A beautiful imperfection..

“Grief can destroy you --or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death... OR you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it..

 But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see that it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it.

The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life." - Dean Kootz

 

These words echo a perspective that has formed in the losing that I have endured and in the moments of grief.

Oh....perspective. 

Perspective. Defined as the way of regarding or viewing something. 
Perspective is costly.
She demands a high price. She is a costly companion.

I have perspective.

She is a companion I now carry through these days.
I had to pay the costly price... oh, how difficult that cost.

This new found perspective places a freshly formed veil over how I view the interactions and the experiences that are before me.

Every event that I step into- I take Lady Perspective with me.

Every precious moment. There she is.
In the mundane- she can't flee. She is bound to me.
She was born out of the chaos of those dying days.
She was forged from the metal of the battle days- those days where the fight against the foe of cancer and his leaving us raged.
She was found in the deep seated grief of saying goodbye.
She was heard in the thud of earth being poured onto that polished timber casket.

That's where she comes from.

And now- in all that I do and all that I put my hand to- she whispers her song of new reality.

My world- Touched and tinged with perspective.

 

I have a new perspective about love and relationship. 

I think back to the Suz of our early married days. She didn't carry this perspective. 
She took him for granted. 
She took being loved and wanted for granted.
She raged against his long work hours and didn't lean into him when things got rough. She put mammoth expectations on him- to be perfect and constantly, perfectly attentive. Oh... if I could offer her just a sliver of this perspective. 

"Love him fiercely...imperfectly even. Just the way he is. He's trying his very best." I would whisper to her. 

Perspective. It strips away the unimportant, the ridiculous.

Perspective. It peels back the superficial to expose the true meaning of these days.

Just lean into each other- that one person who is your person.

Just value the mistakes as moments to garner a second chance.
Just relish, revel and be present in each day.

If you can learn from my hard won perspective- learn this lesson: don’t rush through each day striving for a perfect tomorrow. Be present in the imperfections of today.

Listen- I know.

I was that exhausted, cranky mummy of babies. Wishing their baby days away. You- tired mumma: Look around at the baby days of your children and smile at the beauty of mess and chaos. It’s messy and it’s tiring as hell- but that’s where the magnificent beauty of your life lies- in the imperfection of now. I was that wife of a workaholic husband, always feeling like I came in a poor second place to the demands of his career. And instead of providing a safe haven for him to retreat to from the rough demands of his work day, I was cold and prickly and mean. Oh- if I could share this perspective with that me of then.

Just stop. That is the message of this perspective. Just stop and be present in the imperfection of your now. Let second chances and fierce love be the way you live and love. And laugh more.

That is this perspective and her lessons.

 

This is a letter to you- the community of readers who have watched me attain this perspective.
You - well, you have watched this birth of perspective.
You saw perspective rise up in those battle days.
You heard our grief song in the dying days.
You watched me come to terms with a world without his grand physicality.

I have written of this perspective in these words.

And you have watched her, this Lady Perspective, unfold in this story.

I read back- to the start of this blog.

92 posts ago.
1305 days ago.
31, 320 hours ago.

 

I was sitting in yet another waiting room, waiting… always waiting. This time I was waiting for yet another PET scan to be done. We were newly acquainted with the phrase, “I’m sorry, but you have cancer” and I felt like I was tail spinning somewhat.

I had a coffee in hand and I was studying my shoes against the nondescript carpet of the waiting room. My phone was alerting me that I was receiving messages of love and support and that tentative querying about how things were going.

I wondered at a way to let everyone in our world know what we were living through. How we were coping with this “and then suddenly” tidal wave that had hit us.

And because I’m a storyteller- well… weaving those days and these days into our tale was what needed to happen.

 

You have been with me.

    
You have read what I have offered.
You have cried when the days were just so very lamentably sad.
You celebrated and cheered in your offices and lounge rooms when we had a breakthrough or got another bit of time to be with him in his grand physicality.

I have heard from all the corners of the world- stories that mirror our own.

I have read each message and it buoyed my heart to have contact in the valley of the shadowed place we walked through.

Community matters.

And you- the readers who have taken time to pause in your days and partake of our world- you have been a part of the community that sustained us.

 

And now- the story that was him and his valiant end is reaching for that final page.
He stands, perfect and whole, on that distant shore.
He has heaven and we have these days.

 

And now- we tenderly hold the echo of his laugh and the reminder of his bristly whiskers and we face the next days.
Days that are going to be like so many we have had since he left.
Days that will be shrouded in perspective. 
Days that are beautiful in the way they arrive with the sun- hues of pink and silver through my bedroom window.

Days that are heartbreaking when I see his sons turn their head to seek him still.

But they are our days.
And there is no timeline for this grief.
There is no expectation that I foster for how this grief will play out.

It will just play out.

And I’m ok with that.

 The chapters that have come before these days are never nullified.

Never quieted. 
Never blemished in value and adoration.
They are the days and hours that created who we are.
He is never nullified- not one iota or atom of him is nullified or quieted as we walk into the next chapter.
He is present.

I hear him.

I see him.
In the curve of his son’s brows.
That’s where I see him.

 

When I tiptoe into the darkened rooms each night to slip a gentle kiss on their brows- that’s when I hear him. Whisper soft. In the brush of my lips against their little heads- that’s the whisper of him. I carry that. I carry him with me. I carry the soft goodnight kiss that was his to give and is now mine alone. And he is there.

 

He will always be there.

 

And now- I look to the future and I smile.
I grin in eager expectation for what is to come.
The desert years of loss and devastation are behind me- I look with eager expectation to the coming days.
What has been stolen will be righted.
What grief has shattered and left torn will be mended and restored.

