I am not the only one...an insight for the ones left behind.

For those that came before me, I salute you.
For those who are to come after me, this is for you.

Watching a loved one die is very hard. It is, however, easier than watching your loved one suffer or be in a state of being that you know they never ever wanted. By the time we came to the day before and the day of, we were wishing for her to be free and happy and to not have to see her little body fighting anymore.

Mum was in hospital for 5 weeks and twice was on the verge of being well enough to go home and twice was admitted to ICU, she died from complications from Pancreatitis which lead to organ failure. My dad was at the hospital every day of those 5 weeks, me, I got 15 days, for which I am extremely grateful.

You might not be so lucky, you might have a day, an hour or you may not know until after. To those who suffer that fate, I am sorry. I don't have words for that, I am not sure how that works. But I am going to say that somehow we survive, you may not even realise that you are, but you do.

On of the hardest parts for me and I think for Mum too, actually happened a lot earlier. While they were still talking recovery. The Dr visited that morning and explained that Mums donor kidney was shutting down. This kidney was donated by my Uncle, her brother. It was her proudest possession. To hear this news was devastating. Dialysis was a "no go" with Mum. Having endured it for many years she was adamant that she would never have it again. True to her fighting spirit, she said to me "It's ok. stay positive" and went on to have 3-4 days of dialysis because she had to try.

I learnt that while we are going through this, normal life still exists. In my case, there was still humour, like when mum called Dad an "arsehole" and the doctor a "young punk lawyer" because we were all a little slow to recognise that she was in fact dying and had had enough of ICU, dialysis etc, or when she sat in up in bed and said "You can't nibble Dads nuts!", after I had mentioned I had brought a snack of nuts for Dad.

There was also the joke about the pink hammer. Years ago Mum had bought a pink "ladies" tool set. Inside this set was a small pink hammer. As a joke she had made her best friend Liz promise to hit her over the head with the hammer if it looked like she was going loopy or comatose.
Later in the hospital, closer to the last days, we joked that when Liz visited we would have to frisk her and search for the pink hammer. Mum thought it was very funny. Humour is still there, it might be darker, it might lead to tears but it sure is nice to hear them laugh, even for a little while.

There is still boredom, there is tiredness, there is selfishness, there is compassion and love and fear.

Are they really ok when the morphine is making them sleep but they make strange noises? Are you sure that its not hurting? What will happen?  Again I don't have the words, it just happens. I was very worried we hadn't done enough to make her comfortable or that it had taken too long and she had suffered. I don't think this was actually the case, but I felt bad about it for days.

I was very lucky to a have a level headed nurse as a friend. Who, even though I didn't want to know, sat me down and explained that really, this is the end. This was about a day or two before everyone else realised. A little part still flickered with hope, but I was also very grateful for the extra time to steel myself.

At the very least have someone who will let you get quite drunk and cry and ask lots of crazy questions.

Some times the only thing you can do in the face of such crap is to accept just that. This is crap, this is fucked, I am sorry that you are dying, its shit, but I can hold your hand, we can chat, I can get you water, I can paint your nails, I can try to read to you, with a massive lump in my throat. The practical and the normal and the everyday still are there and are a welcome distraction.


DO, help, be and talk. Recount funny stories, allow people to visit if that suits. Even sneak a glass of wine together.. lets face it..it's not going to hurt now.

Every time I said goodbye in the last three days, I said it as if it was the last time. I got about 8 different goodbyes.

I hope this helps anyone who may need it right now.

knock, knock....Who's there? EVERYONE

This morning I received a visit from my local Jehovahs Witness lady. I have spoken with her on quite a few occasions. If it wasn't for the giant gap in our spiritual beliefs, we would be fairly similar people. Mums of primary school age children, living in the same area etc. 

I have no interest in converting, but I do enjoy chatting with her, mainly because we are fairly similar and yet she very seriously holds these interesting and vastly different beliefs.

Today, when we spoke, I told her that my Mum had passed away. Now, an interesting part of this particular religion is the belief that one day all the dead loved ones will be resurrected here on Earth.

...(Blink)...

I know what you're thinking "But, How? How on earth would all the ressurected loved ones of every person fit on this planet??". 

