My Blog Bubble

As you know; Mum died, four weeks ago.  I haven't really felt like writing - even though I have had ideas of what I could write about. In truth I have felt pretty numb.  I have been confused by my lack of feelings towards the death of the greatest influencer in my life. In fact I have been worried that I am devoid of emotion. Yes I have sobbed and been upset but not felt the devastation that seems to warrant the condolences that people pass my way. Then I realise that maybe I am at the bottom of a well, sat on the dark damp stones and unable to see anything above me - not even a glimmer of light.  Maybe I am at the bottom of a hill or the top of a precipice.  I really don't know.   The long and short of it is that there is no set way to feel or to grieve.  I feel like I will be hit by a wrecking ball (hopefully one not ridden by Miley Cyrus) at any moment.  Or I wish that I could just sleep all of this away. I dream that mum is ill...

Take every day as it comes.  Grief is consuming - just like love.  In fact many quotes state that grief is, in fact, love in a new form. We walk our own paths and just ask for your support along the way.  I don't know where this path leads and how I am meant to deal with it, what I need to equip myself with.   I have the love of my family and friends and the possibility of counselling.  I have a million tears and all the time in the world. I have a long journey ahead and I am not sure it comes to an end, maybe I stumble less, along the way. I have really angry days.  Days where everything irritates me.  Days where everything reminds me.  Days I feel numb.  Days I feel sad.  Days I cry.  Days I laugh.  Days I pretend. Your caring doesn't go unnoticed - I love you for every smile and kind word you say or send.  The hugs.  Thank you for joining me on my journey - my expedition party.

I am still numb. Not sure how to feel. Everyone tells me they are sorry for my loss and seem almost more upset from me. I don't understand what is happening.   I am told it will blindside me at some point and I guess I am waiting for that.   It hit me yesterday that maybe the reason I am not yet grieving is that I cannot, in my head, justify the person we are placing in a box is you; Mum.   I saw you diminish before my eyes and life slowly ebb away. That person that was left wasn't you. Not my Mum. My mum is was full of life and optimistic.   The person I wish I hadn't kissed on the head, lying dead on that bed, wasn't you.   Although there is a smile on my face when I think of the party popper in your hand that I had left on your pillow the night before. Go and celebrate that you made it there on your own terms.   Love you Mum x www.justgiving.co.uk/chrisgelling

Here I am wishing your body would give in. I can't believe I am wanting my mum's body to die. And I say your body as I think that is all that is left. Your spirit has moved on already.   Last night it hit me what that means. Wishing my own mother dead. Not being able to speak to you anymore. Not hearing your funny stories or see you smiling face.   Not being able to see the joy in your eyes when you see your grandchildren.   Not being able to walk along the beach with you.   Not watching the tv with you and drinking tea.   No more nonsense conversations where no one can keep up outside of you, Rachel and I.   No more Mum. No more Mum.   www.justgiving.co.uk/chrisgelling

I'm angry. I am so angry my jaw hurts from clenching my teeth together.   Death is a cruel master. Why hasn't he taken Mum yet?   Watching my Mum, once so full of life, lying on a hospital bed barely alive hurts. There is nothing of mum left. I am angry that it is raping me of my memories of Mum; of what she used to look like.   Mum hasn't eaten in a week; not drunk anything and yet she is still here. Her heart is strong and her lungs keep going. Everything else is ravaged by cancer. I truly believe her soul left on Monday - when she stopped communicating. She wants it to end but there is no let up.   We convince ourselves she will go when she is ready and that she is waiting for something or someone.   Peace?   We have given her that. Leslie? She is here now. The only thing it could be is that she set a date in her head of 2 March and maybe she HAS to make that. Or maybe death is just cruel. This constant treadmill i...

It seems amazing to me that I am writing another post.   As I rounded the corner at the hospice this morning, walking towards the bay you are in, I held my breath.  I was greeted by smiles and there you were. More amazingly I said hello and you spoke back!  Mum you are incredible, amazing, an inspiration. Lying there listening, with Alex and I, to some Graham Kendrick.  We have moved you to your own room to give you some peace and the freedom to leave us when it feels right for you. In the meantime I am in awe, as a Biologist, that you are still here.  All of the staff are amazed and all we are pleased able to offer you respite.  You aren't in pain, at least we don't think so, and we know you can hear us. I think you are just catching up on all the sleep you have missed over the years.  All of those early mornings; all of those sleepless nights due to your "hot legs". We thought we would lose you to the MS but we were wrong. ...

Today I went to church and I cried.  Alex came with me and just held me.  Everyone at church sends their love and support. I got down to see you and share some time with you. I read prayers and Readings.  And I read hymns - in fact Sarah and I sung a couple to you (with a beautiful dance from Sarah too).  I put your cross in your hand and you held on tight. I even said you should stand and join in with us and you whipped back the cover as if to stand - making me smile! I stayed for the memorial service and cried there too.  There were a couple of readings and prayers that were beautiful. Yesterday it was music - a bit of Olivia Newton John and the Messiah.  Today it was just me - but you didn't tell me to stop so that is always a bonus. Mum I don't know why you are staying but your heart is as strong as it is true and I love you.

I sit and stroke your hair.  I laugh and I joke. Yesterday we listened to the Sound of Music and a bit of the Messiah.  I asked for the Last Rites to be read and for prayers to be said.  Today Rachel and I moisturised your hands and face. I searched and searched to find "Why Me" by Olivia Newton John and have now played that to death.  You laughed at the idea of Terry using an iPad or iPhone.  Now you lay there and I wonder what I can do to help you.  You have our permission to go Mum. We promise to look after each other and Terry (of course).  And I am sure Winnie will be treasured as much by Terry as she is by you.  Whatever you are waiting for I would make happen in a heartbeat if only I knew.  In death, as in life, you are strong and beautiful. 

