As long as there are stars above you…

Grief is a painful thing. I thought I knew what it was like to be sad, to hurt so much that you thought your heart would just shatter. I was wrong. There is a pain to grief that repeatedly brings your heart to the point of bursting and just when you think it’s going to stop it gives you a reprieve or that’s what you think it is. In truth, it’s just a chance to take a bare breath before it comes again, just like the beating of your heart but in the most sickening way I can think of. I find myself emotionless, laughing, thinking, and then from absolutely nowhere it comes and grips me with what I feel are painfully hot claws digging into the soft flesh of my heart, its only on its release that I find the tears running down my face in an uncontrollable river. Never have I wanted or needed someone to hold me so tightly that I think my bones are going to be crushed, it’s the only time that I think I will feel able to just take that real deep breath; the one that if I keep getting them over time, I will eventually get over all this savagery. Just to add value to the pain, the guilt of being the one feeling sorry for myself comes and the realisation that whatever I feel there are several who are so very close to my heart in even more pain than I can express or have a right to feel. I have tried to turn my grief into busy work, it helps to some degree but I know I have lost to some degree that zest that so often helped me get over the hump, the look of distain for me in another’s look, the closed door in my face, or the lack of thought. And yet, there is a glimmer, for in those who care about me, there is light, there is love. So many people, those who I know and see and those who I may never meet but know in other ways have kept me going, they have kept this faded light from being extinguished and I would be lost without them.

Our views on life can be changed in an instant

– in the briefest of seconds what we think we want can change, what we think is the best course of action- can change.  In that instant, time seems to stand still, then very slowly things start to move again, you hear the noise in your ears, you see the sights in your mind’s eye, you feel the whole of your stomach collapse, and then slowly you feel the build, what starts as a light aching feeling slowly gains momentum in the very pit of your stomach and you feel it build until the crescendo of your heartbreak seeps out of you like a sound from the grave, the sadness, the lost hope, the pain of loss  coming out in muffled sobs while tears stream down your face. The dam breaks and the tears flow. You gain your composure and you know you know have a task in hand. A job to do. Things to finish.

As a next of kin you have to keep it together, you have to give what you have to your loved one with all your heart for what little time they have left. This was me last month, but it has or will be every one of us in this room at some stage of our lives. Last month I went to the hospital to see how my aunt was doing. When I arrived she was ill, very ill. She had gone from being unwell to ill in the space of a few short days. In the space of a few hours the full picture began to emerge and I realised that things were not good at all. It’s hard to take in the information but I have realised a few aspects can make this difficult task easier for family to hear and for clinicians to say.

My first encounter was with the nursing staff when I arrived on the ward. I asked for a staff member to check my aunt’s oxygen when I arrived and two members of staff came to talk to me and assist. The nurse in charge was calm, and in control, factual and things in the ward were calm and organised. The doctor arrived I assume he was the SHO and explained that there were some concerns, he did an examination and following that explained what his concerns were and the proposed course of action. He was pleasant, calm, reassuring, spoke clearly, emphasised his concerns and proceeded with the required action. He was kind.  I started to realise the situation was one of concern. I left to return home knowing that I should expect a phone call from the staff later that day.

Aisling rang me that evening; again she was calm, knowledgeable, reassuring, spoke clearly and with purpose. I knew this was one of those phone calls you hope you won’t receive, it’s the starting point. Aisling said she would get the doctor to ring me when the results of the tests being done were back. She was kind, empathised with me and heard my sadness. When Patrick rang I knew things were progressively getting worse. He took his time, was calm, clearly explained everything, never rushed, time was given for me to take it all in. I felt his empathy, I sensed his kindness. I asked him a simple question, if it was your family would you come in to say goodbye. He said yes, if it was mine I would. It was that simple. It was that hard.

It’s all over now; she has moved on. I don’t even know how I feel. Guilty I didn’t do more, upset that I never told her how much I loved her when she was alive, broken that I can’t bring her back, that she is lost to me forever. She never really came back from Saturday, I don’t know what happened to her, and I don’t understand why she died, not really. I know the clinical reasons in the last week but not the why so fast, the how she went from talking last Sunday to gone in a week. Did I neglect her, not spend enough time with her in the last few years.  I will never know, all I can do now is try to do my best by her and remember her with fondness.