Mummy at the School Gate

Many of my draft posts in the last 15 months have been desperate, sad, depressing and full of self pity. In essence, all about me. A outpouring of all my grief. I haven’t posted them because I guess they’re like a diary of my sadness. Yes, I’m sad. Yes, I’m grieving but really no one wants to read a post that’s so self absorbed, yet sometimes I feel it’s the need to know that others are going through the same.  I joined a few online groups in the early days and in all honesty, I find them hard to read. I don’t join in because it’s much of the same. People post because they’re feeling at their lowest ebb. That’s not to say that tomorrow they’ll feel ok or slightly different. It makes me feel better knowing that others are in the same boat as me. Not that I want anyone to feel how I feel, but I know I’m not alone in my desperation. Every day is a different day. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s not.  In the very, very early days, someone sent me a poem. It was about how grief is like b

April 2022  Two of them I have a lot of, while I have very little of the other. When Mike was ill we slept a lot, heavy and sound. We’d wake up surprised that we’d both slept so well particularly when we were going through such an awful, horrific process.  Now, I wake up exhausted. I wake maybe 3-5 times each night. Sometimes I actually get up and go in hunt of food (usually chocolate).  My face shows the lack of sleep, and my bones feel it. I can’t understand why every part of my body hurts and why I drag myself about in utter exhaustion. I take the dogs for a walk and can barely put one foot in front of the other. Halfway through the walk, I really don’t think I’ll be able to make it home. I’m not old, and I’m not ill so where has all my energy gone? I’m not tired just exhausted. TV box sets have been a god send. My son and I will sit and watch one episode after the other. Game of Thrones, Succession, Vikings, Sons of Anarchy, stuff I’ve never seen but stuff that gets us through the

January is bleak at the best of times…only now it’s bleaker than I ever thought possible. I wonder how I’m going to get through this awful, horrific time. I know I will, but I don’t want to. Words aren’t enough to express my thoughts. I veer between black humour and absolute fear. My beautiful husband passed away on Jan 1st. We’d never been a fan of New Years, and now he’s really made sure I’ll never celebrate another!  It’s not how I thought I’d react. People have been so kind, want to spend time with me yet I just want them to leave me alone. “Do you have people to support you” is something that’s now often asked. I have loads, yet I don’t want anyone else near me. I know when my mum lost Dad, she needed to be surrounded with everyone. I don’t want anyone. Mostly everyone gets on my nerves and I think I’m only trying to make them feel better.  I’m fine.  I’m ok.  I’m good.  I’m not. I told him, I’d kill myself. I’d lay down and never get up. He wouldn’t know what to say. It’s not tha

It's now October and so much has happened that previously would have been terrifying. They're now just memories of things that have just happened along the journey. Every day is a blessing. Every day that is normal is even more of a blessing.  Days after we met with "Our warrior" things rapidly descended into madness. I can't think of another word to describe it. It was early May.  Mike started experiencing excruciating pain in his back. He couldn't move without crying out. He made it to bed but the pain was getting worse. It was almost like his back was constantly in a spasm. Regular pain killers weren't cutting it, so at midnight I made the decision to call for help. I was mindful of Covid, especially with Mike now being vulnerable.  I guess there's a first time for everything. I'd never been in the situation of calling emergency services and I had no idea how to do it. I phoned 111 and explained the situation, that Mike had recently been diagnos

 I have no idea what day we’re at now since the initial diagnosis, and I have no idea how we’ve made this our ‘new normal’ so quickly.  We’re no longer sobbing helplessly. I’m no longer in a whirl of fear and despair. We’re now getting on with it.  It was a bleak week. The days were overcast and dull. Our life on hold. On the day of our consultation with our chosen oncologist at The Cromwell Hospital we feared that he wouldn’t take us on. We thought we’d be turned away and left on our own. We sat in the Genesis suite waiting.   Then...out he bounced. Introducing himself, I knew we’d made the right choice, or maybe the right choice had been made for us. He wasn’t dressed how we’d expected. Not suited and booted in his saville row suit, but casually in jeans and trainers. He was as young as I’d expected, but with an energy and an aura I knew was well placed. We couldn’t see his face as it was covered with the obligatory mask, but Mike said later, that his eyes were shinning...and they we

It’s incredible once you start speaking to people. Everyone knows someone who’s been struck by cancer. They know someone going through it now, or they someone living with it daily. We’ve been overwhelmed with support and kindness and knowing we’re not alone really helps. I have no idea of the normal process for anything medical. We’ve never needed it.  My brother had needed urgent hospital treatment, but unfortunately the NHS was pretty poor at that time and were unable to support him. It was a horrible experience and once the consultant heard that we were moving him to a private facility had said “I didn’t know they were prepared to pay”. That shocked me. Should it matter if you had money available? I vowed that we would never be in that position again.  I took out private medical insurance so that we’d have to go through that. I’m certain that 20 years later the position has changed. I have nothing but admiration and support for the NHS. They have certainly kept this country going an

I’ve stopped crying. I’m not sure for how long, but today was a good day. It was a good day in the sense that we acted normally in this totally bizarre and odd new normal. How many times have we said that this year? New normal? So many phrases that seemed trite and strange are used regularly to describe any crazy situation we find ourselves in. We’d finally been able to tell our son that his dad has cancer. It made it real. He cried. He was shocked. Our 30 year old son who adores and admires his dad always thought he was invincible, but it’s freaked him out beyond belief. I guess it’s the same for everyone when told of something that happens to other people. We’re always shocked and terrified when we hear something we never expect to hear. He’s a great dad and he’s a lucky son to have him. He knows this. We haven’t got to the stage of treatment yet. We have a vague idea of what to expect. We have no idea of the grade or stage. Oncologists haven’t been appointed although the consultant