Promoted to her forever home - By Huz

True, Brave and Soul,

Its Dad.

On Thursday the 18th June 2015 at 2 am your wonderful mum and my most precious darling wife has been promoted from this life to her forever home. After facing the greatest challenge of her life with such faith, grace and dignity she is no longer in pain and is now with Jesus. You should be so proud of her. We are all so proud of her.

The previous day, although she could not speak to you, you each came in to visit her to lend her your special teddy and say goodbye. You each did such a wonderful job and although she could hardly respond to anyone, True, you received a hug and a smile, Brave, she put her cheek to yours, nestling into your cuddle and Soul, she smiled so big as soon as you came in the room and gave her a hug.

She saved her last for you guys, her littles. She asked me to make sure you all knew as you grow older that your love for her, healing words, cuddles and kisses brought her the deepest comfort in these last months when things have been at their hardest. She adores you and you adore her.

As for me, my heart is broken with the deepest sadness I have ever known, but as you read this one day, know that like mummy, your words, unconditional love and affection for me have lifted me up through the hardest days of my life.

'We are bound by a thousand strands of moments together; a lifetime cannot unravel us'

Dad xx

Hospice

All the photos in this post are by Kelsey Grace Photography. The most talented, delightful and sweet photographer I have ever encountered. Love you Kelsey! Thanks so much for these beautiful moments captured.

We managed to squeeze in a session at Mt Lofty Gardens around April before I got even sicker. After all, who wants to look at photos of Hospice instead of this? The boys had a ball. Absolutely loved posing and choosing what outfits they would wear! 

Fun.

A turn of events has occurred, and his name is Hospice. All instigated by pain at home that my drugs couldn't touch.

My littles, you will remember this time as the one where Daddy slept over lots at my hospital instead of being at home. This is the third week, so I'm feeling more able to be here on my own at night - and so I've sponsored you having Daddy back at home again. 

You're welcome.

Hospice is horrid and pretty amazing simultaneously. The staff are beautiful, and the doctors are focussed on making me absolutely comfortable with as much pain relief as this girl needs. Looking back on how much daily pain I was in being at home compared with Daw House it's insane. I was putting up with heaps of pain, but not anymore baby! 

The horrible part of Hospice is really just that it is Hospice. I badly want to be home, badly want my life to carry on, carry on as it seemed to be doing quite nicely before horrid bossy cancer butted in.

So, here I am in Hospice. Another downside being that I am 50 years younger than every other resident currently here. It just feels a bit yucky to be that super special as it were...

A big upside of Hospice is the ice chips. oh yeah.  Without a doubt. They are amazing. So refreshing and crunchy. Is there ever a time I don't feel like a bowl of ice chips?  Nope. They are brilliant for little me who has lost her appetite and hasn't eaten properly the whole time I've been there, and who dreads the yellow sheet that arrives with breakfast each morning listing  the options for the day. Choosing anything from that list is a seemingly gigantuan task when even ice cream or chocolate custard are daunting much less Spaghetti Bolognase or Ham Steak. Yikes.

My new/old doctor (Dr M) is very likeable, very knowledgeable, and very kind. I'm glad he's so amazing because I'm missing my doctors from Tennyson. I've been treated at Tennyson for around 3 years and most of the time it was weekly, so I've been feeling a little lost perhaps in the transition. I miss the nurses at Tennyson. A lot. I love you Tennyson nurses. You know why.

I am glad for the flexibility at Daw House for me to come home. They are really keen for me to come home lots and I guess that fits into the whole 'quality of life' thing.

My 'background pain' is being managed by a morphine pump attached to my tummy. That means that at all times I have a blue 'pencil case' to carry around. I've tried a few different ways to disguise it - in my handbag I think is the best. Huz and I had brekky at Cafe De La Paix and although he teased me that my 'catheter pump' was hardly noticeable, I think the old 'in the handabag trick' worked a treat. After all, if I get stares from strangers it's usually turban/headscarf focussed first.  And one can only fit in so many 'casual glances' in my direction. So much to stare at. So little time.

As for living with a morphine pump at home, it's gotten a little more complicated. You littles step on it, sit on it, or pull it out of my tummy at least daily. A couple of nights ago I carried my pump (in my handbag) up the ladder to Brave's bed so that I could give a goodnight cuddle and a foot rub. Before I had even gotten to the top I was interrogated:

'Mum, why are you carrying  your handbag up the ladder to my bed?'