 

I just had a lovely conversation with a work colleague at lunchtime. She has been in our battle corner and a part of this amazing community throughout the ups and the valley-lows.
We were talking about how the boys handled Father’s Day and the one year anniversary of his goodbye.

I was telling her about how they are just so sad.

“As a mum, I want to protect them- to make sure that they never hurt…that they are never this sad again.”

She looked at me. She gently placed her hand over mine and she replied, “They need to grieve. They need to go there to those places of immense loss… And those sad feelings? They can visit. But they aren’t welcome to move in.”
Yes. Sadness will always visit. But it can’t move in. Go back to what Dean says at the start of this letter:  And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life..

Life is beautiful. Imperfectly beautiful.

It has to be.
It is magnificent and tragic and sorrowful.
There is the grand tale of redemption and second chances being played out every day.
Lady Perspective has painted a new way for us to value these new chances to smile and hold a loved one’s hand.
We have endured the rending of deaths goodbye, but we still know the magnificent gift of this life.

Yes.

I smile with expectation at what is coming.

Yes.

I smile with gratitude at what has been mine.

Yes- I have a heart full of gratitude for what this storm was unable to shake: the strength of community… the kindness of others.

Thank you- my community of load bearers and support givers.

Thank you for listening and hearing what this heart needed to say.
Thanks for pausing in your days to partake of ours.
You have given a stunning and generous layer of kindness to this story.

 

This has been a long letter- but it is the last one in this chapter.

I will continue to write- but in a new chapter- watch this space for details and links.

I have loved and hated writing to you.
It has been cathartic and painful.
I have become accustomed to typing through the sobs.
And now- this chapter is coming to a close.

 

I leave you with this thought-

 

Sheldon heard the faint whispers of Heaven in the days leading up to the completion of his earthly lot.
He leant in and his spirit humbled.
His heart, always generous and unfaltering in good intentions, grew evermore determined to face the end with dignity and strength.

It astounded me- the way that he so resolutely and stoically met his last breath.

Here’s what he taught me- this great man that I so fiercely loved:

 

This is life.

Imperfectly beautiful life.

It is a breath and a heartbeat.
It is the joy of a touch and a smile.
It is the opportunity to face whatever comes with the strength of togetherness.
It is the ebb and flow of liking and hating the very nature of each other. Of loving sometimes imperfectly. 
It is the morning, fresh with the first soft ray of dawn. Fresh with a new beginning and a second chance to maybe be a better version of yourself than you were at yesterday’s dusk.
It is the night, the dim stars appearing as though they are woken from a deep slumber. A chance to rest and retire from the chaos of the day’s demands.
It is hello- the pleasure of meeting.
It is goodbye- to rend asunder and be absent from.
It is the grief and the majesty of a privileged love.
It is the turning page of a new chapter.
It is beautiful, and horrendous and stunning and sorrowful.
It is the magnificent tension that we walk. Yes- a magnificent tension.

A tensioned line that stretches out between this life and the distant shores of Heaven.

And there he stands.
Perfect and whole.
Vital and at peace.

Where once he caught the faint of echo of Heaven’s shores as he laboured in a failing earthly shell, there he stands now and he catches instead the echo of us.

He tilts his healed and beautifully whole head to the side and he hears us- the laughter of his sons as they grow into men that will mirror him. The soft sobs that still shake our grief struck hearts. He hears our echo.

Oh… that distant shore.

Hold safe my loves and let them be assured that we who are left will smile at the future.

He has Heaven and we have these days.

These beautiful, imperfect days.

 

 

Dear palliative care nurse......

Dear Palliative Care Nurse,

The hallway always seemed to stretch on into infinity at night time.
In the midnight hush. I would sneak out of the room that he had badgered you to move him into.
The hallway would stretch.
And I would listen for you.
The quiet lull of your voice.
The shuffle of paperwork as you gave careful consideration to what each room required.
More morphine in 10 minutes.

You would smile the genuine smile of one who knew the weariness that was lodged deep in me. And you would point to the teabags.
"Cup of tea time. Are you hungry? There's toast.."
I couldn't eat.
But the smell of toast is comfort.
I'll make some toast.

When we had arrived this time- you had looked at me and I had known.
No words needed to be exchanged.
I knew that he wouldn't be coming home with me.

We had been in and out of the ward in the weeks and months before this time.
And you had edged around the moment- this moment- and what it would mean.
He had bugged you about what room was his favourite- "Put it in my file. Room 116. I want this room." He would tell each of you.. "I like to see the bridge and the cars. I feel like I'm still apart of life when I'm in this room."
And you did. You managed to get him into his room.

You stoically stood by my side as the doctor went through the motions of getting us settled.
For this last time.
For this last stay.

When he was asleep- oh, how I was thankful to you for helping him to find sleep- you gently led me to the small room.
The one with the table and the tissues.
You held my hand and you were honest.
You talked me through each brutal, heart wrenching transition that we would discover as he stepped closer to leaving me.
You were kind that night. That terrible night of knowing.
You gave me time to cry and weep the bitter tears of a wife who desperately wanted to keep her husband alive, but who hated to see him fade further in pain.

You were always present.
A different face.
A different name.
The same kindness.
The same compassion deep in your eyes when you saw our sons come in to hug their dad.






