The Luxury of Grief.

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It’s been a while since I wrote anything here. Not because I’ve had nothing to say, but because I’ve had no time to say it.

The few months after my last post were relatively normal, but under the shadow of a cancer that wouldn’t go away. Back in the summer, hubby had three weeks of chemo which nearly killed him. He couldn’t walk, speak or breathe, and decided that he wanted to enjoy whatever time he had left. When you feel that shit, you think death would be a blessed relief, but at the same time, you don’t really believe it’ll ever actually come. After that, we just lived. Normally (ish.) We went on holiday, and were talking about where we might go to next before we’d even come home. He did the school run, and mucked in with the cooking. He helped me to price difficult jobs in the business we run together, and ferried the boys to footy, drama, youth club and the rest. He carried on doing the job he loved, in the hope of putting away a bit of cash for the future of the boys he’d always wanted to see graduate, if not get married, and life went on… Although, feeling “fine” through all of these everyday events – particularly the open day of the wonderful secondary school we’ve spent every Sunday for over a decade racking up God Miles to get them in to – is darkened by the nagging wonder of whether or not he’ll live to see them start their very first year.

The shadow of terminal illness is ever-present. It follows you to the loo, and hits you in the face at the supermarket when you’re trying to work out which butter is the best value. It eats away at your sleep and your comfort, but it hasn’t let me cry.

Grief is a luxury afforded to those who are on the outside. The man we vaguely know from parties thrown by a mutual friend, who bumped into my husband at the changing room at the gym, and who came out of there in floods of tears and sobbed on my shoulder. The good friend who broke down on hearing the news and vowed to do everything she could to help us to fight it together. The fellow mums in the playground who come up and hug me and ask how things are going, while trying to hold back the tears as they admit it’s not they who should be crying-  it’s me. But it isn’t me. I can’t seem to feel that this is real at all. It seems that, by taking a step back and looking in, the perspective changes. They know it’s incurable. They can imagine life without him because they’ve seen it happen to other people they know, and anyway, they’re not the ones having their entire worlds turned upside down. It’s shit, they say, and I nod and say yes it is, but you never know – it’s not over until the fat lady sings (or in our case, until the man I love is lying cold in my arms. I don’t say that bit out loud.)

Everyone congratulates our family for our relentless positivity. No wonder he’s doing so well, they say. Positivity kills cancer, they say. You’re an inspiration to us all, they say.

But, it’s impossible to grieve for something which you don’t really believe is happening in the first place.

Love Fanny x

I began to write this post a few months ago, and never got around to finishing it at the time. My husband passed away on April 14th 2016.

 

A Sea Change.

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We’ve been feeling a bit hard done by, these last couple of weeks. Not because we’re on an island-hopping tour of Greece – the photos of which are making our Facebook friends extremely jealous – but because every day that we make some memories, we are reminded, with every giggle, every “go on then, we’ll do it” speedboat trip, and every mouthful of “fuck it, let’s have it anyway” steak, that it’s probably our last family holiday together. My husband – their daddy – is dying.

Then, this morning, I logged onto my Facebook, with the best intermittent wifi signal I could get, and saw the picture which has stopped the world in its tracks.

Here was a little boy, washed up on the shore. His dream of a better life was over.

It could have been the same beach we’d just been playing on. The same water that my baby boys were splashing in – riding speedboats on, for fun – eating steaks beside, for fun – was the very same water that took someone else’s baby boy away from them for ever. No steaks, no speedboats. Just a journey through temperatures and waters that we Brits consider heavenly, when for others they are sent from hell.

My boys have nicknames. One is Bounce, because he loved to be bounced around on my knee when he was a baby. He giggled and laughed and giggled again, until he was almost sick with joy. The other is Banana, because he once wore a yellow babygro (probably not his choice – he was only a week old) which made him look JUST like a banana, and the poor child has been lumbered with this unfortunate monicker ever since. 

As a family, we have a vomit-inducing “team” name, which, to be fair, was tongue-in-cheek to begin with, to encourage the boys to be part of the team that got Daddy better, and, naff as it is, it’s pretty much stuck. Let’s just call ourselves Team Fannypops, for now. That isn’t what it is, but the real thing is just as bad.

