The last meal* (reality)

It has been a few weeks.
Since she was lost.
The house is more often quiet now.

The buzz of endless visitors, all searching for the right words.
Like there are any that can be said. There are none.
Deliveries of flowers, pots of tea, the sound of quiet sobbing.
The silence has settled in now, both welcome and terrifying.

They have eaten, a little, since that day.
Food has flowed like a river to their door.
From the kitchens of those who love them, those who loved her.
Desperate to offer some tiny morsel of comfort. There is none.

It's quiet now.
Casserole dishes scrubbed clean and returned.
It's the human way, it seems.
The busyness of death and in the after, the quiet, the solitude.

She was a cook. Oh my she was a cook.
Their lives full of the delights she cooked for them.
Her way of nurturing, of loving, of being.

He opens the freezer.
Already knowing what's inside.
The plastic container, frosted over.
It's like it stares back at him, unblinking.

The pain of this, for him, is almost unbearable.
He heats the food and it comes to life.
Spice and love all mixed together.
It's the last one. The last meal she will ever cook for him.
Forever.

The sound of quiet sobbing.

*This post is inspired and imagined by recent events in the life of someone I know well. Remembering you always D.

Grateful for life, just life

This post was going to be about being grateful for some time in the last couple of days. Time to tick some things off the list, pay some bills, tidy the study, clean out the pantry, play with the kids, bake cinnamon buns. Lovely domesticity.

This post was going to be about that.

And then an hour ago I received a phone call to tell me of the sudden death of the wife of a very dear work colleague. Sudden. Random. Indiscriminate. Without warning. Dead. Just like that.

I knew her too. For years.

Devastating.

So tonight I am grateful for life, just life. Everything and nothing. Living and loving. And in a few minutes I will creep into the boys' bedrooms and kiss them with a poignancy and a gratitude made all the more powerful by being reminded how fleeting it all can be, how randomly it can be over.

Hug the ones you love. Tell them. Make it count. Be grateful. Always.


Linking with Maxabella tonight xx

Image via We Heart It

Not six feet under

About once a month at our house, we get a phone call asking the Captain or me to participate in a market research study over the phone. I quite like doing the surveys so I often say yes if it won't be too disruptive to the smooth running chaos of the day. The surveys are on all manner of topics, everything from insurance to politics to media to the quality of particular services. I guess somewhere in my psyche I believe in doing these surveys because while I can whine about the "market" not providing the services and products of high quality that are needed, how will the market know what to provide unless I tell them?

On Saturday afternoon I answered the phone and agreed to do a survey being conducted by the Trust who manages many of the cemeteries and memorial parks in the city where I live.

It was fascinating and has kept me thinking way after the survey ended.

For fifteen minutes a lovely gentleman and I chatted about death and funerals and how I would want myself to be "memorialised" after my death. We talked about burials and cremations. We talked about the costs of these services. We talked about pre-planned funerals. We talked about whether or not I thought it was appropriate that memorial parks and their facilities have multiple community usage for things like festivals, conferences or bereavement education. I expressed the opinion that I don't believe that as a society we "do grief" very well and that I think there is a long way to go to educate the broader populus in how to best support those who are grieving.

The thing that surprised me a little about the survey was how easily and concisely the answers came out of my mouth. Sure, they are things I have thought about and the Captain and I have had bits and pieces of conversation about them but here I was, with a stranger, being completely clear about what I wanted my "after" to look like.
Burial? - no.
Cremation? - yes.
Pre-planned funeral? - great idea but have never got around to doing it
Funeral pre-planned online? - sure.
Ashes in a garden or crypt in the cemetery? - no.
Ashes scattered in a place of natural beauty?  - Yes. Yes. Yes.

It felt good not to be conflicted about any of this. It just felt good to know.

Do you do market research stuff? Do you think about questions like these? Do you know the answers?

Postscript: As I finished off this post this morning, a program came on the radio here to discuss death and dying. An End of Life Forum they called it. It's worth a listen if you are so inclined. xx

Image via http://weheartit.com/

I want to go with her

 

They spent almost their whole lives together.

He, gruff, sometimes cranky but with a heart of gold beneath the bluster.
She, gentle, with a ready laugh and a finely tuned sense of the humour and ridiculousness of life.

They loved each other. It was always clear.

They raised a family. Two sons, one of them my father.
They worked, cared, grew vegetables and tended snapdragons and stocks and marigolds in their garden.
They welcomed and deeply loved four grandchildren.