It's been a year.
That's a long time, oh but it is just a drop in the ocean of days and moments we will know without him.
It's been a year.
And I remember every second.
Every moment that he lingered and raced towards his death.
I remember it.
It is knit into the fabric of who I became when he left.
And in that tapestry of his death... there is the silver thread of you.
The palliative carer.
The nurse who would put aside her own emotion to carry mine so that I could just breath for a second... just find some calm for a minute.

You cried when he left.
You let me sit in the quiet room. Just me and his absent physicality.
But I saw the tears that spoke of him.
And my heart was quieted somewhat.
Because your tears spoke of his integrity and his kindness.
You couldn't help but like the man- I mean, he was cheeky and trouble but he knew how to make you smile.

The final thing I have to say to you, dear palliative care nurse, is this-
Thank you.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
A million words couldn't do the job of expressing my thanks.
But, in the moments and nights in those dying days that I left him in room 116 and I went home to tuck in our boys and kiss their sleeping faces, I knew that he wasn't alone or lonely.
I knew he would potter down that long hallway and find you in the still, dark hours of the night.
He would ask you the tough questions about what was to come and you would answer him in kind honesty.
He would call you to his room and let you know the pain was becoming unbearable, and if it wasn't too much trouble could you please give him some of the good stuff...

He would talk to you.
The palliative care nurse.
He would talk to you in those dying days and you would hear him.
When I couldn't be by his side, you were there.

In the shadow of the valley of death, God granted us his strength and the offer of His kind graciousness.
And it was you.
It was the palliative care nurse.

The Last of the Firsts

He was the youngest of four sons.

The baby.

The running family joke was that baby Sheldon could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents- he was the curly haired golden child.

His mum lovingly recalls how he was an early baby- in a rush to get to this world. Maybe he had been told he would only have 43 years and 13 days to be here- a beautiful physicality on Planet Earth. Oh- those days and moments that you walked upon this earth with the sure and steady tread of a man on a mission. Oh my heart.

His mum remembers that the tiny, premature to this world baby Sheldon Dale loved to be held and rocked. Oh- she sighs- the hours I would rock him. You couldn’t put him down!

I’m a mum. I have baby boys. My heart fractures a little when I hear her memories. A mum who treasured her tiny, last born son.

This week was his birthday- and his mum, for the first time, had to stand by a patch of Planet Earth and whisper a soft “Happy Birthday my darling son” into the earth.

This week was his birthday and his sons sat in a circle around a cake and didn't quite know what to do. Do we sing? Do we cry? Is there some ritual for the no-longer-with-us on their birthday??

Matthew saved the day. Oh, my strong and lovely-hearted Matty boy. He choked back the tears and said "This is about how special Dad was and how lucky we were to have him. That's all we have to do- just remember how great he was."

 

Oh, my heart.

I’ve both dreaded and longed for these days.

We are amongst the moments that are the last of the firsts.
We have survived and lived through the first Christmas.
The first Easter.
Each of us have had a birthday celebration of our own without him here.

We have had so many firsts since we laid him to rest in that earthy grave.

And here- this week was his birthday.
The marker that celebrates his arrival to this life he was graced with.

I have so very many words and yet I can’t form them into what I need you to hear.
Just this-

Happy 44^th Birthday my darling Sheldon.

The marker exists still- your grand arrival needs to be celebrated still.

Oh- how privileged is this Earth to have known your step and your smile and your kindness for 43 years and 13 days.

You lived with a vivacious energy and a generous spirit.

You gifted us with some really profound insights in those last months before you left.

You lived.
You were here.

It’s that birthday time... so would you eat a piece of decadent cake, or maybe have a shot of tequila- hey, go crazy and do both.

And as you do- would you raise the glass or the cake covered fork and remember him.
Remember the message that he echoed in his dying days.
Be present.
Be purposeful.
Be kind.
Be brave anyways- especially when it's scary as hell.
Put down the screen and look into a loved ones eyes and smile.

We had a conversation, me and him- on the way to his big Birthday party last year. He was so weak and tired. The pain was raw and he was fading fast.
I looked at him and sighed.
"It's a privilege and an honour to grow old". I said.
"Yep- don't ever complain about how many candles are on the damn cake Suz- it means you've had another year of love and laughs." He replied.

Hey- You have another year of love and laughs before you.
Use them well..

So...

We are amongst the last of the firsts, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful place to be.

We are amongst the last of the firsts- and the most profound is coming. That day that was your last is coming. How can it be a year?

The last of the firsts is where we are walking.

The Last of the Firsts

He was the youngest of four sons.

The baby.

The running family joke was that baby Sheldon could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents- he was the curly haired golden child.

His mum lovingly recalls how he was an early baby- in a rush to get to this world. Maybe he had been told he would only have 43 years and 13 days to be here- a beautiful physicality on Planet Earth. Oh- those days and moments that you walked upon this earth with the sure and steady tread of a man on a mission. Oh my heart.

His mum remembers that the tiny, premature to this world baby Sheldon Dale loved to be held and rocked. Oh- she sighs- the hours I would rock him. You couldn’t put him down!

I’m a mum. I have baby boys. My heart fractures a little when I hear her memories. A mum who treasured her tiny, last born son.

This week was his birthday- and his mum, for the first time, had to stand by a patch of Planet Earth and whisper a soft “Happy Birthday my darling son” into the earth.

This week was his birthday and his sons sat in a circle around a cake and didn't quite know what to do. Do we sing? Do we cry? Is there some ritual for the no-longer-with-us on their birthday??

Matthew saved the day. Oh, my strong and lovely-hearted Matty boy. He choked back the tears and said "This is about how special Dad was and how lucky we were to have him. That's all we have to do- just remember how great he was."

 

Oh, my heart.

