And so the work begins

After my experience when Dad died, having thrown myself back into work pretty much straight away, and not allowing myself the time and space to grieve his death properly, I have determined that I'm going to make sure I don't do that again. The therapist who I have been seeing gave me some very wise advice about doing whatever it takes to make sure I am emotionally ready to work, and be 'the minister', when I finally go back home.

So with this in mind, I have planned out a very particular process for dealing with all of the things that need to be done, and attending to my own self care along the way. (I have been jokingly referring to it as my 're-entry plan'). 

Since Mum died, I have been very deliberate about focussing on only doing one thing at a time: first on planning the funeral, and then taking some 'me' time out in Tasmania, and not throwing anything away, or packing any of her stuff up, and only making the formal notifications of her death that were absolutely necessary at the time.

But now the time has come in my plan for me to start attending to the practical things of sending letters to various organisations, clubs etc that Mum had dealings with, to inform them of her death, and ask for her to be removed from their membership/contact lists, and the packing up and chucking out tasks (although I am still awaiting the arrival of the death certificate, which is rather necessary for some of these notifications).

Today I have a couple of difficult phone calls to make. One is to Greenwich Hospital, to arrange for the return of the equipment we borrowed from them, and also the practical details of the donation of Mum's motorised lift chair to the hospital. That won't be so hard.

The second phone call is to an old friend of Mum's, who is one of the 'Christmas card list' people. I received a letter from this person yesterday, following up the Christmas card letter I sent in early December, asking how Mum is going. I have to ring and let her know that Mum has died, which I expect will be as hard for her to hear as it will be for me to say.

At the moment I am procrastinating... watching repeats of cop shows on Foxtel, pottering around with Facebook, and looking up cinema times for a movie this afternoon. But I probably need to make those calls pretty soon... or maybe I'll wait till tomorrow, when I might be able to trust my emotions a bit more, to be able to talk about Mum, or even think about her, without bursting into tears.

I miss her so much...

It's now twelve days since Mum died. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday, and at others it feels like an eternity.

All around the house are reminders of her: the cardigan she was wearing a few days before she went into hospital, draped over the back of her chair; her slippers in the bedroom; the unfinished vest she was knitting, with only the neck to finish off (but she just couldn't work out how to follow the pattern for that bit, so it was put aside. Now it will never be finished).

And of course, the reminders that she's not here: the empty towel rail in the bathroom, her empty bed and not having to sort her clothes from mine after I do the washing.

Every time I use the bathroom, I remember the many times I would sit on the chair in the corner when she was on the toilet; waiting for her recalcitrant bowels to move, and the particular way she had of folding the toilet paper before use, and tapping her hands on the hand basin when she had washed them. She once commented that it was a nice change to have someone to talk to when she was on the toilet.

I cry a lot. It sneaks up on me and then hits me, and I sob. At Mum's funeral, as I was greeting relatives and friends as they arrived, I would catch myself thinking, "I must tell Mum that so-and-so came". And then I realised... and I cried.

I miss her so much it hurts.

I should point out here that what I am experiencing is all part of the normal and healthy grief process. I know this, and I also know that the intensity of the feelings will fade with time. I don't need anyone to pat me on the head, hold my hand and tell me this. I know it. I experienced it when Dad died just over five years ago.

This is all stuff that I need to go through, and I don't need people to give me advice on how to handle it; I have my plans for that already. I write about it here and on Facebook because the act of writing helps me to process my thoughts and feelings; again an important part of the grief process.  I'm happy to share this process with those of you who read this. However, I'm aware that a number of my friends are also struggling with their own pain and grief right now, so some might find some of this a bit hard to read, and if so, I'm sorry for that. 

Eulogy for a special Mum

This is the tribute I shared today at my mother's funeral. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to keep it together, but somehow I managed it. 

We’re here today to celebrate the life of my mother, Isobel Ann Field.

It’s impossible for me to do justice to her life in the little time available (or even if I had hours), so I hope that what I can offer here will maybe spark some memories you have of Mum’s life, or maybe fill in some gaps and tell you something you didn’t know about her. I encourage you to share your own stories and memories of her life with each other over afternoon tea after the service (and toast her with some of her dreaded legless lexia).

Isobel was the youngest of eleven children born to Bessie and William Jones, on May 22^nd, 1936. As with many large families in those days, life was hard, and the family was poor, especially when Isobel’s father became too ill to work, and eventually died when she was only 11 years old.

Despite that, Isobel had some fond memories of her father. Even though he was a very harsh taskmaster on the older children, especially the boys, Isobel was the baby of the family, and the favourite. She got away with much mischief, her older sisters often getting the blame for things she got up to.

