No-one has died or had anything close to a proper crisis for at least 18 months. We are slowly returning to normal, or our quirky version of it.
It's been a long process and this is a hard post to write but I need a summing up. This is my clumsy way of drawing a line under a tough time.
The kids have dealt admirably not only with their own feelings but also seeing mine, S's and their Nana's up close. We all coped differently with each loss as it came; just as K&W would find their feet and some rhythm would be restored it felt like the rug would be pulled again.
The practicalities of terminal illness and old age mean that if you're not the one suffering, you're the one supporting which is a helpless suffering of its own. You have to drop things and be there without notice. Healthy people are the lowest priority. Dinner, bedtime stories and homework are abandoned without warning. You collect things. You make cups of tea. You drive places. You tiptoe. You make calls. You make bad jokes. You have the toughest conversations. You organise paperwork. You watch. You wait.
You are emotionally disconnected because to crack even a little will breach the dam and you can't afford to let it. There's simply too much to do and too many people needing you to keep it together.
We all had mood swings, good days and bad ones, dealing with the weight of arriving home not knowing what you'll find : whether there will be news, a to do list, smiles or tears to greet you.
Of all the pros and cons we'd considered when we began to live as a 3-generation household, death was an abstract - always framed in the positive : if so-and-so dies we'll be here and can provide support. I had no appreciation of how tough it would be to deal with it close up, intensely, without respite. My mind is blown by the quiet dignity with which so many people I know carry the grief of losing loved ones.
W internalises. He won't talk about feelings, just assimilates information from people around him. He gets on and doesn't want to analyse anything; he's almost impossible to comfort as he prefers to deal with feelings alone. He never has 'big' questions but he'll absorb the answers to K's questions in the background.
At one of my lowest points, I snapped at W one evening. He was literally begging for attention in the style of a toddler - Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, I need a cuddle, I need water, I need my stars on, the duvet isn't straight.... I told him to wait. He carried on. I was dealing with the latest urgent need and the boys' bedtime had been abandoned midway. W kept pushing.
I snapped. "No, Will. Stop it. I'm not dealing with that now. THIS {I gestured wildly at whatever piece of paper or medicine was in front of me} is important."
I snapped. "No, Will. Stop it. I'm not dealing with that now. THIS {I gestured wildly at whatever piece of paper or medicine was in front of me} is important."
He burst into tears and was inconsolable. My heart broke : I had told my boy he wasn't important. It wasn't what I meant but the words were out. They hurt deeply and I felt wretched.
K wants to know everything. He coped with grief by investigation; he wanted to know what it was like to die, whether it hurts, what might happen to you, whether ghosts were real and if he had inherited cancer. He over-analyses then frets and worries. His upsets were circular, unsolvable; it sometimes all just got 'too much'.
Both boys had nightmares about monsters, losing things and death for a year. We used any techniques we could muster from our broken state. We were open about the death unfolding in front of them and how a body can break. We have different religious beliefs in the house so we talked about how a person's faith matters most to them and must be respected - if you believe it then it's true to you.
We relied on the imagery of grief as a stone. The stone starts sharp in your hand but as time brings the tide in and out, back and forth, the edges soften and eventually we'll be able to tuck a smooth pebble in our pocket to keep close and touch it when we need to. When we had tears at bedtime we used the imagery of putting the sharp pebble back on the beach for a bit - let the tide take it away tonight and we'll pick it back up in the morning and see if the edges are a little smoother.
We have learnt a lot about each other, our capabilities, our philosophies. You see a person's true character in a crisis and you love people even more deeply as you watch them piece themselves back together.
Now the storm is over we're floating gently - battered but not broken; tired but not desolate; sad but not depressed.
We're mending. We have adventures to go on, places to explore, timetables to abandon and we'll be appreciating every moment together this Christmas as we raise a toast to the people we miss.
