“I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life.”
— Maya Angelou

Well ladies (and gentlemen?) the funeral is over. It all went very smoothly. I wrote the eulogy. Peter Cundall read it. Mum’s husband did a bible reading and what a magnificent job he did under the circumstances! The coffin was covered in a hundred red roses and there were dozens of bunches of flowers laid around. Service went smoothly. Anticipated family complications didn’t pan out. Celebration of mum’s life was held back at her house. I created a dvd of photos of her (234 photos!) and set it to her husband’s music. I made a large memory board covered in poems, photos and cards. There was plenty of food made by the boys and I – all recreated to look like my pink breakfast. At the end of the day it all went fantastically and I think mum would have loved it which was my plan.

So now it’s time to move on. I went back to work today which seemed a bit odd. Feel like I’ve been in a time warp…

Anyway, will make a concerted effort to write cheerful posts from now on. Mum didn’t like to focus on the negative! Thank you to everyone for all the kind words and thoughts.

There are a lot of things to do when organising a funeral.

The hardest thing to do so far is select a gravesite. Mum will rest for eternity near the top of a hill, overlooking kingston beach and bruny island. She loved bruny island.

At 10:35 am on Friday 13 November 2009, my mother died. She was 65 years old.

Although she had battled cancer for nearly ten years, and her health in recent months and week had deteriorated to the point she was bedridden, her death still comes as a shock.

Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer ten years ago. They found a stage four tumour, the size of a grapefruit, that was almost ready to burst through the skin. She had a mastectomy and they discovered lots of cancerous lymph nodes at the same time. She had her lymph glands removed then underwent chemotherapy and radiation therapy over the years.

While her treatments were quite drastic and caused significant ill health at times, she also experienced great highs and lots of great life moments over those ten years. She travelled to Scotland, Britain, Paris and the US and had the time of her life. She fell in love with Paris and with Provence in France. She met her husband’s extended family in Scotland and Michigan. And she lived for a period of time in Devon. They were the best of times.

Over the past few years the cancer spread to her lungs and more recently to her bones. Her health slowly deteriorated and she spent the last couple of years continuously hooked up to oxygen machines. Throughout this year the pain increased in her hips and legs as a result of the bone cancer.

Despite all this, she took it upon herself to sell up her home in Melbourne and move to Hobart to be near me and her family. Most of us thought this an impossible task and that she’d never manage it in the condition she was in. Needless to say, in February this year, all her worldly possession were packed up (by the world’s worst removalists…) and she relocated to Hobart with her husband.

They bought a renovator’s delight in a superb position. We all thought she was utterly mad – with so little energy and not a lot of time left – yet she took on the task of a massive renovation anyway. The house had two levels. Upstairs she had completely gutted and new kitchen, bathroom, living areas and bedrooms built. Downstairs (aka the dungeon) is a self contained unit with bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and living areas – but all underground with very few windows. She lived in the dungeon for three months before finally, finally moving into her beautiful newly renovated home in July.

I spent hours and days with her, unpacking boxes, rearranging the antique teapots, vintage dresses and russian doll collection. They arrived in Hobart with over 200 boxes, and I’m sure the majority were packed with antiques and ornaments.

As the house became more finished, mum’s health got worse and worse. She had weeks at a time when she left bed only to go to the toilet. She said to me several weeks ago that she hoped not to last too much longer as the pain, breathlessness and anxiety were more than she wanted to cope with. Up until her very last days, she sat up in bed making plans for different things on the house. The roof is now insulated. The flyscreens arrive soon.

Wednesday she looked to be in great spirits and was really energetic – bossing everyone around and enjoying tv. Thursday she woke with the worst pain she had ever experienced, and was then instructed by palliative care nurses to take more doses of morphine. Most of Thursday she seemed pretty odd and very out of it, which I had thought was the morphine. By Thursday night she had slipped into a coma. I spent all Thursday with her helping do things. I came back Thursday night and helped her husband move her into a more comfortable position. As we moved her down the bed, her eyes popped open and she looked at me and smiled. I never saw her awake again. Later that evening in a semi-conscious state she reached out to her husband and mouthed repeatedly, “Thank you my darling. Thank you my darling.” She tried to reach out and put her arm around his neck but didn’t have the strength. She slipped into a coma.

At 8:30am Friday morning I went over with my husband and the boys. At 10am her mother, my grandmother, arrived. Her breathing was becoming more ragged. I organised the boys to move the piano to where she’d wanted it and rearranged some furniture she’d wanted changed. Picky baked a cake. The day was glorious and still and sunny. The garden in full bloom. We all spent time with her, saying goodbye, holding her hand, kissing her forehead. At one point her eyes popped open for a while and she looked really stressed. Gradually they relaxed, her pulse slowed and eventually her breathing stopped. At the very moment of her last breath we were all running around looking for cotton buds and water to try and keep her mouth moist. None of us were there for her last breath – something I will always regret. Her passing seemed incredibly peaceful in the end. Her fingers, that have been dark purple due to lack of circulation for as long as I can remember, became white.

I can’t believe my mother is gone.

In honour of her memory, I’ll share some photos with you. Most aren’t very good quality, but it’s all I’ve got.

When I was younger (when was that? I barely remember now…) I remember hearing my aunts (or was it my mother’s cousins?) discussing the age of invisibility.