She told me of times when she was very young and her father was still working, when he’d come home on pay-days, and sit her on his lap, and tell her to dive into his coat pocket. There she would find a lolly pig (a sweet which some of you may be old enough to remember), and this was a special treat for her every pay day.

Isobel did very well at school, and came top of her class at Asquith Primary School every year. Dad often commented that I got my academic prowess from Mum’s end of the gene pool, rather than his. But after Isobel’s father died, it was like a switch turned off in her brain, and she really couldn’t be bothered with school any more. So at the Home Economics Secondary School she attended (because girls didn't go to 'high schools' in those days), in most of her classes, the teacher’s opening line would be, “Miss Jones, up the front!”

Isobel also spent some time in her teen years living with her sister Phoebe and her husband on their farm in North Queensland. It was there that she learned to ride a horse, and became quite proficient at daredevil horseback stunts.

She left school at the age of 15, and started working at Woolworths, where her oldest sister, Mona (21 years her senior) also worked. Out of all of the Jones girls Isobel and Mona were probably the most alike in looks; and their Woollies co-workers often mistook them for mother and daughter rather than sisters.

One of Isobel’s jobs on the lolly counter was to weigh up the bags of mixed chocolates for sale. Her mother had a particular favourite, and so Isobel would be sure to make up a couple of bags exclusively of these particular chocolates (with a secret code mark on the bag) so that when her mother came in to buy her chocolates, Isobel could sell her these special bags, instead of a standard mixture.

Around this time, Isobel joined an amateur theatrical troupe, known as The Merrymakers, who rehearsed in the Beecroft Community Hall, and performed revue-like shows for local nursing homes and hospitals. At 5’8”, Isobel was the tallest girl in the company, and as she told me (and anyone else who would care to listen) on many occasions, she had the longest, and best legs in the company too.

It was in the Merrymakers that she met the man she would spend over half a century with, Neville Field. Their first date was the Woollies staff Christmas party. Of course, Neville was such a shy, retiring little thing when it came to the fairer sex, that Isobel had to take the initiative and ask him out... but it all took off from there.

There was a bit of culture shock on both sides, I think, as Neville, an only child, was indoctrinated into how things worked in a larger family, and Isobel was boggled by the privilege and plenty of Neville’s upbringing.

The Joneses were great practical jokers, and Neville found himself the victim of such a joke played by Isobel’s sister Lew, the first time he went to meet the family. But later on, it was Isobel’s turn- on one occasion when she went away with Neville and his parents to the Central Coast, she short-sheeted Neville’s bed, AND sewed up all the arm and leg holes of his pyjamas. Neville’s mother thought this was just outrageous, and especially scandalous that Isobel should be touching his unmentionables since they weren’t yet married, only engaged. Of course, it is usual when this particular joke is perpetrated, for the PJ arm and leg holes to be roughly hand sewn to enable them to be quickly unpicked when the joke had run its course. I’m not sure whether Isobel didn’t realise this, or was just a bit bloody-minded about doing the job properly, but she used a sewing machine, and it took quite a while before Neville was able to actually put on his PJs that night (adding to the disapproval of his mother).

But despite all this, Isobel and Neville survived all the practical joking, and got married, on 26^th January, 1957. Eight years later, their life was made complete when they became the parents of the most wonderful, gorgeous, intelligent child ever born ...

... and trust me, you don’t want to know some of the things Mum told me about those eight years of waiting, about the lengths she and Dad went to in their attempts to become parents. Suffice it to say, in her later life, Mum made a particular point of never asking young couples, “Isn’t it about time you started a family?” as so many people said things like that to her when she was young and she found it dreadfully hurtful. She often said to me, “If only they knew how hard we were trying to start a family, and how painful it was when they asked that question.”

Of course, this didn’t stop her from making comments to me about such things, and on one occasion, when I was in my early 20s, she came out with, “Don’t you think you should think about settling down soon? Dad and I aren’t getting any younger you know, and we’d like to be grandparents before we’re too old to enjoy it.” As an only child, of course, I was their only hope for grandparenthood.

After I picked my chin up off the floor, my reply to her was, “well, if you want to be a grandmother, that’s easy. I can do that for you, no worries. But if you want to be a mother-in-law first... well, that might be a bit harder.” I don’t think I’d ever seen Mum lost for words before, but she certainly blathered a bit, and once she found words, said, “oh, yesyesyes, I definitely want to be a mother-in-law first!” and strangely enough, she never hassled me about procreating again.

But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.