'Well darling, all mummies carry their handbags up bunk beds sometimes. Didn't you know that.?' (Can't help a bit of 'tongue-in-cheek' it's way too tempting).

So a little bit of silly  chucked in here and there is ok sometimes isn't it? I'm just trying to keep it normal...

And so the puzzled expressions that followed on True and Brave's faces with the little furrowed brows were totally worth the teensy tiny exaggeration on my part. Think you might remember my morphine pump (pencil case) one of these days my darlings? Ha!

So, being home is just how it sounds. Completely delightful and utterly unsettling in its own way too. Huz and I get used to me being in hospital, and then get used to our beloved routines together at home again. Can do your head in. Or should I say, it has done my head in.

And while I absolutely agree with that famous 'someone' who once said that the word 'home' is the loveliest in the english language, it does come with responsibility.

My last pump incident (shall we call it) was entirely my fault and not even a chance to blame you littles. Before we left I had a stack of birthday presents to wrap and so the other night after True, Brave and Soul were all tucked in, I decided to get stuck into wrapping them. So, with my wrapping paper, scissors and cards all set up on the table I merrily wrapped away. Only one little hiccup. On my very first gift, I got set cutting the paper to size when I felt the scissors needing to have a little more pressure than I expected. It only took a moment to realise that my tiny, transparent morphine line had been expertly snipped in half as I cut the paper. Groan...How could I be such a clutz? So, with my head between my tail Huz and I headed back to Daw House to ask the girls to fix it. Oh deary.

To their credit, the nurses only laughed with me, and told me other stories of times they had done similar things. Bless them. I had been so certain I would be in trouble!

I have the sweetest, most glorious room at Daw House, with access to the wide porch and gardens outside through my own private door with lead lighting across the windows. And it's a single room, so I'm really quite spoilt.

So it's been another one of those awful transitions, yet another one of those awful, unwanted declines, and I find myself in Hospice and being told that as a result of choosing to not have any more chemo, I am looking at days or weeks of life and not a scrap more. And I'm left with a  'frog in my throat' and a tummy that turns if you remark that the year is 'flying by' or if you comment on how 2015 has caught you by surprise and has gone 'so fast'.

The choosing to not do more chemo was easy and hard and difficult and straightforward and  scary and surreal. My last chemo drug Halaven was so foul and recent for me that as I 'looked back' on it I felt again physically sick at the idea of pumping more poison through my little body. 

So, although this was extremely difficult on Huz to start with, I know he is much more on board with the reasons for stopping chemo now. More on board doesn't exactly mean completely on board. He's choosing it's my chemo choice, so although that's still a difficult thing, I'm feeling  the love. 

It is a crazy big difference I admit. To go from fighting to supporting. Going from fighting cancer proactively to what one doctor at Daw House called 'supporting cancer'.  Yeah, there's a horror no matter how you look at it really.

Despite what the doctors do or don't do to to treat my cancer in terms of chemo or radio or hormonal therapy etc etc; they have all given it like 100%. Nicely done docs, nicely done. I know with all my heart that it is God who holds each of my days in His hands.

But you know, it's starting to feel like I'm on count down my little ones. I don't like this at all. Not at all. Count down feels too final, and too soon. I'm desperate for longer. Hate the immediacy of being sick, not feeling I can even walk far, even see far or live far beyond myself. I miss the 'us' of unplanned days and slow and relaxed ones too. I'm wanting you to remember these days for me. On my behalf. I love you so big, and love that Jesus loves you even bigger.

Mum xxx

All the days ordained for me were written in your book 

before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139.16

mother's day

Mother's Day was epic. I loved it. 

Coming home to three littles desperate to show off hidden pressies tucked away behind my bed was thrilling. I could barely give our gift of flowers to Mum or give any kind of detail on our luxurious weekend away (Huz took me to see The Lion King!) before I was escorted enthusiastically to 'see see see what we did for you'.

And this is entirely different from last year, where I sobbed literally all day in between falling asleep from the horrid chemo, whilst Huz and the boys lavished darling presents on me and loved me so big and so well that I could all but see in my minds eye all day the tragedy of my own untimely death, leaving all four boys behind. And my tears were bulbous with my fear, and looking back I can only imagine my boys confusion as they made food for me, cuddled me till I could barely breathe and still I lay on the floor by the fire and sobbed and sobbed. 