I saw you the other day and I knew it was close. So frail. So yellow.   But all your own teeth - and the yellow makes them look so white. And mum - your hair looks so thick as it frames your tiny face. Your warm eyes and ski-slope nose.   I am going to miss you. I don't know how it is going to feel. I am not one of those daughters that calls every day - or even every week. But you are never far from my thoughts and always in my prayers.   It wasn't that our lives were too busy just that we knew the other was there and that we loved them. Would I have more moments if I could?   Yes!   Of course. More memories and laughs. Time with just you. Time with Eliza and you. You.   But I want that time when you were well and able to enjoy the walks by the sea.   Thank you for the memories and for making me into the person I am.   I love you forever and think of you always.   Mum x

I'm running out of time.   I know that all we are guaranteed in this life, other than taxes, is death. But I am not ready for yours.   There are so many more moments I wasn't to share with you, I want to experience with you, rejoice in with you.   The sands of time slip through our hands without us noticing. Then we find ourselves grappling with the few tiniest grains that we can find. The type that would have just passed us by, like walking across a soft sandy beach with no shoes on. I find myself trying to hold on to those specks and feel their warmth.   As life ebbs out of your weakened body my heart grows ever prouder that you are my mum.   Kind and funny and loving. My mum: Christine Gelling; I love you; for always: and I thank you; forever.  

We have always been open and talked about death and funerals.   I think one of the first things we spoke about after your diagnosis was about your funeral and the scattering of your ashes.   Some people think it's macabre but I do it to prepare myself. The more I do now the less I HAVE to do later.   We know your wishes and we have the addresses. I have your scatter tube and soon your order of service.   I know what I will read and that Rachel won't be able to. But I don't want them; I want you. The promise of you, not forever, just for longer.   Don't go yet Mum, please, stay a while x  

So we have discussed the ins and outs of your funeral.   We have spoken about the type of coffin you want (you said willow originally and now seem happy with a cardboard one).  In fact Googling them became quite a fun thing to do - so many to choose from.  I have even chosen my own and Alex his (I wonder if there is a bulk option or maybe we can buy flat-packed and store for later use)?  I know you want to be scattered so I am ready to order your scatter tube. I have even looked at Ashes in to Glass - so that we can each have a special "something" to remember you by. We have spoken of readings and hymns.  And ministers.  We haven't spoken flowers or donations but I am sure that is yet to come. We have spoken about how I can let people know of your death and how I am NOT to use the word passed or passing at any point as you really don't like that. I don't like the phrase "lost their fight" or "given up their fight". ...

Every time that blasted phone rings or I get a message from my sister or my aunt I swallow hard, I hold my breath and then I proceed. Mum I know you are in pain and I know you want to give in to it.  I also know you have nothing to fear.  You have your faith and it will guide you into the arms of the Lord where you will be able to rest in peace. Last night I had a bath and I sobbed and sobbed.  I really don't know how to deal with this and what I am going to feel when you eventually die (I am not allowed to day pass now am I?).   I do want you to know that we are going to be fine.  We will miss you incredibly but we will stick together and laugh at your memories.  I find myself smiling as I think of the funny tales you have told and your smile and laugh. Last year when we heard about your diagnosis I can remember feeling utterly bereft.  And still I am.  However I also remember being sad that you might not see me find my happy. ...

Last night I sat and read you a bedtime story - your favourite book from your childhood: The Velveteen Rabbit. I then sat and stroked your hair and your forehead as you drifted off to sleep. It felt so right to be there, to comfort you.  We didn't really speak but just being there gave me a peace. Yes you are back at the hospice, but you are in the best place, where they can take care of you. Today I have spent hours here, perched on the windowsill (obviously not a tiny one) as you dozed.  We spoke about the family and religion and your friends came and went.  Terry and Winnie came to visit and the nursing staff greeted you like an old friend. I love you Mum and I will be here as often as I can.  It isnt about the memories now, it is about the connection, the comfort; for both of us.

Can we ask just one thing of you:- Please stop asking me how Mum is.  I know you mean well and you honestly do care; you want to know that she is ok: but we can't tell you that. In fact we are tired of having to repeat ourselves and remind ourselves that Mum isn't going to get better.  That this is it.  That we can't help her but can on;y make her comfortable. Maybe ask how I am, or if there is anything you can do, or just give us a hug.  Maybe just squeeze our shoulder and don't say anyhting.  If we want to talk, I promise, we will.  Sometimes, like my Blog, it is cathartic.  Other times it hurts in a way I cannot explain. The best thing to do is send a message, a text, an email, and if/when we feel like it we will respond.  Forgive us if we see you are calling and cannot take your call.  It is tiring, emotionally, to drag our way through a conversation we do not want to have. We know you care and we don't want to appear rude but...

In 1996 Mum was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) and our lives changed forever.  Rachel and I were to realise just how fallible our parents were.  Both she and I recalled a time when we lived with Mum and were watching a documentary on the TV; it was about a man that had MS and his story.  He fell ill and got worse and worse until one day he lost all control of his muscles and could do nothing for himself or speak.  We both vividly remember Mum saying "Girls if ever i should become like that please kill me".  Little did we know that less than 10 years later fate would diagnose our mum with this horrible illness. I was away at Uni in 1996 and felt useless.  When I would come home I would do all I could and make sure others rallied around.  Mum started to be able to talk and walk again and her symptoms went in to remission. .  Neurologists decided this was not the first episode but probably the second - her specialist having written on ...