I used to think they were being ridiculous and melodramatic, but now I’ve discovered exactly what they meant. Once a woman hits a certain age – and perhaps that certain age is accompanied by a certain weight – well, nobody notices her at all any more. And I think I’m there. I suspect I could stand naked in the middle of the mall and set my head on fire and nobody would notice.

Well perhaps they’d notice that.

But in general, nobody sees you once your fat and frumpy and forty. The shop attendants stare at your credit card and take your money, but they never look you in the eye. The  snotty nosed ratbags on the street have eyes only for each other. The old people are too busy complaining about the young people to notice the middle people.

Invisible.

That’s what I am.

It feels a bit sad really…

Every year, I get together with a good friend of mine and we host a pink ribbon breakfast. In Australia, pink ribbon breakfasts are held in October and are organised by the National Breast Cancer Foundation.

At the breakfast, we invite as many women as we can find to come along dressed in something pink, with a plate of yummy pink food, and people can choose to donate money or to buy merchandise or simply to chat and socialise!

Our event this year was small by past standards (I’ve had a lot on my mind lately!) but never the less, we raised well over $500 on the day and still have more pledged funds coming in.

Do you want to donate to my breakfast?! You can do so here!

And here’s a few pictures from our fun, fundraising venture!

I’ve buggered up nablopomo by the look of it…. Life is just overwhelmingly hectic at present!

Thank you for all your kind thoughts. I’m hoping to keep mum out of a hospice as long as possible. She’s happiest at home and I want her to be there as long as possible. She has a wonderful doctor that is available on the phone 24/7 and visits her at home as needs be. There are also respite carers that come in for a few hours each week.

On Saturday I organised for a respite carer to stay over night – 8pm-8am – so mum’s husband could get a night’s sleep. It is her husband, D, that I’m most concerned about. He appears to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You know that painting, “The Scream” ? He says he feels like that. Yet when the doctor discussed anti-depressants with him he said she was talking psycho babble and refused to listen.

So somehow, I have to help him through this without him falling apart. And without me falling apart!

Anyway – mum’s looked MUCH better the past few days. The delirium is gone. I suspect the delirium was related to too much drug taking by mistake. SHe’s been eating a little at most mealtimes and has even got out of bed and gone to the lounge room to watch tv. Two days in a row! So things are definitely improved from last week!

Ok – so I promise not to rabbit on about all my problems for the entire month of November! Something cheery next time perhaps…

Do you think if I do three posts today that makes up for not writing a post for three days?! Is it 30 posts in 30 days? Or does it have to be one a day every day?! I’m changing the rules… 30 posts in 30 days!

I promise not be morose in every post for this month. But mum’s imminent demise is playing on my mind…

I’ve never watched anyone die before. It’s not a pretty sight. I’ve heard that it’s a privilege to be with someone at the end of their life. I hope this is true.

Mum has been in and out of a delirious state the past two days. I spoke to her doctor this evening who said the delirium is most likely related to an infection of some type and that infections are likely to become more frequent over the coming weeks.

Yesterday mum looked me in the eye and said, “Are you expecting a baby? Someone’s expecting a baby.”

Nobody we know is expecting a baby…

I asked her doctor how much time she felt mum has left and she indicated that her time is unlikely to be measured in months. But then again, a stubborn streak runs in my family and we can hang on for a long, long time. Most of my great aunts survived well into their nineties. But at the moment my greatest hope is that perhaps mum will see Christmas.

Which leaves me with two dilemmas. Firstly, do I invite all the relatives to come down as soon as possible? Do people want to be told she’s dying? Do they want to come and see her? I’ve spoken to a couple of people and I never know if I’m sounding like a drama queen or doing the right thing. And will mum even recognise them by next week? She may become completely lucid again. But she may not.

And my second dilemma is how much should I involve the children? Should I bring them over every few days to slowly witness her decline? Should I let them be there at the very end if that is possible? I have a romantic picture in my head of her being surrounded by her children and grandchildren at the moment of her death. But is that a reality? Should I subject the children to such an experience? I just don’t know.

For now I’m taking every day one at a time and hoping to be led by those more knowledgable than I. But I’ve also noticed that everyone in the family looks to me for guidance. I ring the carers, the family, the friends. I organise everything. For everyone. I’m not sure how much to involve others… Or how much time she has.

I once read a quote that said, no matter the relationship with your parents, you will miss them when they’re gone.

Both my parents are still here so I can’t comment on the veracity of this quote, but as I watch my mother fade away before my eyes, I can see that it likely has a strong ring of truth to it.

My mother and I always had a somewhat difficult relationship. Very difficult. Ten years ago she was diagnosed with cancer and since that time, things have slowly changed.

I spend every Thursday with her now. Doing her housework. Bringing her food. Running her a bath. Washing her hair. She’s now almost bed bound and said a few days ago she hopes not to last more than two months as she can’t cope with it any more. She’s dying.

It’s hard to watch.

Very hard.

The vivacious, fussy, incredibly annoying woman I grew up with – the woman who would wash clean clothes and clean dishes – can no longer brush her own hair (what’s left of it) and is utterly reliant on other people for everything. Absolutely everything.

My relationship with her has definitely changed and I know I will miss her when she’s gone….