Having grown up in Parklands Rd Mt Colah, it was rather fitting that the place where Isobel made her home to raise her own family was also in Parklands Rd, this time in North Ryde. Neighbours were an important part of life in Parklands Rd. When Isobel and Neville were building the house, they ‘borrowed’ power from John and Kay next door, and that was the start of a lifelong friendship, and many long conversations over the side fence. I know that Mum was especially grateful for the love and friendship of Kay and John in the years since Dad died.

A strong sense of community developed among the young families. We had street parties on Christmas Eve at the Standens’, on NYE at our place and there were many games of cricket on the street, and other things that we all did together over the years. The mums in particular enjoyed a good chat in the mornings after we kids left for school. Apparently there was one day when Dad came home from his postal run in the early afternoon, and found Mum and co still chatting in their dressing gowns out the front.

Time marched on, kids grew up, and people moved out of Parklands Rd. But people also moved in. When Michelle and Justin were first looking at the house next door with the thought of buying, after being bailed up by Dad doing his ‘Neighbourhood Watch grumpy old man’ thing, they commented to each other how nice it was that the old man next door had his daughter there putting his washing on the line for him. Of course, I wasn’t anywhere near the place, and the person they’d seen was Mum, in the usual skimpy shorts and singlet top that she wore when she mowed the lawns, put the washing out, or did any work around the yard. Needless to say, many years later when Michelle and Justin shared this story with Mum and Dad, Mum was rather chuffed that they thought she was Dad’s daughter, probably a bit moreso than Dad was.

I am eternally grateful to the Listers for taking the pressure to procreate off me, by providing Mum and Dad with three delightful surrogate grandkids in Jessica, Beth and Joe. Mum loved to babysit when they were younger, and took special delight in going to watch them play sport. Is loved you guys so much, and having you in her life made her so happy- don’t ever forget that.

I could go on, outlining various things that Mum did in her life- how she worked as a cleaner, a parcel contractor, hospital switchboard operator and domestic engineer, but I want to tell you about the kind of person she was.

Mum was a very quiet and shy person, especially when she was young. She inherited her mother’s droopy eyes (as I did), which meant that if she wasn’t concentrating on smiling and looking happy, her neutral facial expression could look a bit like a frown or a scowl. This, coupled with her shyness, meant that people who didn’t know her often mistakenly thought that she was a bit aloof or standoffish. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Mum was kind and generous and a great friend to many people, and also incredibly humble about it.

When she first got sick, she received many cards and phone calls from friends, including some people she hadn’t seen for a long time, who commented on what a great friend she had been to them through the years, and she was genuinely surprised by this, and said, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, I’m nothing special.” But the reality was that she was special, and many of her friends have told me of the times they have been able to talk to Mum, to tell her things that they couldn’t share with others; knowing they could rely on her to listen, maybe give advice, but most importantly, that whatever she was told was “in the vault”. It was never shared any further.

Mum was also extremely generous. If ever there was someone who needed something, she would go out of her way to help, and supported numerous charities. On one occasion when she was visiting me in Victoria, there was a family in one of my congregations who had a granddaughter who had been chosen to sing with the Aust Children’s Choir on an overseas tour, but because of difficult family situation, her mother wasn’t able to afford the cost of the trip. Her grandparents had asked the church if we could auspice some fundraising events for their granddaughter, and when Mum heard about this, she quietly pressed a $50 note into my hand and asked me to give it to the family to help the girl (whom she had never met).

She was also very active. Her house was always spotless, and she often wondered out loud whether I had been swapped with her real child at birth, because I am such a slob around the house. My grandfather (Dad’s father), who lived with us for many years, once commented that Mum would catch the dust before it had a chance to land, and that’s how she was.

She also loved her sport. When I was young, she loved going to watch my cousin Stewart play 1^st division soccer for Marconi. Dad and I kept well clear of her at the matches, because she was an embarrassment to be around as she yelled things like, “Kick it!” and made various comments (usually not positive) about the ref. She also loved her Aussie Rules football. As a teenager, every Saturday, all afternoon, I had to endure the VFL Match of the Day (as it was then called) on TV as I was doing my homework on the loungeroom floor. And of course, her joy knew no bounds, when the South Melbourne Bloods relocated to Sydney, as the Swans, which was her team for many years. It was a special gift when they won the premiership for her last year.

She wasn’t just an armchair sportswoman, and played tennis with a group of ladies from the time I was in late primary school, until her illness meant she could not longer play. That group of ladies have been very special friends to her for many years. And many of them are here today.

When Dad’s health declined, Mum cared for him with very little external support (mostly because his stubbornness wouldn’t allow it). It was a stressful time for her. When Dad died, just over five years ago, it was a very hard time for Mum emotionally, but it also freed her up from the responsibilities and stress she had in caring for him.