But let's come back to this year shall we. It's a prettier picture for sures.

I woke in my gorgeous hotel room next to my adoring Huz and we took our time dilly dallying down to the lavish buffet breakfast that awaited us. Then onto the airport and I napped in the plane (and the taxi) until we arrived home. A slow and very welcome low key start with no emotional crazy town (admittedly I had purged myself of most of the cray cray the night before - sorry Huz). But how wonderful. What a relief.

And the way my little guys love me...oh my. I see now that I don't really have words to put to it. Because my littles had spent the night and day before with Aunty L, and she cooked and shopped and crafted with them like a boss. Oh my goodness. The chocolate chip biscuits that included Nutella and gold coins chopped up proudly by Brave, and the lux dressing gown in my favourite colour, the darling jewellery the boys made in class and childcare. The little words scribed on a special card meant the world.

Thank you Aunty L for all you poured into being with my boys. I'm a little bit speechless, and you know how rare that is. 

Hens teeth. Really.

So I've been thinking about Mothers Day. For future Mother's Days after I've flown away,

Huz and I have talked about the idea of each of the littles sending off a helium balloon as they think about me. Maybe they can stand at the end of the Glenelg Jetty just near where I was baptised (in that freezing water!). Perhaps if I'm lucky they will want to write a little note to me on it, or a picture. Just something between the two of us. 

And there I was, crying (again, yes again) not wanting another hard day for these littles of mine to endure year after year. And then Huz put it out there. Not what I wanted to hear really, but what was true nonetheless. That it's ok if Mother's Day is a deep day for them. A day to remember love. A day that will be covered in grace each year.

And I know he's right. The deep things in life aren't bad. The sad and deep parts of life shape us, and my prayers are for this grace I've come to know to reach right into all of the sad places in my littles hearts. I'm praying grace will meet them each Mother's Day. My heart settles when I remember that Huz will be there with them. Sad, but there with them. 

It will all be ok, I think.

best cancer analogy I've read

Just read this hilarious cancer analogy. 


*****************************************************************************************
What’s it like to go through cancer treatment? It’s something like this: one day, you’re minding your own business, you open the fridge to get some breakfast, and OH MY GOSH THERE’S A MOUNTAIN LION IN YOUR FRIDGE.

Wait, what? How? Why is there a mountain lion in your fridge? NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. RUN! THE MOUNTAIN LION WILL KILL YOU! UNLESS YOU FIND SOMETHING EVEN MORE FEROCIOUS TO KILL IT FIRST!

So you take off running, and the mountain lion is right behind you. You know the only thing that can kill a mountain lion is a bear, and the only bear is on top of the mountain, so you better find that bear. You start running up the mountain in hopes of finding the bear. Your friends desperately want to help, but they are powerless against mountain lions, as mountain lions are godless killing machines. But they really want to help, so they’re cheering you on and bringing you paper cups of water and orange slices as you run up the mountain and yelling at the mountain lion - “GET LOST, MOUNTAIN LION, NO ONE LIKES YOU” - and you really appreciate the support, but the mountain lion is still coming.

Also, for some reason, there’s someone in the crowd who’s yelling “that’s not really a mountain lion, it’s a puma” and another person yelling “I read that mountain lions are allergic to kale, have you tried rubbing kale on it?”

As you’re running up the mountain, you see other people fleeing their own mountain lions. Some of the mountain lions seem comparatively wimpy - they’re half grown and only have three legs or whatever, and you think to yourself - why couldn’t I have gotten one of those mountain lions? But then you look over at the people who are fleeing mountain lions the size of a monster truck with huge prehistoric saber fangs, and you feel like an asshole for even thinking that - and besides, who in their right mind would want to fight a mountain lion, even a three-legged one?

Finally, the person closest to you, whose job it is to take care of you - maybe a parent or sibling or best friend or, in my case, my husband - comes barging out of the woods and jumps on the mountain lion, whaling on it and screaming “GET LOST MOUNTAIN LION, STOP TRYING TO EAT MY WIFE,” and the mountain lion punches your husband right in the face. Now your husband (or whatever) is rolling around on the ground clutching his nose, and he’s bought you some time, but you still need to get to the top of the mountain.