I am not criticising, honestly, I am very curious as how this could possibly be? Where is the cut off? Is it everyone who has ever died? Is it only loved relations? Is it only for believers? or is it the homeless guy that passed away and no one knew??? What age will they be??
Then what happens??? 
Well apparently we all live forever, in perfect health, no sickness and no death. Again... HOW? A never ending, hugely expanding population, here, on Earth?

This information was offered in kindness and I thank her for it. The lady was hoping it would give me solace and hope, that I would certainly see my Mum again, in perfect health, here in this life.

But would I really want that? I have dreamed about it. That all of a sudden Mum comes walking back through the door. 
Honestly, If we are talking impossible and fantastical, then I would rather visit her, where ever and however that may be. I would savour that extra time and be over joyed to see her again, but, this would be because It would end. It has to end. I would love some extra time, I am sure millions of people would.
I am desperately sad that the end of Mums life was now, but I understand that at some point it has to. I couldn't imagine living forever, nothing would be special, life is special because it is fleeting and finite, it ends, at least as we understand it.

I want a Tattoo for Mothers Day

I have always loved tattoos.

The ultimate art form to me. If I stuff up a drawing or painting, I start again, not possible when skin is the canvas. I love the colour and skill.

If it was more socially acceptable and I wouldn't have to live off the dole because I couldn't find work, I would have a lot more.

You guys know I have my "courage" tattoo on my arm. I got it when I most felt that I needed to grow a pair. I think I succeeded for the most part and it is one of my favourite things.

I have another tattoo. A BAD tattoo. If I was willing to show you all, I would be the poster child for never ever being allowed to get a tattoo before the age of 30.

It was a lion paw print, It is in such a stupid place, that now, post kids it resembles a blobby smudge of ink.
Once, along time ago, when I was getting out of the shower my kids saw it and asked me why I have a tattoo of a "Blues clue" :) (mum joke).

This still hasn't been enough to put me off though. I am going to ask that instead of perfume or pjs this Mothers day, that the family will give me money for new ink.

Yes, it will be dedicated to my Mum, No, it won't be a love heart draped with the word MUM on a banner with a sword going through it.

I won't ruin the surprise, but I promise to show it off when I get it OK?

I've jumped.... now what?

I surrounded myself with family and friends all weekend.

During the week, I am keeping myself busy with work.

I am in a funk. I know I am. Normally I would phone Mum.

Mum, who knew what was bothering me before I did. Mum, who would clear the funk just by talking with me on the phone, about nothing special. Who could hit the bullseye of me, without me ever needing to explain.

I am so sad, but it doesn't come out right. I don't cry and then feel better. I fight and hide and run away from it  and then try not to cry and then pretend it didn't happen. If I could call Mum, she would talk about something and the perspective would shift.


I am 35 and I can't clear my own funk. I have never had to. I always knew that if I didn't feel right, If the outside world felt off centre, Mum made it straight again. I don't even know if she knew she did it.

Mum was my litmus test to the world. No idea, no event, no change occurred before it got passed by Mum. I didn't even realise how much I did this.

But NOW I DO. Now I do.

It feels like, for the first time ever, I have jumped without my parachute.

To the boy on the bus this morning

You're young. Maybe 16. 
You are wearing a clean white shirt and pants and look like you are on your way to work. 
Through the music on my headphones, I hear you talking. 
You're on the phone... But no, no phone or headphones. 
You're talking to yourself. Swearing , hitting yourself and the bus wall in front of you. You're actually quite quiet. It's not aimed at anyone else on the bus, it's aimed at yourself. 

You stand up to get off the bus, I see all the scars and sores  on your face and arms. ICE or Meth, I'm thinking. 

You. Are. So. Young. You are handsome for a kid, you have big clear blue eyes. You aren't homeless and you look like someone cares for you. 

You have psychosis. 

If you stop now, you might not suffer from mental health problems permanently. If you stop now, at 16, you might have a normal life, you might even have an extraordinary life. 

In between swearing at yourself and getting off the bus, you stop and thank the bus driver and walk off. 

I think there is hope for you. 

I want it to be real, but is it?

Dave related a story to me today, it gave me chills. He was talking with a customer at work. He had spoken with her for about an hour, purely about work related things. The lady stopped talking, looked Dave in the eye and said "Are you ok?". "Yep, all good" was his answer. "No, you have had something big happen in your life recently, are you ok?".
Dave was shocked and had to fight back the emotions, there is no way that this lady could know about Mum, but somehow she sensed it. 