I’ve both dreaded and longed for these days.

We are amongst the moments that are the last of the firsts.
We have survived and lived through the first Christmas.
The first Easter.
Each of us have had a birthday celebration of our own without him here.

We have had so many firsts since we laid him to rest in that earthy grave.

And here- this week was his birthday.
The marker that celebrates his arrival to this life he was graced with.

I have so very many words and yet I can’t form them into what I need you to hear.
Just this-

Happy 44^th Birthday my darling Sheldon.

The marker exists still- your grand arrival needs to be celebrated still.

Oh- how privileged is this Earth to have known your step and your smile and your kindness for 43 years and 13 days.

You lived with a vivacious energy and a generous spirit.

You gifted us with some really profound insights in those last months before you left.

You lived.
You were here.

It’s that birthday time... so would you eat a piece of decadent cake, or maybe have a shot of tequila- hey, go crazy and do both.

And as you do- would you raise the glass or the cake covered fork and remember him.
Remember the message that he echoed in his dying days.
Be present.
Be purposeful.
Be kind.
Be brave anyways- especially when it's scary as hell.
Put down the screen and look into a loved ones eyes and smile.

We had a conversation, me and him- on the way to his big Birthday party last year. He was so weak and tired. The pain was raw and he was fading fast.
I looked at him and sighed.
"It's a privilege and an honour to grow old". I said.
"Yep- don't ever complain about how many candles are on the damn cake Suz- it means you've had another year of love and laughs." He replied.

Hey- You have another year of love and laughs before you.
Use them well..

So...

We are amongst the last of the firsts, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful place to be.

We are amongst the last of the firsts- and the most profound is coming. That day that was your last is coming. How can it be a year?

The last of the firsts is where we are walking.

Generations

Hello August.

We are walking into August. It arrived today- it was a quiet, pretty arrival... all soft hues of sunrise.
All week I've been hearing people lament, "Where has the year gone??" and "How quickly are the months flying by?"
I may have uttered such thoughts myself as I realise that the end of year madness is fast approaching.

August is a 'line in the sand' type month for us.
It was the last month that he lived and loved and battled to stay with us.
He set a goal- a determined decision- to survive August.
He wanted to be alive for his 43rd birthday.
And he was.
Oh- that season of the great leaning in. Those days of thousands of birthday cards and the support and overwhelming push of care that they arrived with.
Yes... He determined to survive August.
And it was a battle.
Each day was tough.
Each day was brimmed and tinged with pain.
The physical pain that he endured as the tumours raged and grew. As his liver shut down- threw in the towel in violent response to the masses that had lodged there.
The physical pain- and the other type of pain. The one that lodges up in your heart.
That primal, heart wrenching pain of a long goodbye.

His final day at home was the 31st August.
It was the worst day we had- he was in and out of lucid moments. He knew- I could see it in his eyes. he knew that he was nearing the end.
The boys came home from school and he was sitting up in our bed. He gathered every iota of strength that he had and he opened his arms to his boys.
They all piled on the bed and what followed was a special moment.
The boys revelled in his arms being around them.
He fought to stay present.
I felt my heart shatter into a billion pieces.
I knew it was time for him to go to palliative care for that last time.

No more daddy-type bed time hugs.

At 11pm that night, we ushered him out the front door and he never returned. As he shuffled slowly past the boys room, his hand went out- a silent wave to his sleeping babies.
We got to the hospital and I wheeled him into St. Catherines ward. The amazing nurses began the process of getting him settled and he suddenly says, "Wait- what day is it??" One of the nurses looks at her watch and says- "Well- it's past midnight, so that makes it the 1st of September."
Sheldon sighs and looking at me says, "I did it. I lived August!"

He lived August.

And now- here we are. A whole year has marched by.
I've talked to you all about how precious time is and about how the fleeting beauty of the moments that we are granted are to be treasured. Treasure them!
Time.
A year.
I couldn't imagine being without him for a day, and here I am. A year has waltzed past and I am learning to fly again.
Learning to laugh freely.
Learning to expect that good things will happen- and that those good things will not be snatched away from me. Death and grief can foster that fear. That every time something precious and good is placed before you, it might just vanish.
It's taken some time, but I can now think about the terms "...a future and a hope", and truly believe that yes, maybe they still apply to me and my family. That maybe they weren't nullified by the curse of cancer and the grave.
That's the thing about hope- once it's been lodged and anchored deep in the recesses of your heart, well it can't be shifted- not truly. No chaotic storm. No cancerous growth. No sad, lamentable day of death- nothing can truly shift that hope.
It is steady and steadfast.
It is the most immoveable of anchors.
It was silent for a while as my heart mended it's shattered and torn edges, but then- it softly and slowly rose up.
Hope rose up.
It had never shifted.
I can see now that hope was the sustaining breath that I needed when I thought I could go no further- it whispered, "One step more, my girl. It will get easier. He has heaven and you have these days".
Hope.
Hope for a brighter day than the ones I have known.
Hope for laughter and joy that echo despite the grief of death. A hope filled laughter that flows from such a deep perspective of how beautiful the gift of life is.
Hope for Heaven and for the people that stand on her glittering shore.
Hope for now- that the healing will continue and that garment of praise will replace the spirit of heaviness.

Yes- hope rose up.
I heard her call.

And now- a year.
August arrived today. I heard her being ushered in by the early morning bird calls.
I had thought I might flinch or grimace at this day.
But I found myself waking with a peaceful heart- and a smile to greet this day.

And while I walk through her days this time around, my heart is full.
It's a different August this year.
No more pain.
No more long goodbye.

