Irony

The irony of this blog has not been lost on me. I started it when I separated from my husband in an attempt to see this as a positive chance to start my life again.

The irony of course, comes from what happened afterwards. Seems like Life wanted to change anyway, regardless of my marital status.

In November last year I had a ‘breakdown’, although I much prefer the Teaching Unions’ labelling of ‘burnout’. I was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. Once the tiredness had finally ebbed, I was left with a numbing darkness: a malevolent emptiness which reeked on my own self-dissatisfaction and sense of failure. In those burned out eyes of mine, I had failed at my marriage, failed to keep my Dad well, failed at my job because I wasn’t strong enough, and failed as a mother because I was weak and a mess.

Months later, sedated by antidepressants and the memories of counselling, I returned to work. The phased return helped and soon I was feeling like the old me again. Not the new me my blog had promised to recount, but the old me.

And then, only a couple of months later, Dad deteriorated further. We thought we were losing him in April but he survived somehow and we were told that he was at the end of his life and we should prepare that he would have about twelve months with us. I believed we would be lucky to have another Christmas with him, but I hoped. He was a strong man despite his illness.

He returned home frail and didn’t seem to recover the way we had hoped. There were more tests, doctor’s appointments, carers… And then the ambulance calls in the middle of the night, only for him to be sent home days later with more medication.

Then in May he was admitted again with severe anaemia. Within days, a chest infection started. Then a little heart attack. And still we had hope. We had til Christmas, didn’t we? We had a year! He’d pulled through before.

After a week we started to doubt. He was not getting better. The hospital were not giving up, but our hope was fading. Our handsome, strong Dad was pale and weak and sleepy. He was black and blue from blood tests and transfusions.

And then, on June 6th, after discussion with the doctors, we made the decision to withdraw treatment – Dad’s non-invasive ventilator – the thing that was keeping him alive. He wasn’t getting better and we couldn’t see him suffer any longer.

Dad died less than twelve hours later with me and my two sisters by his side. And my life as I knew it ended.

I’m not the same person without my Dad. I’ve lost what little strength I had recovered after my ‘burnout’. A colleague has described me as a ‘broken woman’ and its stark accuracy startled me. I feel broken.

The clichés – a ‘part of me is missing’, ‘something has died inside me’ – how I wish they were metaphorical! I always thought they were but then I had never experienced grief like this before.

I write about my grief to cope with it. To remember it. Because it, in a slightly strange way, is also a part of Dad and I don’t want to forget this part either. And I hope these honest reflections can help someone too. Help them realise that they are not going mad, that these tumultuous feelings are a normal part of grief. Grief is not just crippling sadness – something I didn’t know until now. Grief is a very lonely place.

Change was a positive aspiration two years ago. It’s now a source of anxiety and pain.

My counsellor tells me that my grief is ‘healthy’. I’m told that it’s ‘selfless’ which is a good thing apparently. These are just words to me. I’m glad I’m not dipping back into depression again but these words mean nothing. I’m still grieving.

For six months I have tried to do what is expected of me. Carry on with my life. Keep being a mum and a teacher, a sister and a homeowner. As each month has passed, I’ve tried to hide the grief which is still as strong as it has ever been. (Maybe that’s it – you never get over it, you just learn to hide it better? ) Apparently, I’m not doing very well at this.

Last Sunday, after some Christmas shopping, I returned home and cried and cried and cried. I went into work Monday morning, frog-eyed and raw, to speak to HR in the hope they’d let me hide myself away in my office and work. Carry on, the way I’m supposed to.

An hour later, I’d let out my grief again. I’d discussed my pain, my fear about Christmas. My fear that people saw through my very carefully constructed facade of being OK.

My fears were well founded. My colleagues say that I am not the same, that I don’t have the same ‘gumption’ I once had.

How hard I have tried to hide this! I know I don’t have the same strength, but I didn’t want everyone else to see this. It was OK in the beginning, people expect you to be that way. But after a time, I believed that I should be back to myself, externally at least.

Although I feel like a failure, I’ve been told that I’m not and people don’t see me as one. I’m not sure I agree on either count.

Day to day, most days, my grief is a burning ember inside me. It’s a gossamer veil that covers me. Change is a catalyst though. It stokes the embers and the grief burns in my chest. Like today – simply preparing for Christmas with final shopping and cleaning and tidying has caused anxiety all day. Such a strange emotion as I’m not sure why it’s anxiety, but that is what I have felt and what I always feel when I experience change since Dad has died.

I know Christmas will be hard. Its a change. I’ve never had a Christmas before without my Dad: now I will never have one again with him. My anxiety is a symptom of this knowledge.