During the past five years Mum and I have indulged in some ‘Girls’ Own Adventures’. We went to the Boxing Day Test, took a trip to Western Australia, where I introduced her to the Monastic town of New Norcia. She loved the town, and was a bit excited to shake hands with one of the monks at a social event in the monastery whilst we were there.

The next year, we went to New Zealand, which was the first overseas trip for both of us. When I was planning our trip with my local travel agent, he asked me if Mum would need a wheelchair, being in her mid-seventies. I looked at him and said, “My mother plays tennis every week. I will need a wheelchair before she will.” She was also a bit dark that, at the age of 74, she had to pay full price for a regular passport, and was one year shy of qualifying for a ‘seniors’ passport for half price. I told her that she just needed to make sure she got her money’s worth out of it, and make a few more trips overseas.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. After months of mystery symptoms and many many tests showing nothing out of the ordinary, Mum was finally diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February last year. When it was discovered that she already had secondaries in her lungs, this dealt a devastating blow, as we had hoped that surgery might provide a cure, but that also wasn’t to be.

Mum was always very pragmatic about her illness, and said many times that at her age, she had lived a long and good life, and was not afraid to die. She felt sorry for the younger people she saw who came for treatment at the chemo day infusion centre, as they should still have their whole life ahead of them, but the cancer was robbing them of that. However, pragmatism aside, I remember the day we received the news that Mum’s prognosis was terminal, Mum, Kay and I collapsed in tears in the corridor outside the oncologist’s rooms and sobbed all over each other.

In this past year, and especially the last six months the focus for Mum and me particularly, has largely been on Mum’s illness. And it has been a huge thing for us both to deal with. I have been especially grateful for the support we received from some great doctors, the Northern Sydney Home Nursing Service and the wonderful community palliative care team from Greenwich Hospital, which supported us to keep Mum at home for most of that time, and Catholic Community Services who have provided domestic assistance and other support.

I’m also personally grateful for all the love and support that I have received from friends, family and colleagues. Especially for the graciousness of my home congregations and presbytery in freeing me up to be here with Mum for the past six months.

It would be really easy to let the hugeness of Mum’s illness define how we think of her and remember her today. But that was just one year, out of 76½. So when you think of Mum, don’t think of the cancer, don't let it win - think of her generosity, her wicked sense of humour, her obsession with sport and her beloved Sydney Swans (and her excitement when they won the flag for her in 2012), her love of cheap sweet wine, and her birds in the back yard; the many Melbourne Cup lunches she hosted, her love for those around her, but most of all for a good life, well lived.

Whilst Mum was not a regular churchgoer, and probably wouldn’t have called herself a ‘Christian’ (and often boggled at the direction my life has taken in that area), she is the kind of person who was always selfless and generous and loving, and I could certainly see the light and love of God shining through her, even if she might not have been aware of it.

She’s now set free from the pain and tears and frustration of her illness, and reunited with Dad, who’s probably had a few things to say to her about all the money she’s spent, and things she’s bought in the years since he died.

Rest in peace, Mum, and thanks for the fond memories you’ve left for us.

Sleep in heavenly peace...

It's taken me a few days (five in fact) to get myself together enough to write this post.

On Christmas morning, my beautiful mother, Isobel, slipped quietly away from this world. I was having breakfast with the family next door, having enjoyed the fashion parade from the girls showcasing all the clothes they had received for Christmas, when the hospital called. The nurse told me that Mum's time was close, and I should come in soon. Ten minutes later, she called again to say Mum had passed.

As I was sitting at the table taking in the news (and we all had a bit of a cry together), I received a text message from a ministry colleague back home, and in response told her that Mum had only just died. She replied with, 

This day of birth becomes her day to be born into the next life. 'no more pain and death; God himself will be with them'.

Mum was more than ready to go, and I am rejoicing that her suffering and pain are now finally over, and she has found peace.

During the last couple of days of Mum's life, we shared some special moments. She moved into a private room on the Saturday afternoon. The Sunday was the last day that she was able to use words to communicate. Late morning, her friend Janice and husband Frank came to visit. When they arrived, I said, "Mum, look who's here," and she said, "Janice" very quietly. When Frank came in and said to Mum, "It's Janice and Frank," Mum's response was a very emphatic, "I know!" I couldn't help but giggle. When they left, Mum raised her hand in a wave, and said quietly, "Bye Janice."

Later that afternoon, we had a precious exchange, when I was holding Mum's hand, and feeding her pieces of ice (the only thing she was able to cope with by that stage). I said to her, "I love you Mum," and she replied, "I love you too". These were the last words she ever spoke to me, two days before she died. A special moment that I'll never forget.