 So- Hello August.

You are called the same numbered days, but you have a different agenda this year.
You don't carry us towards the moment of his final breath, you carry us into a new chapter.

Thank God for the next page, huh?
Thank God that the next page is bordered and margined with the reminders of a kind, strong and courageous Sheldon- who we miss but who we KNOW is so very whole and at peace on that distant shore. And on this page we see the brilliant new days we are living written out in clear and determined letters. Oh- thank God for the next page.
Thank God for sons who mirror the very reflection of their dad- in looks and in kind heart.
Thank God for the days that are unravelling, touched with a new expectation and a future worth smiling at.

Yes- August, you are not the enemy.
You are not days to be sighed over or feared.
You did your job last year. You were his last month and you helped us find a moment each of your days to say goodbye.
Those 31 days of his last month are amongst the most precious moments I have tucked away. He was present and purposed in his love for those he adored. He dragged the most out of each moment. Because he knew.

What if you knew?
What if you knew that you had one more month to live?
One more month that would be named and numbered your last?
Sheldon knew.
And he gathered his loves around him.
Our house filled and brimmed to overflowing with love and our people.
What if you knew?
What would you change?
What person would you forgive?
What story would you tell?
What face would you study and burn into memory?
How would your last month be different to the hundreds of months that you had at your disposal before?
Would you love deeper?
Would you live kinder?
Would you be more present at the meal time conversations?
Would you put down the phone and look into a face for a conversation?
Would you jump on a plane and take that trip to hug that far away loved one?
Would you finally face the fears and the issues that hold you at ransom?
Could you find freedom from strangleholds in an effort to truly live free- if only for a month?

What if you knew that one more month was all you had?

Don't wait to know.
Linger in a kiss today.
Wrap your arms tighter in a hug this morning.
Face them- those fears and issues that have held you captive for too long.
Make every second and moment of this August count.
Be kind despite the unkindness of others.
Tell them- those people that you love- what they mean to you.
Be PURPOSEFUL in your moments.

Don't wait.
Live this month with determined JOY!

Find the crazy parts of a day and laugh!!!!

Adventures are ours to have!!!!

What madness is this?

I sat down this morning.
My coffee was hot and my slippers warmed my cold toes.

I sat down and I decided to catch up on the happenings of the world.
I've been living for so many weeks in a lovely little bubble planet... and I said to myself-
"Suz- it's time to catch up on what's been going on in the big wide world.."

I sat down this morning and I turned on the TV.
As the news anchor spoke and the images flashed before me, my fingers curled around my now cooling coffee cup.
As the anguish and the monumental heartache was communicated from distant, bloodstained shores... I sat.

I sat in silent disbelief- I mean, why?
Why?
Why?

We fought cancer.
An insidious and evil terrorist that tormented and wreaked havoc on healthy cells. Invading and overtaking until the cancerous cells were the ruling majority.
We fought cancer and we battled long and hard against a foe that we could name.

What is this madness- that invades our society in cruel and malicious means.
Worse than any cancerous cell.
Unnamed and masked behind the labels of religiosity and fundamental belief hierarchies.

Today and tomorrow, the families of those who were slain by this rogue madness will prepare themselves to say that final farewell.
They have had no preparation.
No last, long lingering looks as the life of their beloved slowly ebbed away.
They have had no discussions by the fireplace as the last moments crept closer- conversations about what life without their physicality would be like.
No.
This madness... worse than a cancerous cell... is a cruel and heartless menace.

And this madness is not merely confined to the headlines of today.
It's everyday.
It's 310 dead in Baghdad two weeks ago when a bomb ripped through a market place.
Madness.
It's the Syrian crisis.
A madness too heavy for comprehension.
It's the unknown and relentless attacks that plague this planet.
And closer to home the madness edges and dips her toes in our pleasant waters.
We push it back and refuse to admit that we, the luckiest of all lucky countries are amongst those who will fall prey to this... to this madness.

I know grief.
She is my friend and my worst enemy.
And I felt her sigh as I sat this morning.
I heard the woe in her voice as she whispered of broken hearts that are scattered across the face of this planet- broken because of a madness.

I sat this morning and watched a world turned upside down by madness.
And my heart ached for them.
For us.
For me.

And my thoughts turned, as a mother's thoughts always will, to the children that are mine.
To the world that they are entering into- bright eyed and full of the potential to be anyone and do anything.
And I felt a moment of bitter sadness. A sadness that was carried by the weight of a world turned mad.
And then, because it's who I am and it's how I am wired to process- I hoped.
I hoped.
In the face of hopelessness.
In the harsh glare of madness- I hope.

Hope won't disappoint.
It can't.
It is the fervent belief that things will be ok.
That, despite and regardless of how truly bottom of the barrel this world just might get, there will be a glimmer of good.
I hope.
I hope that the families of the slain will find peace.
Peace in the midst of chaos.
That is a beautiful, hard fought for peace.
It is a war-weary peace.

Hope- an expectation that there will be beauty in the midst of chaos.

If I have discovered anything on this journey of the long goodbye to him- it is this...
Hope matters.
Looking forward with expectation, even in the darkest and wildest of storms- it matters.
Looking to a day that is bright with laughter and love, even while death and heartache abounds... well that matters most.

I don't have a solution.
Or even a reason for this madness.
I have only this- a glimmer of hope.
A sliver of hope that my children will know a world where beauty lives and flourishes.
Because if we lose hope- well, then we lose the war.