There are cherished memories of vegetables in the garden, of trips to the royal show, of playground visits, tram rides and a thickly iced pink match filled with cream from the cake shop in Puckle Street.

Then came 1983 and with it cancer. Insidious, painful lung cancer. She hadn't smoked a cigarette in her life.

She struggled through treatments but the cancer spread and pain bristled cruelly all over her body. You could almost see it, creeping through, wreaking its destruction. Fucking cancer.

They came to 1984. Late May. She could fight no more. Palliative care would be her last tram stop. She lay there, unconscious, her bed surrounded with love and hope. He sat beside her, holding her hand, willing her to go on, but knowing she didn't have it in her. Much love, but little hope.

Next day. Etched forever. He fires a bullet from his boyhood shotgun through his brain. Kitchen floor, the worst discovery. He dies at midday.

She lives on, for another 17 hours. Not conscious but still breathing. Something within her knows it's time to let go. She dies peacefully.

Some months later, there is a note, found tucked inside his favourite gardening book. I don't remember the exact words but the message was clear.

"Forgive me, I want to go with her."

They loved each other. It was always clear.

Nan, wherever you are, Happy Mother's Day. I miss you and I wish you could have seen your great grandchildren. They are sunshine.

Pop, I love you and I miss you too. And I understand, I do.

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United in grief, strong in love

I lost two little babies, miscarriages early in pregnancy. One was the Batsman's twin and I look at my big four year old boy and I wonder, still, what his twin would have been like. Boy or girl? Fair or dark? Reserved like the Batsman or boisterous like the Bowler? On the road to giving myself some peace after the losses of the little ones we never came to know, I have met some of the most extraordinary women one is ever likely to find.

Grief stricken.

Fearful.

Brave.

Sad.

Hopeful.

Courageous.

Generous.

Strong.

Kind.

Awe inspiring.

You all know who you are don't you? Sal, Carly, Sophie, New Year Mum, Angie, Catherine and so many many more. Too many women with so much sadness.

I am proud to know you. You inspire me to be a better person.

On International Babylost Mother's Day I acknowledge you. I will always stand beside you, online and in person, in your grief, your hope, your sadness, your joy.

Extraordinary women who wish they had never been brought together by loss but remain always, united in grief and strong in love.

If you want to know more about International Babylost Mother's Day, go here.

Gone fishing

The Captain's father died this morning.
Suddenly.
He had been on a little holiday. He had done a spot of fishing in a beautiful coastal spot.
He got on a bus to travel toward home. He fell asleep. And then he died. Just like that.
All the other passengers got off the bus and then someone noticed that he was still sitting in his seat. Gone fishing.


The Batsman went to kinder this morning. We had only known about Pa for half an hour. The "how do you explain death to a child"question still hanging heavy.
The Batsman headed straight for the drawing table, his usual first starter.
I watched him. A quick drawing and he was off. Scuttling over to a game he had seen in a corner of the kinder.
A fishing game. With a couple of little fishing rods with a string and magnet on the end. Fish swam in a "pond" with paper clips stuck to their backs ready to be caught.
And the Batsman, he caught fish. Just like that.
The grandchild generation. Gone fishing.
                                           --------------------------------------------


He was a gentle man, the Captain's dad. He was one of those people about whom others say 'he doesn't have a mean bone in his body'. And he didn't.
He had his problems. The grog wreaked havoc on mind and body over the years. The pokies took their toll too. He wasn't a well man.
But he was gentle and kind. He was quiet but always had a little joke to tell or a trick to show the kids.


This Christmas just gone, he did something special and unexpected for the Batsman and the Bowler. He made their Christmas gifts. A truck and a cement roller, made out of wood, crafted with his hands and tools. They came emblazoned with the boy's names and decorated with stickers from the two dollar shop. It would have taken his shaky hands hours to make them.
They are beautiful and will be treasured across lifetimes.


Farewell Pa.
We will miss you.

Weekend grateful - cricket team

This weekend I am grateful, ever so grateful for my life and my loves.

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Yesterday I went to the funeral of a 22 year old young man who took his own life. I taught him at kindergarten eighteen years ago. I can still picture his cheeky little 4 year old face. So great was his anguish and mental health distress in recent months and years that he just couldn't stay. One can't help but be struck by the great irony of a funeral with almost 1000 people there who loved and admired this young man, yet he couldn't find a way to stay. The images that will remain with me from the saddest of afternoons...a family torn apart but managing a group embrace that will keep them together to weather this awful storm and rows and rows of twenty something young men, weeping and sobbing as they farewelled their mate. Utter tragedy. Such a fragile existence we all live.