This little boy must have had a nickname of his own. All loved children have nicknames. What was it, and why? Did he giggle fit to bust as a baby? Did he have an hilarious outfit as a baby that he couldn’t object to wearing because he was too small to speak? Did his smile melt his father’s heart? Did his mother see his faults and love him all the more because of them? Could he kick a football like a boss, or soak up new words and phrases like a sponge? Could he memorise books or faces or facts?

Did his parents treat their journey as a game, and give their family a fun team name, just to make the petrifying journey more bearable for the child who knew no better? 

When we were checking the forecast for the week ahead and celebrating the rising temperatures, were they dying of thirst and heat exhaustion? When we complained that there weren’t enough towels in the hotel bathroom, did they have something to protect themselves from the spray of the sea? Did the choppy seas which slightly marred our game of throw and catch on the beach contribute to their boat being thrown too far to one side? While our pool was a degree or two colder than we’d have liked, was the sea bitingly cold when they were thrown overboard?

If – no, when – my husband dies in the next few months, he will have a choice. He will be warm, comfortable, and surrounded by the people he loves. He will choose where he dies, what will happen to his belongings, and can plan for his younger children’s future. This early departure is not what any of us wanted – least of all him – but we all understand that it could always be worse, and are grateful for the fact that it isn’t.

These people have no choice. When the open sea, a wing and a prayer, are a better choice than staying still, then they must be leaving their home in hell. 

All humans have a story. Only by hearing theirs will we finally remember that they are humans too. 

Love Fanny x

Telling the Children.

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We told the boys. A week before their tenth birthday.

We’d decided we weren’t going to tell them anything until nearer the time. Not sure what the fuck “the time” is, but death, I suppose.

We’d certainly wanted to wait until we’d seen the oncologist, in case some whizz-bang trial had just appeared which would change everything. I can’t begin to tell you how uncomfortable it feels to ask someone to absolutely guarantee your husband will die, but it was important to us that we weren’t about to break the boys’ hearts, only to have to try to piece them together again a few months down the line.

That day, we met with him for the first time since the terminal diagnosis, and we knew it was serious when he did that sort of closed-mouth half-smile thing that people do when they need to rip someone’s heart to shreds, but in the most sympathetic way.

Still, the oncologist (let’s call him Dr Death) was pretty certain there would be no sudden miracle cure appearing on the horizon in time for us, despite the news in that day’s papers (and not just the Daily Mail) that immunotherapy was imminent and showing promising results. It isn’t that simple, apparently.

According to him (and I do trust that he knows these things,) children fare far better when they’re told the truth from the start. We’ve always told our children the truth about everything, provided it’s in age-appropriate terms for them to understand, and hiding the truth about their daddy’s health was beginning to eat away at us. We could barely look at them in case we gave something away. So, with the added assurance that no, there really was no way that my hubby would ever recover from this, and frankly, if by some miracle he does survive, the children are not going to be upset about that, we decided to sit them down and tell them the truth.

We’ll make ourselves a nice cup of tea, some Vimto for the boys with extra ice, put out a few biscuits on to a plate… yes, of course you can finish your game on the xBox, but then just pop in here onto the sofa and we’ll cuddle you and tell you your Daddy’s cancer can’t be cured. The doctors have worked so hard, but it’s gone too far and they can’t reach the bits they need to. Yes, my darling, he will die. We don’t know how long… a year, maybe? Maybe more, maybe less. We’re so, so sorry. I know. Come here.

They cried. My God, they cried. One went very quiet and just wanted to hold his Daddy. The other went outside the room, punched the wall and screamed. He wanted to know what he had done to deserve it. We held them both tight and made all the right noises. We loved them so much – more than we ever have before.

Then, our older twin wandered off and returned with his iPad. Hubby and I looked at each other and wondered which cure for cancer he’d looked up on the internet, and wondered how we might gently tell him that we trusted in the people in charge of his Daddy’s care, and ask him to believe we were all doing the best we could to keep him alive, and please not to tie himself in knots trying to find a cure that doesn’t exist.

“What’s this, my darling?” I enquired, gently.