Letting Go

The first big fight we ever had was epic.
We'd been married for about 6 months and I was pregnant with Krystopher- I was in that nesting stage.
Ok- I have to give you some of the backstory about our lives before we married just so you can get context.
Sheldon had lived in his house for quite some time- and he hated to throw anything out. He had boxes of power cords and piles of car manuals and containers of "stuff" that he just couldn't discard- in case- you know, he needed it one day. Me? I was just finishing up a uni degree and everything I owned could fit in the boot of my '79 Corolla.
And so the two became one. I moved my one box and suitcase into his/our house... fast forward 6 months and here's the situation.
I'm ready to nest.
I'm looking to clear out the "stuff" and make room for baby.
Sheldon has to go away for work for a few days and I decide (in my pregnant wisdom) that I would use the opportunity of an absent husband to have a spring clean- and when I say spring clean, I mean spring it on him- "Surprise... empty house!!! Clutter free!!!"
Well-  I started in the kitchen.
Oh- the kitchen.
He had 75 plates.
32 cups.
156 saucepans.
I exaggerate slightly- but you get the picture.
My theory was and still is- you can fit three baking dishes into the oven at any one time- so three baking dishes is all you need.
And so I took my theory and I put it to work.
I de-cluttered.
First the kitchen.
And then the office.
Oh- that man and his office.
If the zombie apocalypse ever happened- rest assured that you could find enough white paper, envelopes, pens and staplers in the office of one Sheldon Gakowski to write a million disgruntled letters to the Zombie invaders.
I loved the man fiercely, but oh my goodness he had some frustrating qualities. (She says smugly, because after all- she is practically perfect in every way.)
And his capacity to hoard (there- I said it!) was one of those infuriating qualities.
So here I am- newly married, pregnant and so incredibly proud of the way I'd revolutionised our cupboards and rooms.
I'd even found time to potter in the garden and get rid of all of the weeds.
Cue the husbands return.
Everything smells like Mr. Sheen furniture polish. The garden beds are dark with freshly turned soil. The cupboards are beautifully clutter free.
And he is simmering mad.
It starts slowly.
A bewildered shake of the head.
A shocked look.
"Where. Are. My Grandmothers. Plates."
He says it slowly.
"Ummmmmmmm.... what?"
He continues... through the rooms. Opening empty cupboards and looking for his "stuff".
"And what the hell did you do to the gardens? Why did you pull out all of the plants??"
Apparently the "weeds" that I had painstakingly removed were actually succulent groundcover plants- as in, real, actual plants. Who knew?

Let's just say that I learnt a lot about my darling husband and his connection to the "stuff" that I had discarded. He forgave me- and we ended up laughing about it years later. In fact, every time we moved house, I would get into "throw it!!" mode. And he would stand guard at the door, checking over what I was deeming throw-able.

And this last week has been epic.
Sheldon never lost his capacity to hold onto "stuff".
Our carport has been full of boxes of manuals for tractors and folders full of "stuff" that he just couldn't part with- and trust me, I learnt my lesson all those years ago with Grandmother's plates.

And so for the past 10 months, I have locked the door to the study and the carport and ignored the "stuff".
But it weighed me.
And while I craved for a clutter free existence, I was aware that the removal of the "stuff" was also the removal of physicality. His boxes of folders, his containers of odds and ends.
And so I ignored.
Until last week- when I could ignore no longer.
I have reached a new place in this path of grief and transition.
I'm ready to let go of the physicality of the "stuff".

You all know Aunty Heather- the personification of kindness in those last long, painful months of the goodbye.
Well, I called her again last week...and she arrived.
She organised my linen cupboard and did the baskets of ironing that were piling up.
And then, I said- "You know that show Hoarders??" as I unlocked the study door.
And then Aunty Heather went to work.
She started by holding up every object- "Keep or throw?"
She soon discovered that, unless it was obviously precious- throw it.
I have discovered that the physical "stuff" is not him.
Throw it.
Let it go.
It has been cathartic and cleansing to empty and to clean away.

And while I have sorted and discarded, I have felt my heart lighten with each load that has existed my front door.

The physicality of "stuff" is not the only changes I've made.
I'm taking a step back from work- I'm transitioning from full time to part time.
I need to find a balance and it's just not here at the moment.
I'm going to focus on being PRESENT for my three champion sons.
Not just a physical, adult presence in the house- but actually PRESENT.
And, for now, that means that I need to step back from work.
Now- for those of you who know me well, this has been a tough call on some level. I adore my work. I find validation in my work.
But I'm learning a lesson here-
It's ok to take what you need when you need it.
Life is forgiving and people will step up and lean in. They will stand in the gap when there is gap to be filled.
And right now- I need to take time.
Time is a precious commodity.
And so I'm taking time..

Listen- life is amazing and horrible and beautiful and fraught with ebbs and flows.
And it's here, to be grabbed and felt and consumed.
It's too short, this life we live- to be weighed with "stuff".

The release of his "stuff" has not meant a diminishing of him.
He is, and forever will be, so much more than a box of manuals or a cupboard of plates.
He is the tilt of my sons head and the resonance of my eldest boys laugh.
That's where I see him.
Not in the "stuff,  but in the flesh and blood of his legacy.

Find the precious- and treasure it.
Find the important- and value it.
Find the moments- and be present.
Find the release from the weight of "stuff"- be it physical or internal: and just be free.

And in the words of Princess Elsa: "LET IT GO!!"

What happens when...