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So, I'm grateful this weekend, for my life and my three great loves, The Captain, The Batsman and The Bowler. My little cricket team.

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PS: This is the first time I have joined in the Weekend grateful from Maxabella - I'm grateful for that too.

A little peace

I don't really know what to write here. I am numbed by the pain and loss which is around so many in the blogging community this week. I am in awe of the suffering of those who found themselves at the mercy of nature's flood rage and the generosity and spirit of those who came to help them.

Fuck. It's a lot to take in. Parents without children, children without parents, families without homes. Breathtaking and gutwrenching.

I sometimes retreat to this song when I feel overwhelmed. It's gentle. It gives me a little bit of peace. The lyrics are beautiful. And so, I am sharing this here. I wish for all, a little peace.



In the morning when the moon is at it's rest,
You will find me at the time I love the best
Watching rainbows play on sunlight;
Pools of water iced from cold night, in the morning.
Tis the morning of my life.

In the daytime I will meet you as before.
You will find me waiting by the ocean floor,
Building castles in the shifting sands
In a world that no one understands,
In the morning.
Tis the morning of my life,

In the morning of my life the
Minutes take so long to drift away
Please be patient with your life
It's only morning and you're still to live your day

In the evening I will fly you to the moon
To the top right hand corner of
The ceiling in my room
Where we'll stay until the sun shines
Another day to swing on clothes lines
May I be yawning

It is the morning of my life
It is the morning of my life
In the morning
In the morning
In the morning

Mother's love - for Lori

There are no words that seem right today. No eloquence, no poetry. Just a woman, a mummy who is saying goodbye to her husband, her children's daddy. Wrong, so wrong on so many levels.
A dear friend gave me this rose a couple of days ago. It's called a Mother's Love rose.

It's the only thing I can give to Lori today. From one mother to another. Love.

Grace

 

My heart and mind is with Lori and her family tonight as they mourn the loss of Tony. Like so many others I have watched this tragedy unfold from afar with my breath held tightly, hoping and hoping for a miracle. It is heartbreaking this is not to be. I am so sorry for this family’s enormous loss.
Since this situation began for Lori, I have watched the extraordinary response of hundreds in the blogging and twitter community who have rallied, donated, tweeted and blogged to convey their love and support for Lori and Tony. It has been a privilege to bear witness to this and gives me a new faith in the good and great that is among us. I found this quote tonight. It says something to me about these communities and the love and support they have given so willingly. You are all amazing.
“If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world, and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands, but a continent that joins to them.” Francis Bacon Sr, 1561-1626


There is another, smaller, group of people, Lori’s friends, who have been ever present over the last few days. I don’t know all of them but those I do are here and here and here. They have rallied everyone, set up a donation facility, sent updates, organised meal cooking and no doubt provided much support directly to Lori. I am sure that only a small portion of what they have done is visible, the rest behind the scenes. From my tiny humble little blog, I just thought they should be acknowledged.


This quote, is for them. They have been grace.


"Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her Eye, In every gesture dignity and love” John Milton, 1608-1674

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Powerful love

I don't know Lori. I have read her blog quite a few times and loved it, I follow her on Twitter but I don't know her. Right now she is facing an unimaginable family crisis as her husband fights for his life in hospital. She has two small children. The internet and in particular the blogging and Twitter communities are amazing at times like this. So many people are praying, sending love, giving what they can and so I guess one small thing is that Lori knows that there are literally hundreds, if not thousands of people who are holding her close. That's some pretty powerful love don't you think? I'm adding my love and hope into this amazing group of people generating powerful love for Lori and her family.


If you can donate visit here

The first lemon

When the Batsman's twin died eleven weeks into the pregnancy I felt such a mixture of emotions. I was so sad to lose a precious baby but so happy that the Batsman battled on in-utero and appeared likely to make it into the world. Part of me wanted to curl up in a ball and just weep for an eternity, yet I also knew that I needed to nurture the babe within and take care of myself. It was confusing. It was bittersweet.

Both the Captain and I wanted to plant a tree to commemorate that time. We went to a beautiful plant nursery and wandered until we found the right one. We chose a gorgeous (but little) lemon tree to live in a big blue ceramic pot on our back deck. The lemon tree is still with us but has taken quite a bit of time to "find its feet".

And here it is...our very first lemon on our angel's lemon tree.

We will always love and remember you little one.