But somehow, this week’s grief and work revelations have created something new in me. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want people to see me as weak. How can I find myself again? I haven’t created these changes but I need to embrace them somehow. Use them as a catalyst for positivity if that is at all possible. That determination, the strength that has been bred in me, encouraged in me, from my Dad, is wanting to fight back. It was fine for me to pretend to be OK if I thought no one realised. Now I know that I have failed to hide it, I’m even more determined.

I can’t change my grief. I can’t erase it or end it. It’s there because I loved my Dad and will always love my Dad so it will always be there too.

I have no answers to this. It’s another irony. I share my grief in this blog because I believe that grief is personal but should not be private. And yet, I’m determined to find a way to hide it.

I’m shaking my head at myself as I write this.

So, to all of you that are missing someone this Christmas, I know how hard this is. I’m with you. We are not alone. I will be sending a prayer to you all, as I pray to my Dad, asking him to send a little bit more of his strength my way.

Merry Christmas xx

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Inevitable

He was alert this morning. His face still showed that grey palour of sickness but there was a pink tinge to his cheeks that had been absent for so long.

Within seconds though, it was evident that the confusion that descends every time my dad is hospitalised had arrived.

Hours later and the alertness has diminished and the confusion increased. He has now been prescribed medicines to help but history has shown us that these take some time to work.

“No dad, you’re in hospital.”

“We can’t give you tobacco dad.”

“Dad, you’ve got to keep the mask on.”

Yesterday we were here from 8am til 4pm and then we returned in the evening. The grim reality of the situation is never far from our minds despite the slight improvement last night and this morning.

“He’s not out of the woods yet.”

The Non Invasive Ventilator (NIV) we have been told is keep him alive is doing its job. His carbon dioxide levels have improved. This morning though we have been told dad has refused to have it on – no doubt fueled by his increasing confusion. As the day wore on, it was clear to us that he was deteriorating again.

The mask has just been put back on.

It’s hard to process this roller-coaster of emotions and feelings. Hope to despair to laughter (fuelled by dad’s jokes when alert) to fear when his chest wheezes and his face pales.

It’s hard to see him suffer. It’s hard to think that he may still not make it. He has a ‘do not resuscitate’ order in place. He is not eligible for Life Support. And I really don’t want him to suffer. Then I feel bad because then it sounds like I want him to die. I want him to live in comfort. I want him to be happy. And I don’t think that is going to be possible, even if he survives this time.

I’ve taken to noting things down. Like how he told us yesterday that we were “the best four daughters [he] could ever wish for” before the confusion set in. Or the winks he gave me when he saw the tears I was desperately trying to hide.

The clock is ticking. We’ve been told that he can have the NIV for a maximum of four days. If his lungs haven’t sufficiently recovered by then we would need to consider end of life care. I get the impression that this would not take long. Without the NIV, we’ve been told his organs would begin to shut down.

Why am I writing this down? Why am I telling you all this?

If this is the end of my wonderful dad’s life, I want to remember it. All of it – the painful bits too. Because this is all I might have. These last days and hours might be it.

We picked up a booklet today on ‘Coping with the final stages of a long-term lung condition’. It is hard to read but really helpful and informative. Reading it, I realised that Dad is showing many signs that he could be at the end. Even if he survives this time.

When he survived the lung cancer four years ago, and the prostate cancer only recently (the cancer is being controlled by drugs meaning that it is not life threatening at present) I thought this could mean, if I was really, really lucky, that I had another ten years with him. He has older siblings that are still alive and one that lived til she was 90. I didn’t think about the others that have all died under 70.

My Dad… My generous, funny, loving Dad is dying. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

For however long he is here, be it hours, days, months or years, I will cherish him. The best dad I could ever wish for.

Why happiness is mine to accept

To understand this post, you may want to read the previous one first! https://startingfromthemiddleblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/why-am-i-depressed/

I have a good job, a nice home and three beautiful and healthy children.

My dad has survived lung cancer and his prostate cancer is in remission. He is still with us.

My relationship with my mum has improved. She is happy and I know she will always be there if I need her.

Never say never. The job I have now is suitable for my situation on the whole. I get time off with my children. My job is enjoyable and challenging and I am good at it. There will be time for change in the future when the moment is right.

My children know they are loved. They know they can depend on me. They may not have as much as some but they have more than others. They are polite and well mannered and have a healthy interest in reading and history and technology, of course.

Happiness is not just for those in a relationship. I can be happy without a man. But at the same time, love could be on the horizon til the day I die.

At least I know that the connection exists. Somewhere, out there is another connection – so strong that nothing will keep us apart.

I tried my best to keep my marriage alive. What I have now are lots of happy memories, three beautiful children and a much better relationship with their dad.

As I write, I am an able bodied woman with no major health concerns other than the need to lose weight. It could be worse.