The next day, Christmas Eve, was a bit busy, as a cousin and his wife made the trek from Coffs Harbour to visit Mum that morning. It was a traumatic time, as they hadn't been in touch with Mum through the year, and only found out about that she was sick, and indeed dying, the previous day. So there was still an element of shock that they were coming to terms with as they sat at Mum's bedside (and to be honest, it was the kind of angst and trauma that I really could have done without at that stage).

An hour or so after the cousins had left, Des the hospital chaplain popped his head in. He came in for a chat, and prayed with us. I was very grateful for his calming presence, and felt that my equilibrium was restored by the time he left us. Soon after that, we had a visit from a miniature horse, who came clip-clopping up the corridor to visit all the patients and their families. The horse's owner brought him right up beside Mum, and took her hand and stroked it down his muzzle, as by that time Mum was too out of things to do that in her own strength. In her younger days, Mum used to ride, and she loved horses, so I hope she enjoyed that visit (even though she wasn't able to respond in an obvious way).

After the doctors' visit a little after that (I suspect the horse would have been a hard act for them to follow, but still they persisted :-), I went home for lunch and a bit of a break. I came back a couple of hours later, and as I walked into her room, Mum's eyes met mine, recognition dawned, and a huge smile spread across her face, showing how glad she was to see me. My heart melted.

Even though Mum wasn't able to communicate with words any more, I knew that she heard and understood everything that I and others said to her (which was obvious when she responded strongly to something that the doctor said to her that day). When I said goodbye to her as I left that evening, I told her that tomorrow would be Christmas, and that I would be having breakfast with the 'grandchildren' next door, and then coming in to spend the day with her.

I kissed her goodbye, and that was the last time I saw her alive.

I'm not sad or angry or disappointed that she chose to leave this life on Christmas Day. As some of my friends have pointed out, it's a special day for a special lady.

I'm also not sad or disappointed that I wasn't with her when she died. Whilst it certainly would have been nice to be there holding her hand as she breathed her last, I think she chose her moment to slip away quietly when she was ready. And she also knew that she was surrounded with love and prayers, and didn't die alone.

The last few days have been taken up fielding phone calls, and making funeral arrangements. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I have a few fun things planned for the day, but I will miss her terribly.

Mum's funeral will be held on Friday, 4th Jan at 2pm at North Ryde Community Church in Cutler Pde. 

It's time...

"If you want to say goodbye to Mum before she dies, I suggest you come up sooner, rather than later. Her time is close."

These are words that I never in a million years imagined I would ever be saying. But I said them a number of times today, as I rang various friends and relatives to let them know how drastically Mum's condition has declined during the past few days.

So, this morning, the parade of final farewells began. And this afternoon, thankfully, Mum was finally moved from the four-bed, shared ward into a private room. So we will at least be able to enjoy some peace and quiet, and privacy, during her last days.

Despite having many months to get used to the fact that Mum is going to die, and six months of living here in Sydney with her, witnessing first hand the gradual decline of her health, there's still a part of me that just can't believe that she is really dying, and doing it NOW.

I guess it will take a while yet before I fully manage to take it all in and accept it. 

How long, O Lord?

This is my current cry to God.

Mum has been in hospital for a week now, and it is obvious now that she will certainly not be coming home. Both her physical and mental states have deteriorated significantly since her admission, and she hasn't eaten anything since Friday (not that she was eating any real food before that, but at least she was having some nutritional supplement drinks, which she is now refusing).

A catheter was inserted two days ago, as she hadn't passed any urine for a day and a half, and today the doctor said that a syringe driver would be implemented tonight for the administration of the bulk of her medications, as she has been having more and more trouble swallowing pills over the past few days, and her constipation seems to be having a deleterious effect on the absorption of her oral pain medications (resulting in more breakthrough pain episodes for her over the past couple of days).

Yesterday Mum lamented to the doctor that she is totally fed up and just wants to die. The doctor very beautifully and gently reassured her that they are doing nothing to prolong her life, just trying to keep her comfortable. She seemed satisfied with that.

For some time now I have been praying for Mum to die, and have asked my praying friends to do likewise. My biggest prayer for Mum throughout her whole illness has been that she wouldn't suffer too much with it all. Well, it's certainly gotten to the point (and has been there for a while now) where her suffering level has become unacceptably high.

It's been interesting observing the dynamic in Mum's four-bed hospital ward. Mum seems to be the most advanced in her illness, in that the other ladies are all eating quite well, and have been reasonably mobile and able to move around, even if with a bit of assistance. Mum is not able to do any of that. She remains in bed, only moved as nurses are able to reposition her, and the only thing she is currently consuming is sips of water, and sucking on ice chips. Yet, she is also much quieter than the others. When the lady opposite Mum is in pain, the whole room knows about it, as she moans and groans very loudly until she gets relief. (Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this is a bad thing, but just so foreign to the way Mum is managing her own pain and misery).