Through his tears, “it’s Match.com” he replied. “We’re going to have to find you a new husband.”

At this moment. I couldn’t be any further from wanting to be someone else’s wife if I tried. Bring on the hair loss, the sickness, the lethargy and the misery. Throw all the chemo at him that he can handle. There’s nobody else I want to be their Daddy, but their Daddy.

Love Fanny x

daddy fundraiser

The Island of Denial.

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Well, it’s been a fucking funny year, and no mistake. Oh – wait, no. It’s been shite.

The cancer we’ve been dealing with was always going to be a tricky one to manage – T3N2M0 adenocarcinoma oesophageal cancer, to be precise, which – just a year ago, would have been to me a random selection of consonants and vowels with no real meaning. Over the twelve months since my last blog, we’ve learned that they mean quite a lot – and if you boil it down to single facts and figures, the only definition you need is that there’s a 16% chance of being alive in two years following diagnosis.

Righto.

After three months’ chemo, some major surgery (an oesophagogastrectomy, should you wish to google it – though I wouldn’t do it over dinner,) followed by a week in intensive care, and three more months’ chemo, we were so looking forward to a clear scan. My hubby was doing SO well – he’d dealt with everything with remarkable ease and good humour. He was feeling better, getting out and about, and most of all spending lots of lovely quality time with our fabulous boys who’d had a not-so-fabulous year of anger, upset, tears and stress, and who were both coming out of this dark period and being – quite frankly – wonderful.

He feels well. Six weeks after having his chemo stopped early because his cells were so battered, he’s just walked 10K for a cancer charity, and raised over £2000. He’s on the up, and so are we – looking forward to a future which, a year ago, seemed so uncertain.

So, after a scan to check the cancer was all gone, and our fingers poised to send a mass text to our nearest and dearest to tell them the good news… being told it was back – and this time incurable – was, just, WHAT? Wait.

I don’t know how it must feel to be him. To be told you have a year – maybe more, maybe less. Who knows? To wake every day from a fitful sleep to feel the Grim Reaper on your shoulder, who just won’t fuck off. To look at his wonderful boys – nearly ten, and with such spirit, such spark, and a promising future ahead for each of them – and realise he may not even see them through primary school. To know he might have just seen his last spring.

I can’t imagine. I wish I could feel something of what he’s feeling. Last year, after his diagnosis, I spent days – maybe weeks, maybe months – walking around in a cheerful daze, unable to access whatever my true feelings were. Making lists in my head (such as the ones in the last blog I wrote a year ago) which were irrelevant, distracting and irritating. I cried… oh, bucketloads. But not straight away.

“AutoFanny” has switched right back on since Tuesday, when we heard the news which would change our lives forever, and all I can do is pretend it isn’t happening. For now, the boys only know that the cancer hasn’t completely gone away, and that Daddy is going to have more chemo. You never know – miracles DO happen, so why write him off now? And why put such a cloud over what could be a wonderful few months or – hell – a few years? Even so, they’re in bits, so are the people around us, and my hubby is veering from deeply weepy to taking the piss out of himself. But taking the piss is pretty much ALL I can do. I’ve only cried once, and that was when we heard the news, while he held it together in that shitty little side room with the stupid fucking flowery wallpaper and held MY hand. Since then, I’ve simply cracked jokes.

“Oh, look, darling. That book’s called 1001 Albums To Listen To Before You Die. Better get cracking, eh?”

He laughed. Well, praise the Lord for that.

All we’ve ever done for the last fourteen years is laugh. Here’s to more laughter… for as long as we can find humour in, well, everything. Even so, when the rest of the world is crying and you’re taking the piss out of the situation on your own little island of denial, it’s a very lonely place to be.

In truth, all I want to do is scream, but I can’t even begin to know how.

Love Fanny x

Every Cloud.