Some how there are people who know these things, people who can sense these things.

This opens a scary door for me.

I want to believe that Mum is watching me, that she can hear me. That I can talk to her and she could give me a sign that she is around. I want to believe that she is contactable. I am vulnerable. If your a telephone psychic... I'm your next mark.

But I just don't feel like that is the case.  

Before Mums death, I believed in the supernatural. I was terrified of opening that door, mainly because I believed that it was possible to contact "the other side". 
I have "angel cards" and guidance cards that are supposed to be messages from the other side, from your angels. I had a reading that I am convinced was the real deal. Ironically, Mum believed in these things and actually bought my first pack of Angel cards.

Since Mums death, I just can't fathom that its true. Do I really think that she could be a ghost?? Do I really think that she could send me a message through a deck of cards? No. I don't. I want believe, I really do. But now, when I want it most, I can only see the ridiculousness of it. Death now seems very final for me.

There are many, many things in this world that I can't explain, I think there is some kind of life after death or at least a continuation of the cycle. 

I sent a message to Mum today, the one month anniversary. No one can see the message, I am the only one who knows what I sent. 

So after saying that I dont believe, the fact that I sent that message means I still hope that maybe Mum knows what I wrote.

2 deaths, 1 illness, 6 months, 7 countries, 2 kids, 1 hubby and a hippo

"Caroline? You had better sit down. Joe* was found dead last night, looks like he took his own life".
He had worked for/with me, a troubled man with a young family. I was a real estate agent and managing a small office, with a smaller team. I can't say I knew him well, but I tried to help him. I tried to see that he got back at least close to the rails if not on them.

I rang Dave and told him. I didn't feel responsible, but I did feel a little neglectful, like I had washed my hands of him, and now  a while down the track, this was the result. This was only a month or so after another man we knew through our work had died in a tragic accident, again leaving a young family behind.

"Wow, thats terrible, I found out today that Matthew* is really sick, he's only in his thirties! Fuck it life is too short for this! I think we should just bloody do it!" shouted Dave.

For about two days we had been talking about IT. You know the dream that you talk about animatedly with your significant other after a couple of glasses. For the first and probably the only time in our lives we had the borrowing capacity to pull IT off. You thought I was going to say, we had the money.... trust me.... we will never have the savings for a huge trip, let alone IT, but we had the potential to pull it off. The incentive? A good deal of "Lets get the fuck out of here" followed with a smidge of "We will probably never be close to being able to do this again".

So we did. 6 months of travel with our kids (two gorgeous girl firecrackers aged 7 and 8) to all the dream destinations we could think of.

Once the decision was made, and the bank paid up, next came the fight. Dave wanted to leave yesterday, now, immediately. I, on the other hand was working through the logistics, we had to clean up our house and find some people to rent it. Organise some sort of schooling for the girls. Give notice to work, pack, put the rest of our stuff in storage... plan, book and pay, break the news to my parents and friends. I thought we needed at least three months to get our selves organised. I put my foot down! 2 weeks later we were on the tarmac and that is how it all started.

Some days are crap, but thats ok

When I woke up this morning, I knew I was in for a rough one. 
I had a little pocket of tears that were going to be shed, and I had no choice in the matter. In the middle of the night, when I couldn't get back to sleep, on the bus to work and a sad song came through my headphones, when I looked at the "wall of Mum" that is the photos on my fridge door. Memories still make my heart drop into my shoes and my chest tight and anyone that asks me to talk about it is still greeted with monosyllabic answers, tight smiles and "yes, we are ok, being strong".

Its been three weeks today since Mum died.

Still gotta catch the bus to work, still gotta pack lunches, still listen to the kids tell me about their day, still smile and laugh, still watch movies and still waste time on Facebook but now... there is a small part of my brain that observes from a distance. Unsure of how to react. Sometimes it wants to scream and rage like a sweaty faced toddler, sometimes it wants a teddy bear to hug or better yet... Mum. 

People are so kind and helpful. "Your Mum is with you, She is in your heart, Live life to the fullest to celebrate her, she was special, one of a kind and you are just like her". It helps, it really does and most of the time those sentiments are exactly true. Until, I wake and I know, I'm in for a rough one.