When Mum is in pain, she doesn't say anything, and in fact, usually doesn't even ask for pain relief unless someone (myself, a nurse or a doctor) specifically asks her if she's in pain. One of the nurses said to me the other day, "your mum is pretty quiet isn't she? She doesn't complain, and rarely makes demands of staff." 

And that's the kind of person Mum has always been. A quiet achiever, who never makes a fuss. Some things that are part of a person's core character never change, even when everything else is stripped away.

This evening after I left Mum, I spent a few minutes sitting in the hospital chapel. They have a prayer book there, where people are invited to write prayer requests. I wrote in the book: 

Lord, please take her, she's ready to go.

That is my prayer from now until God sees fit to call her home.

Feeling like a real failure in the domestic goddess stakes

Today for the first time, I was actually glad that Mum won't be coming home from hospital.

Since Mum's admission on Friday last week, my usual daily pattern has been to go into the hospital in the morning, spend a few hours with her, in order to catch the doctors' rounds, have a pre-lunch drink from the Jolly Trolley*, eat her lunch (the meals at Greenwich Hospital are yummy, and Mum's not eating anything any more) and then sit with her for a bit before heading home in the early afternoon for a bit of a break (and to run errands, do some basic chores at home), and come back to the hospital in the late afternoon for a couple of hours.

Today I decided to get a haircut in my early afternoon break from the hospital, so popped into the hairdresser that Mum goes to, on the off chance (which paid off, as I was able to get a cut on the spot). When I got home, I decided to dye my hair.

Some weeks ago, I became a victim of advertising, and purchased one of those new-fangled home dye kits that involve mixing a liquid with a colour powder in a plastic shaker and shaking vigorously to mix it up. After all the shaking, the resultant colour treatment is a foam, and the advertisement says that this makes it easier to apply ("just like shampoo"), and less likely to drip than the usual cream hair colorants, and it's supposed to be kind and gentle on the hair.

Well, let me tell you what happened. Firstly, after shaking vigorously the number of times decreed by the instructions, when I opened the shaker the concoction had not mixed all that evenly, and there were numerous lumps of unmixed powder throughout the mixture.

The 'foam' was also not as stiff as I thought it should be (as it appeared in the TV ads), and in fact was a tad watery (and when applying it to my hair, it was in fact more prone to drip than the colorant creams I have used in the past... and drip it certainly did :-( )

But the worst thing was that with all the drips, I managed to get some of the dye on the sole of my shoe... (are you cringing as you anticipate what's coming next, dear readers?)

Yep, you guessed it... when I had finished applying the dye, and had wandered out to the loungeroom to sit down and wait for it to do its thing... I saw them... some spots on the carpet... on the NEW, plain beige, carpet... vibrant RED spots. The worst was just outside the bathroom, and another about a metre from that, and two small ones in the dining room. At first I sponged them to try to remove the dye, and they didn't look too bad... but then, after the dye time had elapsed for my hair, the spots were much darker on the carpet (understandable, I guess, as the colour had developed on the carpet pile over that time :-(

I had another go at them with a special carpet stain remover... but they are all still very obvious :-( 
(so, needless to say, I'm very open to any suggestions for getting the stains out of the carpet, noting that the hair dye is of the permanent variety :-/ ).

Oh, and I also managed to get a smear of the dye on the white trousers I was wearing.... and some spots on my purple T-shirt. Have just put them through the wash, with copious amounts of spray on stain remover, and napisan in the machine, but haven't looked at them yet to see how successful that was.

So today I am feeling like soooo NOT a domestic goddess of any kind, and have resolved that from now on, the only colour that goes on my hair will be put there by a hairdresser in the safety of a salon.

Like I said above, I'm glad that Mum won't be coming home, so she won't see how I've managed to so obviously spoil her lovely new carpet. I also won't be telling her about this incident, as I figure it's going to be my problem in the long term, so she doesn't need to be bothered with it now.

* Every weekday, just before lunchtime, volunteers at Greenwich Hospital bring around a drinks trolley to all the wards and day clinics, with all manner of alcoholic beverage, soft drinks, cheese and crackers, chips and chocolates. I was sure I'd written about this in an earlier blog entry, but can't find it.
 

The beginning of the end?

This past week has been very hard. Mum’s condition has deteriorated significantly, both physically and mentally. She has been having some very disturbing and distressing dreams (e.g., the other night she woke in the middle of the night, terrified, and convinced that someone was in her bedroom, wanting to do her harm). 