Eventually you reach the top, finally, and the bear is there. Waiting. For both of you. You rush right up to the bear, and the bear rushes the mountain lion, but the bear has to go through you to get to the mountain lion, and in doing so, the bear TOTALLY KICKS YOUR BOT, but not before it also punches your husband in the face. And your husband is now staggering around with a black eye and bloody nose, and saying “can I get some help, I’ve been punched in the face by two apex predators and I think my nose is broken,” and all you can say is “I’M KIND OF BUSY IN CASE YOU HADN’T NOTICED I’M FIGHTING A MOUNTAIN LION.”

Then, IF YOU ARE LUCKY, the bear leaps on the mountain lion and they are locked in epic battle until finally the two of them roll off a cliff edge together, and the mountain lion is dead. 
Maybe. You’re not sure - it fell off the cliff, but mountain lions are crafty. It could come back at any moment.
And all your friends come running up to you and say “that was amazing! You’re so brave, we’re so proud of you! You didn’t die! That must be a huge relief!” 
Meanwhile, you blew out both your knees, you’re having an asthma attack, you twisted your ankle, and also you have been mauled by a bear. And everyone says “boy, you must be excited to walk down the mountain!” And all you can think as you stagger to your feet is "I never even wanted to climb it in the first place.”
**************************************************************************************

traditions, rituals and doing life together

Here is the little letter I have been putting off writing for the longest of times. 

Huz asked me again the other day about it. He wants to keep our traditions after I've flown away, but it's kinda a big ask as I've been at the centre of organising much of it, which has been my joy. 

So I want you to know how truly I feel that these traditions and rituals and ways of celebrating can ebb and flow. Nothing in this list is set in stone, I would never want to make this yet another 'thing to do' or 'list to cross off'.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer I remember feeling that this cancer was aiming at my family. Aiming at my very home. Aiming at my loves, my people, the ones I hold most dear. Because if I am the target, then so are they. 

And that's just so not ok with me.

My boys you are loved loved loved. You know, loved in the way that I would climb mountains for you, sit through tedious documentaries for you, wrestle wild bears in order to save you. That way. That kinda love. You know the kind

Doing life together is my favourite thing, my ultimate fun, the time I giggle the most and the moments I remember back to with the fondest thoughts. So, that's why this little list is hard to write my boys. This writing out, this passing on, this laying out of our ways, our little family's way of doing life together. Traditions are like that. They make us secure. We know what to look forward to, we understand the terrain of life around us better when rituals and traditions provide a foundation.

And for us, the heart of all these rituals and traditions is Jesus. The one who has changed our world from grey to multicolour. The one who all of life is about. The one who makes my flying away well with my soul.

Traditions are at the centre of so much of what I am trying to establish in our home. The rituals and celebrations and traditions that stitch us together one thread, one meal, one celebration at a time.

Because what would life be without cake at our birthday party, without stockings hung at Christmas time, or without photos taken on the first day of school each year?

And I guess you are little now, and pretty 'on board' with all my madness, all my gingerbread house making, photo snapping, balloon hanging, present wrapping, song singing silliness. 

And as you grow and get all big and gangly and pimply and manly and wonderful you might not be so keen for my traditions, but deep down you would have been glad glad glad to be made to take part. And I was looking forward to that. Looking forward to dragging your sorry selves along for the ride with these rituals. 

After all, I love teenagers. I got to hang out with a nephew of mine today. He was super brave and talked with me for a bit, and it reminded me that I won't get to know you littles all big and big. I would have loved to. Would have loved to drink tea with you and hear about your girlfriends, and talk about what you're thinking, how you're tracking along with friends, music. Whatever you are into I would get into to. Even cricket. Well, that would be a massive stretch, but that's how much I love you boys. Even cricket.

Anyway.

I am so sidetracked. That's what thinking about our rituals does to me because they are about the long haul, about traditions that span years and years and span childhood into teenage-hood and into adulthood too. I hope with all my hope that you will carry some of our traditions into your own families. Oh my. I have to stop myself from going to that place where I think about you with families of your own. I can hear my heart trying not to collapse in on itself...seriously...I want so badly to be in your lives through the years. I feel all hot and sweaty, all green and queasy thinking that I won't be there. Won't be part of all the gritty, of all the nitty gritty.

This sucks.