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  • I really ought to make sure I’ve got his recipe for those legendary roast potatoes.
  • The office is so full of unnecessary stuff… perhaps if I move his desk out of the way, the boys will have more room for their computer. Their desk is a bit hemmed in. We might even get a sofa to go there instead, come to think of it. That would look nice.
  • I’d better get him to leave me an instruction manual about how to use all the office equipment, too, and what our pricing structures really are. When I’ve got those, I’ll feel more comfortable with everything.
  • I won’t have to listen to him over-explaining things any more, which drives me mad anyway. Why use one word when fifty eight will do?
  • No more wet towels on the bed, thank God. And don’t get me started on the chaos he leaves after using the bathroom.
  • Finally, I can sort the laundry properly before each wash, and know it’s being done right.
  • I’ll have to do the ironing myself from now on, which is a drag. At least I won’t have all his shirts with complicated pocket arrangements to think about, though.
  • I won’t ever leave the kitchen in as much of a tip as he does when he cooks.
  • The garage is full of stuff which will be sorted “one day.” I can’t wait to tidy up, fill the car and get to the tip.
  • I wonder what I should tell our clients when they ask to speak to him. I hope they don’t stop employing me because they’re too embarrassed to find out if he’s dead yet. I still need to make a living.
  • He’s always so grumpy at airports. At least I won’t have to put up with his bad travelling attitude any more.
  • I’m never going to have to see him in those bloody awful slippers which – though he knows how much I hate them and how ridiculous they make him look – he still continues to wear.
  • Come to think of it, that fucking dressing gown will be the first thing to go in the bin, as well.
  • I’m so angry that he thinks this is a suitable time to get ill. It isn’t. Our little family is a team, and I’m fucked if he thinks we can play as well with a quarter down. We can’t.

I don’t want this to be happening. I don’t even recognise these feelings as my own. These are all the ridiculous thoughts that have gone through my mind since I found out that the man I share my life and my children with has advanced cancer.

Every time I’ve turned around for the past 12 years of my life, he’s been right there beside me. He’s driven me mad, he’s frustrated me, he’s counselled me, he’s made me laugh, he’s made me cry, he’s made love to me, he’s pissed me off royally, he’s supported me, he’s fathered the two most amazing little boys in the history of the world, he’s helped us to become leaders in our field of work, he’s made lots of friends and very few enemies, he’s made me squeal with laughter and cry in frustration. He’s stretched me to breaking point and he’s shown me happiness that I never knew could be found. He’s not perfect, but he’s my husband, and I love him. I’m not sure how we can even think about living without him. Our journey has just moved in a new and completely unexpected direction, and I don’t mind admitting that we’re all totally fucking petrified.

Love Fanny x

Emotional Baggage.

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I’ve been meaning to start writing this blog for months, but you know how it is. Life gets in the way – and I’ve been busy.

Still, as I sat here tonight in my nice, warm, comfy house, I was jolted into action by a Facebook post from a friend of mine who happened to mention this:

The Rucksack Project – Go to charity shops, get a rucksack, sleeping bag, flask (fill with hot soup), spoon, gloves, hat, fleece, undies, socks and extra food, take it out and give it to a homeless person. That’s it. As it says on the Facebook page, it’s really simple, costs very little, and should only take an hour of your time.

It struck a nerve. I’m sitting here in my nice, warm, comfy house, and some people aren’t.

We all see sad stuff on the TV and in the news, and we all think sad thoughts for a moment or two about those poor bastards out on the street in the cold. Then we shrug, wander off, and pour another glass of wine. The reason I was stopped in my tracks is because I could have been one of those people. I guess we all could, but seriously, I nearly was one of those people. Yet, here I am. Gorgeous family. Decent business. Big house. Audi. Seriously – how the very fuck?

I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of it here and now, but I was a very troubled teenager. Nothing a few years of counselling couldn’t eventually sort out, but let’s just say that those in charge of my upbringing made some mistakes which meant (at the time at least) that they were a right set of dickheads. They’re OK now though. We’ve all learned a lot, forgiven each other, and moved on a fair bit.