What happens when it hits hard- this losing and this loss and this lost physicality of him?
What happens when I just can't... I just can't fathom another iota of this grief?
What happens when I am tired? Tired of keeping myself busy enough to beat back the absence of a life I tremendously loved?
What happens when I try to forget? And then I crave to never forget...
What happens when I wake and reach for him still.. still. Oh my heart.
What happens when I'm ready to laugh and smile?
What happens when I'm ready to run into the distant horizon and leave this place that echoes him?
Echoes the life we treasured and built and agonised over?
What happens when I'm empty of everything?
What happens when I don't know how to parent by myself?
What happens?
What happens when I suddenly realise that I'm doing really ok and I just might be ready to take another step without his hand on the small of my back, fingers sweetly entwined with mine?
What happens when I'm ready to unravel myself from the fading future that we will never own?

I know what happens.
Because that's what I've seen and known and felt these last moments and days.
Because that's what I have breathed and sighed.

Here is what happens.

I stop.
I mean, I have no choice but to stop.
And when I say stop, I mean I slam headlong into the stop sign that loomed in my way.
Oh yes... I stop.

So.
I've stopped.
I stopped so suddenly that my world ricocheted with the sudden nature of my stop.
I heard it.
I put my weary head down on the lounge chair- and there I decided to stay.
I just stopped.
I stopped and let the water of chaos and grief and running and being stupidly busy just close over me... for just a moment.

And here's the thing- because there is always a thing.
I could have gladly stayed there.
Under water.
Under the calmness of the stopping.
I could have stayed and just watched the world that I am trying to keep together disintegrate into a gazillion shards.

But I have these people in my life who refuse to let me stay under water.
They blatantly, down right refuse.

They knew that I couldn't move. So they moved me.
They knew I couldn't speak. So they spoke for me.

Listen, I'm not saying that I'm totally, 100% broken.
But right now- I'm a little broken hearted.
I'm not shattered beyond repair- but I am shattered in the most beautiful way.

A lot of people who love me have been watching this happen.
They have been standing sideline and have been cringing as they watched it unfold.
There's no stopping it- this outworking of grief.
There is only a watching and a waiting and a being there- ready with outstretched arms and no platitudes, but with a sigh and a tight-squeeze-the-life-out-of-me- type hug.

I'm ok and I'm tired and I'm facing a new stage of this grief.
Oh grief- you stand like the faceless figure on the shore, ready to collect the payment that is required to step foot in a new place. Grief- The gatekeeper.
And I'm ready to step ashore a new place.
I am.
A place that features me- the Suz that knows how to live days and nights without my mum and my husband.

I sat in my doctors office yesterday- and I told him that I can't sleep.
And I am tired.
And I'm ready to step forward in this life.
Because that's what life demands.
It is what Sheldon demanded of me.

And in my desire to be functional, faith filled and fine- I forgot to be real to what I have been through and what I have seen.

My doctor said, "I'm gonna be a doctor and label you- you are experiencing complicated grief and a bit of post traumatic stress disorder... You need sleep."

Traumatic. Hmmm...

On the 20th April, 2014 at 1:16 am I watched my mum, my best friend and my holder of smiles and memories...go. She left. She ceased to be a physical presence that I could run to and shelter myself in.

On the 5th September, 2015 at 2:23 pm I watched my husband go. He left... He ceased to a physical presence that I could cleave to and find adoration and protection in.

And in those in-between days- I watched him fade away.
A hard fade.

So yeah- I'm tired.
And I'm done being busy to try to fill the echo of empty arms.

And I'm ready to step forward and be Suz without them here.
They would kick my arse if I stayed laying on the lounge chair.
But the lounge chair is good for a while.
Just so I can sleep.
And remember how to breathe again.
And let the loss and the losing and the lost physicality make it's home on my world.
It's a part of me now- this loss. It's not something I want to wear around my neck- but I'm finding out where it fits.

So- if you see my around.
Yes. I know- I look tired. I am.
And yes- I'm broken hearted and beautifully being heart mended all at the same time.
I'm sleeping- finally.
And I'm laughing sometimes and crying at others.
I'm taking some time to stop.
Just stop.
And breathe.
And listen to great music and watch fantastic sunsets and meet new faces.
And I'm working out this only parent deal.
And I'm ok.

But if you see me- just hug the life out of me. And breathe some of your life in to me.
And smile deeply into my tired, weary, ready to step forward eyes and just say nothing.
Just hug and smile.

300 nights ago.

I’m standing outside in the dark. The cool chill has crept into the air and it’s the season of fire pits and rambling conversations over a glass of Shiraz.

300 nights ago. That's where I am.
300 nights ago- he is still here.

He knows that his time is slipping fast through the hourglass of remaining moments and hours that are allocated his. He knows.

I’m standing outside and it’s dark. It’s cold tonight. Inside the house, the lights are on and there is movement. The flow and ebb, the lull and the chaos of dinnertime.

She is standing in the kitchen. Pouring a glass of wine. She tilts her head to the side and listens for the shower. He can’t stand up and shower anymore. He is just so very tired. The sallow in his face has snuck in and settled, severe and apparent over the past weeks. She listens and knows that he is sitting on the shower chair- letting the warmth and the solitude of a veil of warm water soothe him.

I’m watching her- the strain of knowing he is leaving soon is etched so deeply into her face. Into the lines around her tired eyes. Into the set of her mouth.

I am her.

She is me.

I am outside.. Standing in the dark and I see her.

She sips the wine and closes her eyes for just a moment as it slides in warmth down her clenched throat. She can’t relax. He is having such a bad day. The morphine isn’t enough to ease the pain that he is in. He is tired and in pain. She calculates how much more morphine she will give him so that he can rest. Her life is dosage and medication and watching him fade.