Today she was admitted to Greenwich Hospital for symptom management. At this stage I’m not sure how long she will be there, as there are two possible scenarios: 

The first is that she may have a urinary tract or other infection that could be responsible for her increased weakness, fatigue and mental confusion. The hospital will be performing tests to check out this possibility, and if it is the case, there will be a relatively easy fix, with some simple antibiotics, and she may start feeling better and be able to come home soon. 

The second scenario is that the symptoms are just part of the next phase of Mum’s all-too-gradual decline, and if that is the case, the doctor predicted that she probably won’t come home from this hospital visit. 

I am exhausted and emotionally wrung out, and whenever someone asks me how I am, my standard response is to burst into tears and say, “I was ok till you asked me how I am”.

The day before yesterday I posted all Mum's Christmas cards, with a note inside to catch people (who she only has contact with once a year) up on her cancer situation. I predicted to someone that once these cards reached their destinations I would be deluged with phone calls. Just got home from the hospital and the first of the, "I was so shocked to get your letter. Call me," messages has arrived. I might think about calling back tomorrow or maybe Sunday. 

(A friend has given me some wise advice to change our answering machine message to say that things are hectic and it might take a while for me to call back, and tell the hospital and close friends to call my mobile rather than the landline... But right now I'm curling up with some single malt scotch for a quiet night.)

I’m glad Mum’s in hospital, even though she’s not at all happy to be there (but she said that she’s glad that it will at least give me a break). The team at Greenwich are amazing, and once again I am very grateful for the things that they are able to offer Mum in so many aspects of her care. 

I hate that Mum is generally miserable, and suffering so much with pain, extreme weakness and mental confusion (and especially that she is sharply aware of the fact that she’s losing the plot mentally). Everything is such hard work for her and she has very little quality of life right now. For a while I have been praying for her to die, that she will let go and allow God to take her. For those of you who are praying people, I ask that you please do the same. It’s just too cruel to see her the way she is now.

You know what I hate? You know what I hate? You know what I hate?

This was the catch phrase of '80s comedian Rodney Rude... and in the spirit of Rodney Rude, I feel the need to preface this post with a strong language advisory, as I may end up getting a bit ranty. 

I hate the fact that I have to watch my strong, smart, independent, funny mother fading away to a shadow of herself; both physically and mentally. It's all so fucking unfair.

I hate the way well meaning people keep telling me to 'be strong', or 'stay strong'. I know that they're just trying to be nice, or supportive, but do they really think I'm not already doing the best I can on that front?

I hate that I can't look at Mum, talk to her, or talk about her to anyone, without bursting into tears. So much for being strong, eh?

I hate that Mum woke up terrified in the middle of the night last night; convinced that there was someone in her room, wanting to do her harm.

I hate that my knees are giving me so much trouble- making it difficult and painful for me to get around the house and do the basic things I need to do in order to care for Mum. 

I hate the indignity of constipation, and then diarrhoea, and not making it to the bathroom in time, that causes Mum to live in perpetual fear of embarrassing herself.

I hate that I am so tired all the time, and now am almost afraid to go to sleep, in case Mum has another disturbed night and needs me.

I hate that everything is such an effort for Mum; that she can't even get up out of her chair without needing time to catch her breath. 

I hate that even though there are many people who have offered to help, (and I know that they genuinely do want to do whatever they can), whenever I ask one of them to do something, like sit with Mum so I can go out to do some shopping, or have some 'me' time, or to do anything else for us, it feels to me like I am somehow failing, or being selfish to want some time to myself (even though I know how necessary this is).

I hate that cancer is such a slow, sneaky bastard of a disease, that is having its way with my mother, and taking its own sweet, fucking time about it. 

Please God...

This past week has been hard. Mum continues to wake up in increasing pain, and although the fentanyl lozenges initially seemed to provide hope of a more rapid relief, after a few days, they were not as effective as we'd hoped. 

So this week, we had our usual visit from the home nurse, but because of some of the complications of dealing with Mum's pain and some other symptoms, we had a second visit, from the nursing supervisor, the next day. She rang the doctor from Greenwich whilst she was with us, and made arrangements for a prescription for a stronger dose of fentanyl to be faxed through to our local pharmacy.

I rang the pharmacy to give them a heads up that the prescription was on its way, but because it was late on a Friday afternoon, it was too late for the special order to make it for next day delivery, so we had to wait until this afternoon for the new meds to arrive. This meant that for Sat and Sunday mornings, Mum had the lower dose fentanyl lozenge, and I was told to also give her a usual dose of Endone, so that if the fentanyl didn't have a satisfactory effect, at least the Endone would kick in...  eventually.

