My Blog Bubble

You’ve heard of sleeping policeman. Well my dad was the cooking policeman. Growing up I was so proud to have a dad that was a policeman. His job always sounded so cool and exciting.  Then there was his ability to follow a recipe (the same one time and time again).  He made an amazing macaroni cheese (the best), shepherds pie, lamb curry (from scratch) and oh my goodness the Devil’s food cake - four storeys of ultimate chocolate cake! I loved to be able to talk about the fact that he was born in India. That he was brought up in South Africa. That he had a three-legged cheetah as a pet.  Stories of sat on a wall eating mangoes with monkeys   Dad was also a knitter - having learnt from his grandma.  And I can remember our loop cardigans and the waistcoats he knitted.   Duchess, our dog, brought home after night shift. The fish tanks and trips to all of those aquatic centres   Being a South African, he loved his tech. He always had the newest gadget (oh th...

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. ...

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'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...

My Granny used to always say we should paint on our mask. Put on our war paint and confront the day. Ok so I don't trowel on the make up but I always (well nearly always) have a smile on my face and a laugh in my chest.   Sometimes, though, it slips. My smile is lost and the laugh has flown the nest (chest as it were). It may slip for a short time or a more prolonged period however I know that one day it will be back. How I get it back I am never sure.  Maybe it will be something my little girl does that makes my heart melt, or spaghetti bolognese cooked by my boyfriend, a glass of wine with a friend, a cup of coffee, a natter with the mummies or some time with my pole sisters. Whatever wings bring my smile back they are always welcomed with open arms. Who knows how long it will stay.