I reach out my hand towards the cool glass of the window. I know her. She is me and I can see her. The pain of his going is etched deeply tonight.

“It’s going to get bad…” I want to whisper to her. But I can’t and I won’t. Let her think that tonight and the moments she is enduring now are the hardest parts. This pain that he is in… The slow goodbye, bittersweet and heartbreaking.

“So much worse..”  I would whisper.

 

I look around the room- people are there and they love her fiercely. They are beside her as she walks this goodbye. It is their goodbye as well- they love him wholeheartedly. He is loveable.

I know the way they love her, this me who is watching her great love fade away, because they love me in my now just like they loved me on this night.

The shower stops and she puts down her wine suddenly, so that it spills on the bench. Her movements are hurried as she steps around the kitchen bench and goes towards the bedroom. Eyes follow her and she slips into the room.

I’m standing outside. It’s cold tonight and he is going.

He is leaving her.

He left me.

I can see her, this me who is heartsick with the longing to never let him go.

I know her.

It’s been nearly a year since I was her. Hundreds of days and nights since those hours we spent around the fire pit with our people. Those hours and moments of saying goodbyes in each kiss, each smile, each whispered conversation late at night. Bodies turned towards each other, her fingers stroking and memorising the contours of his face.

The bedroom door opens and he leans heavily against the wall. The soft shuffle in his slow stride moves him forward to the chair that is left unoccupied for him. He is tired. The final fade has arrived- He knows.

I’m standing outside and I see him. The way he slowly lowers his failing body into the chair. The way she lingers slightly to make sure that he is comfortable enough. The way she fixes a smile onto her face, and gives him a cheeky mouthful about something.

He knows. He knows that he is leaving her.

She walks past him and his eyes follow her. They follow that me who I am watching. She picks up her wine and takes another sip. He watches her and his eyes close in a heavy weariness.

I can see them.

Walking towards this end with no option but to be together.

No option but to face it with a determined stride.

But I know.

I know that she is not determined.

Or brave.

Or strong.

Or inspiring.

She is broken.

Broken hearted that he is going.

This.

This is what we have in common- this her and this me.

Her broken heart is his going.

My broken heart is him gone.

I see them. My people.

The house full of people. Leaning into talk to him because he still has so very much to say.

He always had so much to say.  I smile at the way she purposefully disagrees with him- just to get a bite.
He knows what she is doing and plays along.

I see them. And I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to bang on this frosted window and scream at them-

“This is the best part of a goodbye… his being here. He is here and you are not alone!!”

I want to grab her and let her see the hollow place in my eyes. The hundreds of days that have rolled past since this night that I am watching from outside have left a hollowed place deep in my eyes and I want her to see it.

But I won’t.

Let them think that this is the hardest part.

Let them think that.

I don’t want to walk away. I want to stay here, in the cold night and keep watching this house, my house on a night 300 nights ago. 

I want to watch the way she walks past him and brushes his hair away from his forehead before she leans in to give him a kiss. I know her. I am her. I see her and I want to be her again. Because when I was her, I had him.

 

But I turn.

I turn and it is over. She is gone- she has become this me.

And the hundreds of nights disappear and I am here. Tonight.

 

The lounge room is quiet and dark when I look again.

Hundreds of days and nights have slipped past and the kitchen is silent.

The chairs are empty.

 

He is gone.

And my heart loves him still. That will be unchanging and unchangeable.

And she is gone.

That tired carer.

That tireless and weary woman who lived each day waiting for him to leave her.

She is gone and she is now me. This Suz.

 

That’s what has happened. The hundreds of days that have slipped past since those nights of our long goodbye have meant that she, that woman who loved to brush back his hair from his forehead, has had to learn what life is like on the other side of a goodbye.

 

There are no titles that she wants as she has become me.

Widow doesn’t suit her.

Single is too final for her liking.

Alone is scary.

Single mum is scarier.

 

“Just Suz- that’s what I want to be” has been her thoughts as she has stepped into these new moments.

Suz- who loves to laugh uproariously and who is irreverent at inopportune times.

Suz- who is a little lost sometimes but mostly found in the network of people who love her fiercely.

Suz- who isn’t quite sure what grief looks like or how it is meant to work, but does know that sometimes her heart is about ready to burst open with the enormous immensity of the way that it aches. And other times its perfectly content in the days that are unfolding.

Suz- who needs to be loved. She always has- she always will.

Suz- who is constantly amazed that she parents these sons. These sons who have so many reasons to hate the world, and yet who are the first to forgive and the loudest to cheer her on as she stumbles and stuffs up.

Suz- who will continue to make decisions about these new days and hope to high heaven that they are actually the right ones. And if they aren’t, then at least that she would have the fortitude to own them. Learn and move on.

Suz- who misses being his wife. Who misses the ebb and flow of a life that was ours.

Suz- who knows that she will one day be a wife again… one day.  And she knows that great joy will find a home in her heart once more.

If I could go back, step into the past- here is what I would tell her. That me from a couple of hundred nights ago… I would whisper to her as I held her tight in her tired, weary brokenness:

 “You will hurt. And you will heal.

You will drink too much and you will hate to be hungover.

You will rage in the lonely hours of the night and you will hate the world.

You will find joy in meeting strangers and great delight in making friends.

You will wonder at every decision that you make, because it is weighted with the responsibility of three sons.

But Suz… You will be ok. You really, truly will. You will survive his leaving you and you will be ok.”

 300 nights have slipped past me.

I’m approaching the season of fire pits and rambling conversations over glasses of Shiraz. And I’m going to be ok.