I hate cancer more now than when I began writing today. 

Just when I think that I have found a place of peace about flying away soon, and then I remember how much I long to have a place in your lives for all of these moments, and I just...lose the peace. Gone.

And it's not even the big monumental moments. I do want to be at graduations and weddings and parties and all of it. I do. But almost more than these 'big moments' I want to sit with you in the dark after you've come home from a date and have you sit on the end of my bed and tell me all about it, tell me your worries over a cup of tea in the kitchen just you and me, I want to be at all of your sporting events, every.single.one. and I want to get to play board games with your brothers and Daddy as we hang out on a Friday night over pizza. 

I long to be in those moments with you.

I long to make new traditions with you boys. The tradition of late night movie nights. The tradition of playing basketball out the back when you get home from school. The tradition of me messing up your hair even though you're eons taller than me, and you winking at me when I drop you off to hang out with your friends.

New traditions as you grow.

The heart of traditions are family. The love that is poured into these moments binds us together in all the best ways. I treasure these traditions and rituals. They are ours to hold. They shape us as much as we shape them.

One of my joys as you littles have grown is that our family rituals have too. There are the daily ones like stories and prayers and songs and tucking in at bedtime. The weekly ones, like going to church on Sunday morning, and sleeping in and relaxing on Saturdays, and pizza and movie night on Fridays is a favourite too.

Before I was sick I loved our breakfast around the kitchen table with a devotional, and often if we drove to school I would pray for our day ahead as we wove around refrigerator gully and up the hill. Huz is so not a morning person so that doesn't really happen anymore which is totally fine. See? Traditions are flexible. They work for us not the other way around.

This year I made Anzac biscuits. Such a homely smell wafting through all day. But really, I just can't compete with Nana Mary and her amazing 'Diggers'. She cooks with magic. Actually just this week I'm wondering if she's holding back a secret ingredient or technique. I can never get them as good! Hers are the best say all of us! We love you Nana.

True and Brave went to a dawn service with Gran-dad this year. Over dinner that evening we talked about our very favourite things about Australia and the way the Anzacs fought for our freedom. 

I want you littles never to take that for granted.

The annual traditions like the ones surrounding birthdays have a little leg room. There is always always always pancakes for breakfast with 'happy birthday' sung to a candle wedged into a stack of pancakes for the birthday boy, presents upon waking up, balloons hung upside down in the doorway to walk through first thing, and treats taken to school (brownies anyone?) to share with friends. 

Birthday parties have been every second year, and in the year off a family celebrations with cousins and aunties and uncles plus a special outing (movies or bowling maybe?) have been the thing. 

our 'happy b'day' banner gets brought out every time...

Rituals for Easter are still forming really. We hunt for eggs! Hooray! This year we did four hunts. Four. That is a little too many surely. In the morning we wake early and hunt outside and then put all the eggs in a basket together which then gets portioned out to make it fair.

Huz and I always watch an Easter movie like Son of God or The Passion. We go to church on the morning of Black Friday and eat yummy scrummy easter buns after. On Sunday morning we go to church and continue the chocolate binge after.

Christmas traditions are my absolute favourite. 

On the 1st of December the Christmas tree (if we are using our fake one) MUST be put up. Must must must. That way you get a full four weeks to enjoy it, cos tell you what baby, when Christmas is over so is the tree. I whip that thing down immediately. Not sure why, but after Boxing Day it just seems like clutter. So get decorating with lights and ornaments (I buy a couple of new ones each year and keep the kiddy ones on the fridge or somewhere else. Yes, I am that mum!)

I make a Christmas Cake using the Dunkley family traditional recipe including dropping  the tin on concrete x3. Love it.  (pssst. It's super yum especially drizzled with brandy). 

The Jessie Tree starts on the 1st December and each day we read a short story/devotional and place an ornament on the small tree (or sticks in a vase) so that by the 25th it is full of ornaments. Just so beautiful.

We decorate a gingerbread house in the week leading up to Christmas, and this year I found mini houses so that each little had their own. Perfect. Make a ton of icing. You're gonna need it. And don't be skimping on the lollies. Father Christmas likes a shard of it, so go big or go home!

We like to watch the Christmas Pagent on TV cos then you don't have to fight the crowds OR have to arrive at the crack of dawn. We do however try to make an appearance at the Blackwood Christmas Pagent. Think local fun, people. Or getting to go in the fire truck with Granddad. That's pretty cool too.