So we did this for Saturday and Sunday mornings. I gave Mum the Endone pills first, then the fentanyl lozenge, and sat beside her on the side of the bed, rubbing her back, as she sucked on the lozenge and waited for the pain relief to start to kick in.

This morning (Monday), it was a bit different, as we had run out of the fentanyl lozenges, so all I was able to give Mum this morning was the Endone pills. As much as she was excited by this (as she doesn't really enjoy the process of sucking the lozenge), it meant that she was in agony for almost two hours, until the Endone kicked in. 

As I sat, rubbing her back, and then helping her in the bathroom, she whimpered that it was too cruel, that she just wanted to die, and be out of this misery. I cried. I also prayed. I prayed like a desperate woman.

Throughout Mum's illness, I have never prayed for God to take away the cancer; to miraculously heal her, but only for her not to suffer, and that her death would be peaceful and quick. Today I reminded God of this- that I had never prayed for him to take away the cancer, but now I was praying for him to take away Mum's pain. Please.

To make things just a little more complicated, this morning I had an appointment for a mammogram and ultrasound at 11:30. I was planning not to tell Mum about this, as she has enough of her own stuff to worry about, but given that I had to leave her at a time when her pain medication hadn't fully kicked in, I felt I needed to tell her why, and couldn't really claim to just be going shopping.

This afternoon, I wrote on Facebook:

I know it probably sounds terrible, but I'm actually praying for her to die. She is suffering too much- she has excruciating pain in the mornings that we just can't seem to get on top of; she isn't eating, and is weak as a kitten, having trouble getting up out of her chair, or doing just about anything, and is generally miserable, and we both want it all to end. Needless to say, today hasn't been a good day.

I'm now hoping and praying that tomorrow morning, the double-strength fentanyl lozenge will do the trick for Mum's pain, and bring her relief quickly. I guess I'll just have to wait and see... and keep praying.

Central Station?

Today our next door neighbours popped in for a visit and commented that lately our house has resembled Central Station, with all the comings and goings of various people.

I suppose it takes someone from outside to point out the obvious, as it hadn't occurred to me that this was happening... and then I thought- today we had three lots of visitors (including said neighbours).

And overall this week:
Sunday- the neighbour from the other side of us dropped in
Monday- we had the podiatrist come
Tuesday - we had the cleaner
Today- we had the neighbours, a councillor/support worker, and a friend of mine who dropped in
Tomorrow- we have the nurse coming
And of course, I've been in and out a few times.

Hmmm... and this has been a relatively quiet week....

It's been a hard day

Mum woke up in excruciating pain; I sat on the bed with her, rubbing her back as she groaned, for about ten minutes, waiting for the fentanyl to start to take effect.
It was a rugged start to the day.
I cried.

Our cleaner came this morning, and because Mum was a bit late waking up and getting going, I had to have a quick shower before the cleaner arrived, so didn't have time for a good cry in the shower.

Mum had a little mishap this morning, and just as I finished cleaning things up the phone rang. It was Bettan, the coordinator of the counselling and support service run by the agency that provides our cleaner (Catholic Community Services). Bettan often rings to see how we're going, and especially how I'm travelling in the role of carer. I told her what had been happening today, and she commented how strong she thinks I am to be caring for Mum so closely through all of what she's going through; and that in her experience this is pretty rare. She said she has seen so many people in similar situations to Mum struggling along on their own, even though they may have children. She said that she admired me for what I'm doing.
I cried.

After all this, I felt the need for a bit of space and a change of scenery, so after lunch I went to the local shopping centre. First stop Medicare office to make a claim, but some problems with the details of the paperwork, so will need to get the receipt reissued, with additional info on it, and then go back and try again in a couple of weeks. OK, not so good, so next stop- coffee shop.

Up to the Loft level, with thoughts of rich, sweet, chai latté (and something naughty but nice to nibble). After such expectations, I felt like crying when the latte arrived, and it was a bit on the tepid side. I probably should have said something, and asked them to make it hotter for me, but that would have been too hard.

Next, a lap of the ABC Shop, where I was about to spend too much money on some fun DVDs and other treats, when my phone rang. It was the doctor from Greenwich returning my call from earlier in the day. I told her what had been happening for Mum, and shared my suspicions about some of the new things going on.
And I cried. 

After a couple of other stops, including some grocery shopping, I called into the chemist, to collect a prescription for Mum. Our lovely pharmacist asked me how I was going, and how Mum was... and I cried.

Then I got home. Mum was comfortable and peaceful. I helped her bathe, and then had a very LARGE gin and tonic.

I am so weary, and hope that tomorrow is a little easier.