain and upset can I show them without weighing their already burdened hearts down?
After all, I reasoned- he's not an adult, able to shoulder the burden of these days. But Sheldon said we were never to lie to them.
"Dad's been in pain... a lot of pain. The pain is caused by the tumours in his liver. He's resting now. We'll check to see how he's feeling tomorrow." Honest. Straight forward. The facts, Just give them the facts. Children can handle the facts.
But this boy...he's my son. He's part of me. Created from me and he knows me. And so, he put his arms around me, patted my head and consoled me. He whispered "I'll be your strength, you be my strength.."
I cried.
What false idea did I have that my adult-ness could bear this burden better than a 9 year old? Because here was that idea in it's undoing.
That was a tough day.
True to the manner that we find our lives unfolding, the next day was a great day. No reasonable or predictable path here.
The dreaded end stage of the night before seemed to have tucked it's tail between foul cancerous legs and scurried away.
In mere hours we were catapulted from staring down the harrowing days of morphine packs and measuring pain and I walked into the palliative care ward to find my husband, bag packed, feeling great and eager to find some decent food.
So we left hospital and found him some suitably decent food.
That was a good day.
See? This is the way it is.
Rollercoaster days. Tough days that are gut wrenching and horrendous in the toll they take. Rollercoaster days. Great days where we can push cancer back.
This morning, pain woke him up. I knew it as soon as I opened my eyes. The stiff way he sat on the edge of the bed. The stilted way he told me that he needed something for the pain. I was instantly awake. No caffeine necessary.
"If it gets worse, take me to the hospital..."
We waited to see if the collection of pain killers that we have available to us here would do their job. When he is in pain, their job is to get him out of pain and keep him out of hospital.
They worked.
It was an okay day.
It could have been worse.
It could have been better.
Tough days.
Great days.
Teary days.
Angry days.
These are the days we walk.
But hey- I'll take them any way they come, because I get to have these days with him right here.