Life can be good if we open our eyes to it.

One year on.

A year today I started this blog. Madness. At first I was pretty proud of myself for posting for a whole year, but then I realised it was more than that.

This blog has got me through some really tough times this year. It’s been a friend, a sounding post, a crutch.

Without a shadow of a doubt, on my second and final separation from my husband a year ago, I felt the absence of utter misery and stress would leave me feeling a lot happier. Surprisingly, it didn’t.

My circumstances are a lot different from the first time. I’m older (obviously), have three children (not two), and a more demanding and high pressured job.

I’ve found my separated life to be quite lonely. I’ve gone through dark clouds of depression to euphoric bliss and the boredom of monotony in between:

Dates – nope.

Rooms redecorated – half (don’t ask).

New hobbies – one.

Weight lost – none.

Evaluation of creation of new life? Poor.

But (and there is always a but)..

I HAVE MADE IT!

I have been a single parent to three gorgeous but highly demanding children whilst holding down a career and attempting to keep my house from looking (and smelling) like a dump.

So my advice to you, ‘newly separated and hopeful’ is:

Don’t put so much pressure on yourself to make big changes. Let the dust settle.

Accept that it will take a while for the dust to settle.

Don’t think that the big hole left (however desired) by your ex leaving/getting kicked out is going to be filled with love and wonder and happiness. Not at first anyway. You need to explore every inch of that crater to process what happened: how you feel about it and what you truly want now your dream of night long sex with [insert sexy movie star here] is no longer needed to get you through the pain of a dissolving marriage.

Be kind to yourself. You are going to emote in ways you didn’t know possible. You may even miss him a little. Doesn’t mean you want him back or that you should backtrack on your decision, necessarily. It’s OK to mourn what once was and what could have been.

Give yourself the gift of time. Go out with the girls. Get out in the fresh air whenever you can. Laugh, cook, dance. You don’t need a replacement to make you happy.

Take stock of your achievements regularly. This is a big change to your life. It’s not easy to go it alone.

Don’t be afraid of asking for or accepting help. It doesn’t make you weak. Just reminds you that you are not Wonder Woman. (More’s the pity).

Don’t settle for mediocrity. You’re better than that. You deserve more than that. There’s no rush – get it right this time.

Thank you to all the people who have read my blog and the two special ladies who regularly comment. It is always appreciated. 😊

Here’ s to Year 2 and all that may bring.

Happy Blogging!

Xx

Fighting on

Although my own blogging may have slowed, I enjoy catching up on followed posts most days. Some of you out there are experiencing a life I can’t even begin to imagine: be it through exciting dates or travelling or photography or experimental cooking.

I always find it sad when someone stops blogging for a while. I feel an anticipation when I log in, wondering if the next installment will be there, and then disappointment when it isn’t.

I’ve lost my way with my own blogging. I started out wanting to chart how I was starting again: separated at the age of 37 and desperately wanting to live a fulfilled life.

First, depression hit me. Then, Lost Soul came back in my life and dominated so much of my thoughts, emotions and life. I’ve managed to wriggle free from that hold he had over me.

Since then, probably as I grieved the potentially perfect relationship that never was, my writing has reflected my ever changing emotions. Unfortunately it hasn’t demonstrated my journey to the life I want, mainly because I don’t feel like I am any closer to it.

But I will fight on and write on.

Talking of fighting on, it has been a difficult week. My dad ended up in hospital again with a severe chest infection- not good for a man who has survived lung cancer and has COPD.

We thought we were losing him on Thursday and he was not responding to treatment. Slowly though, he is starting to pull through. Confusion and hallucinations have followed but today as I visited him in hospital, he seemed more like a very weary version of himself.

His scan results have come back today too. As expected, his lungs are continuing to deteriorate. Not expected though, was that he has also had a little stroke.

I have lived with my dad for most of my life. I estimate about three years in total where I have lived away, before I bought and extended my childhood home.

It’s not easy sometimes. My dad is stubborn and is not too keen on change. He also doesn’t always tolerate my moods which is fair enough. On the whole though, we get on great.

I haven’t had a lot of patience with him though this last year. Fighting my own inner demons makes it hard to cope with someone else’s. My dad is naturally a pessimistic person and that can be hard to deal with day after day when you’re fighting to keep yourself positive.

He is a fantastic dad though. He has been there for me and my siblings whenever we need him. He is funny and caring and generous.

He tells us that we are his life and he is certainly the centre of ours.

I can’t wait for him to get home. I’m looking forward to hearing his grumblings because, you know what? He has earned them. He has survived cancer twice, three serious infections that have brushed with death and now a stroke. He is fighter.

Keep fighting daddy. Xx