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  I can’t stop hearing those words “Gulliver is dead”. Out of the blue, completely unexpected, most certainly unwelcome.   I didn’t want them to be real. I wanted to un-hear them. I wanted that phone to be as far from my ear as possible. I threw it onto the bed and just kept on murmuring those horrid words. I got up and walked into the hotel bathroom.  The grief swamped me abs pulled me to the floor. How was this possible. My boy. My beautiful boy. Dead. Give. Forever. And me - so far away. The grief wracked my body and overwhelmed me.  Pull yourself together. Stand up. Open the door. Get dressed. Go down to breakfast. One step at a time.    I walked barefooted to the restaurant. I stared blankly. Confused and struck dumb.  Trying to be strong but crying all the time. Red eyes we finally made it back to the yard. Deep breath. I opened your stable door. There lay my big handsome giraffe. Tongue out (as always). First time I saw you laid down. Last time ...

Sometimes I think I have got it all together and that I am going to be OK.  Other times I find myself crying as I am driving along.  And there are times like now I can feel my stomach churning and my entire body shouting "I'm not ready yet". I have had the pragmatic conversations.  We have spoken wills and funeral services.  I have even looked at coffins and scatter tubes.  I know where Mum wants her ashes to be scattered and the type of hymns she likes.  I have asked if I could read a poem and if my daughter can attend.  I can do all of this but I cannot accept that it is going to happen. I can say that Mum has had a good life and had the opportunity to travel.  That we, as a family, have had more years than we thought we would be graced with.  Never did we imagine Mum could fight off the MS as she has done. Never in a million years did we see this happening and am I ready for it?  Am I heck as like.  I feel like I hav...

I originally published this post on 13 December 2016, a year before my son was born, and four years ago today.  I thought, with the anniversary of Mum's death on the horizon, and with losing two friends to this disease in recent times I would re-publish these posts (minus the fundraising bits for Pancreatic Cancer). I thought long and hard about writing something knowing Mum doesn't like to talk about these things.  However I think that everyone now knows and, being selfish: for me this is cathartic. Much like my #100SadDays blog I don't want this to be all doom and gloom.  I want to talk about how it has made me feel and how it has affected everyone; including my beautiful mum. I have written about #cancer before; it isn't a new subject for me.  I have spoken freely about how I feel about it and how it has affected both me, my family and my friends. I have said that it doesn't "touch" people as so often is coined: it rapes and kills and blights...

I simply cannot remember the last time I wrote a Christmas letter - a tradition I had started and planned to continue throughout my life.  Not only was it a toast to Mum (she always wrote a great Christmas Letter) but people always liked to recieve them. Well somewhere along the way I stopped doing them.  I know I have posted one as a blog post before and here I am again.  It isnt the easy way out but it is a more environmental option (and a good one for someone without access to a printer)!  My reason for stopping in the past was that I felt I didnt really have very much to say; my letters always seemed to say the same thing - there was always a drama with work (and this year is no different).  However 2020 has been a year that no one will forget and as such I thought I should commemerate it with the return of the Crimbo letter! Just before Christmas last year Alex, the kids and I moved in together to a lovely house in Farnignham.  It meant that Christmas ...

As a teenager we lived next door to a lady with depression.   She and her husband were lovely people, they would always stop and chat, but sometimes she would retreat and we wouldn't see her for months. Instead we would only see Ernie on his daily walk. Then suddenly she would be back beside him with long hair (Gladys always had short hair). I didn't really take much notice but can remember my mum commenting about Gladys and her long hair meaning she had been depressed.   Now, looking back, I can see how they were connected. How Glady wouldn't want to leave the house and thus her hair would grow and she would look unkempt when she did reappear. I get it now. Growing up depression wasn't really something I knew much about. I know members of my family have suffered with it but it just kind of passed me by. After all we all have sad days or  short periods. Well that's what I thought. Just get on with it. Keep smiling.   However my short periods would get longer...

 I was driving along this morning feeling rather down in the mouth (odd saying) and thinking about what Christmas is going to look like for Joe Public and all the local businesses.  I realised it is going to be so different and hopefully something we won't have to experience again in our lifetime.  It also got my thinking about what it feels like to be in lockdown. And that is when I realised that being in a period of depression is like being in Tier 3; there are people next door going about their lives in Tiers 1 & 2 and then there is you.  Locked up with no idea when it will end.  Not able to go out and have fun.  Not able to do what other "normal" people can do.  It isnt like lockdown - as that is soemthing everyone is put through; this is just for you; your own little Tier courtesy of your mind.   I know it sounds daft but so many people cannot understand mental health problems and even those that have them find it difficult to explai...

They used to say that 1 in 4 people would be touched by cancer - now I know that might be an old and out of date statistic - but it has always stuck with me. Scary as it is the bit that gets me is the touched part; cancer doesn't touch; it devastates, it rapes, it hounds, it kills people. Cancer casts a far-reaching shadow that lasts longer than the disease itself. A touch is a caring thing. One in four will be affected - this doesn't provide enough depth. Cancer be it affecting you directly, or a loved one, does so much more than anyone knows - until it happens.  I am a firm believer that cancer has been around for years and that in the past many of the people that were recorded of dying of natural causes or old age actually died of some form of cancer or another. It is just that nowadays we know it's name - or we have given this monster a name. Maybe it it nature's way of culling us, but does it need to be so cruel, so brutal? Cancer doesn't care how old...

Everywhere I look I am seeing posts about #100HappyDays. Or posting three #positive things a day. Even I have been sucked in and am partaking in the daily challenge of finding something that made me smile, taking a photo, and posting in to my Instagram (@LuluSLR) account. I am only on day 3 and found Day 2 a struggle. Why?  I suffer with #depression and my least favourite day of the week is a Thursday.  Anyhow I got there and posted a photo of my daughter doing her impression of Elsa from #Frozen. Doing this got me thinking about why I chose to take part. I thought it would be good for me, make me find something to smile about, even when I don't want to. However it made me think I should do the same for what makes me #sad. This is less about photos and more about words after all who wants to see my miserable face everyday!  Especially when the things that make me feel down are often in my head.  I am going to blog on what it's like to live with #depressio...

There are so many things that make me think of you. Daily. Today as I was walking to the station I realised that I am not left with a hole, with a sense of grief, sad that you died; I am left with a sense of happiness, of gladness that you lived. Is it because I have grieved well or is it because you lived magnificently and brought us up to be thankful? I am grateful that we have so many memories and stories. That I see you in so many of the things I do. Your memory lives on when I let the children know that you loved this or would have enjoyed that or even that you would have hated something. When I tell Eliza how proud you would have been of her recent school report. When we talk to Dexter about you and point you out in photos. I love that we have “your beach”. A place we can go as a family to enjoy the seaside and to remember you. I love that I can laugh with you still. Or that I say hello if I see a Robin in the garden. Or I smile at a random white feather fl...

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