So, in about 1994, my broken home was no place for a troubled teen, so off I fucked. Thank God for the YWCA. Had it not been for their fantastic hostel in the middle of a rotting council estate at the arse end of the city – which had a space and took in what was left of my thin, broken, anorexic, panicked frame – I would surely have ended up on the streets. I stayed in the hostel for almost a year while I finished my GCSEs, got an education no school could provide, hostel-hopped a little more, and eventually, after some help from the Powers That Be, found and moved into my own flat. While the other residents had all come from a variety of different – troubled – backgrounds, I was known fondly as “the posh one” and it was there I realised that having a smattering of blue blood didn’t make me any better than anyone – especially when you’ve run out of food and the only option is to walk back into town to the soup kitchen and share a polystyrene cupful of warmth with people who really did have it tough. Suddenly, being one of the lucky ones with a roof was all the posh we needed to be. As we sat huddled together at the back of House of Fraser, trying not to notice the winter coat collection adorning the senseless bodies of the stiff, lifeless mannequins in the window, those people who could barely even afford elbow patches were my friends. Good friends.

That winter, a representative from a local superstore turned up at the hostel out of the blue, with a Christmas hamper for all of us, full of winter essentials, as well as a few treats. I’ve never forgotten my sense of astonishment that people who didn’t even KNOW us were prepared to give up their time and money to give an amazing gift to strangers – and the fact that some of us had had a difficult time was immaterial. I’ve never felt more grateful for anything in my life, because it was a gift that didn’t have to be given, and nothing was expected in return. At a time when we desperately needed it, that gift gave us all a sense of worth and the feeling that maybe there were good people out there. I’ll never say that the hamper changed my life (insofar as the contents only kept me going for a few days but didn’t include the tools I needed to completely start from scratch,) but that feeling of somebody caring was enough to make me carry on and fight on through. I’m not even saying that’s why I’ve gone on to make an apparent success of my life, but that gift was certainly a key factor in changing my view of the world – no longer an enemy, but a potential friend.  This is why the Rucksack Project is important, but it’s why any giving is important.

I’m not saying that giving a rucksack full of warmth will change someone’s life forever. It won’t. But that moment of kindness – karma, paying it forward, Christianity, whatever you want to call it – will make somebody’s life a little bit easier, especially over the winter months. It’s for reasons like this that I’m a member of my local church. Not to listen to all the old biddies in the choir bleat on about whether or not they sang the anthem correctly, but because of the worker ants in the congregation helping out at soup kitchens and sending shoeboxes full of loving gifts to places that really need them – thus displaying the true meaning of Christianity, which (in my opinion) is merely about friendship, fellowship and love, rather than some invisible deity (and if He exists at all, by the way, MY God has a bloody good sense of humour and thinks swearing is hilarious.)

When my family and I fill our rucksacks and our shoeboxes, I hope the people who receive them get the same feeling from our little gift as I did from that hamper in 1994. I still have that hamper here – a constant reminder of where I’ve been, and where I’ve yet to go.

Love Fanny x

Paying it Forward.

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Here are some simple but effective ways in which you can help to pay good things forward. You’ll reap the rewards. Try it. It’ll barely hurt at all (unless you choose the marathon option.)

The Rucksack Project – Go to charity shops, get a rucksack, sleeping bag, flask (fill with hot soup), spoon, gloves, hat, fleece, undies, socks and extra food, take it out and give it to a homeless person.

Operation Christmas Child – Fill a shoebox with toys and gifts. It will be the greatest gift some kids across the world will ever receive. Check out the website for more information on what to give, and how to get involved in your area.

Give away stuff you don’t need. Don’t spend hours listing it on eBay (unless the proceeds will go to charity.) My sons were trying to save all their pocket money for a model Pirates of the Caribbean Black Pearl ship, RRP £200. Ridiculous. A few weeks later, we encouraged them to give away some of their old toys to charity, and days after found the very ship they wanted in a different charity shop for £10.

Give to a food bank, or support organisations such as the Trussell Trust – Many churches collect at Harvest time, but most supermarkets have a container somewhere in the store where you can donate tins and packets of food. If your local store doesn’t, ask them why not.

Grow your hair, then donate it to people with cancer. Donate your blood. Just give what you can. It doesn’t have to cost you anything, but it could be a matter of life and death for somebody else.

Run a marathon, or set yourself a challenge. Even walking 5k is a bigger challenge for some than running a marathon is for others. Get out there and do it. Why can’t you? Of course you have time.

I could go on. Perhaps I will another time, but in the meantime… Be kind. Be thoughtful. Love.

You reap what you sow.

Love Fanny x