On Christmas Eve Eve (the night before Christmas Eve if you're still confused Huz) we make the living room our place to be and fill it with mattresses, blankets, rugs, pillows, the lot because we are going to watch a sweet Christmas movie under the Christmas tree twinkling lights and then fall asleep together. This is my favourite tradition of all. I love it. Daddy not so much. Oh well, can't please them all...

On Christmas Eve you get one present my littles, which if you haven't worked out yet always contains PJ's (what cuties opening your pressies in the morning with new PJ's) and lollies. Then we set out a plate of Christmas Cake for Father Christmas and a carrot and milk and whatnot for the reindeers. From this year we will even have a real chimney. That'll make it easier to explain how he gets in. Phew!

On Christmas Day we start early by checking that Father Christmas did come and the reindeers did eat some carrot/Christmas cake etc.

Then we open pressies, get ourselves to church taking one pressie along each because Pastor David gets all the kids down to show what they were given. So sweet. We sing carols, we get festive. This is wonderful. I love it.

The rest of Christmas Day is spent with family in various combinations. It's always tricky to see everyone, and we mostly don't get to, but it's lovely lovely lovely, and there is always lots of love and pressies for you littles.

Boxing Day has become the Bown Christmas, so we often have brunch together and pressies on this day too. Oh my. Now we are exhausted.

aww...the sweet expression of Soul cramming it in. And that's how you celebrate.

It's busy. And by this time, mama wonders why she creates so many extra jobs for herself to do. But the love poured into each ritual, the moments spent together creating, living, loving and being are the stuff of life. So thankful we get to do this life together. You guys are my favourites!

I think I've missed some Huz. But not many. Cant wait to see what you add into the mix over the years, and what gets dropped by the wayside.

Totally up to you babe.

I love you boys, 


mum x x

time to hibernate again

Tomorrow I have treatment again (Hello Havalen!) and today was the first morning I could contemplate moving myself out of bed and into the day before 10am. Oh me oh my. This does sound like the life doesn't it. I can't imagine a mamma of little ones anywhere in all the world who would not cherish such a sleep in. Tho, I myself feel thoroughly sick of them.

Tomorrow Huz will drop you boys off to all your places. School, childcare, and then the two of us will go somewhere sweet for breakfast. How I love going out for breakfast. And the best part is that since as my chemo isn't until 2.40pm we have all morning together with me feeling the best I've felt all week - so watch out Adelaide, here we come.

Last week we landed upon a cute french patisserie and shared some crepes while the sweetest old lady and her daughter told us how handsome Huz was and how I should be wearing a wedding ring (if indeed the ludicrous story I told them of being married to this fine man could even possibly be true) and neither I nor Huz could bring ourselves to tell them the 'why' of no wedding ring on this 'larger than normal' ring finger of mine due to steroid taking/chemo induced torture.

My Huz is crazy handsome. It's not just the old ladies who dig it.

And so I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning. It's a lot of pressure on a day tho, this concept of doing a whole weeks worth of living in the space of 24 hours. And ok, although not strictly true (after all, I did have an alright day today) the chemo cloud is hanging low and foggy even as I type.

My dearest littles, I am so blessed to have extraordinary friends. I hurt over my friends hearts who will be broken when I fly away. The friends who have delved into understanding me, loving me by wanting to know the highs and lows of this season, giving no regard for themselves in the near future when I fly away.

This takes a strength in loving so big and wide and high and deep. Some of my closest few also know Jesus. We love to talk about Him and how on earth He makes all this crazy business well with my soul. Because how impossible does that sound? How hard this will be on you my littles. To hear your mama say it is well with her soul that she flies away when you are so very young, so very in need of me still for years and years piling upon years to come.

But it's not that I long to part with you. How could I ever. Those sweet cheeks, dirty boy fingers, rounded bellies and short legs with all the knees I love the most bruised, cuts all around, bandaids hanging off half the time. 

'choc&chat' with True

I have memorised your faces, my loves, tracing outlines as I tuck you into bed. Tonight True you declared loudly that 'I can't find the teddy that mummy gave me when she thought she was dying last year but then didn't.' 

oh. well, why didn't you just say. 

Way to bring me into my reality True. And yet you hunted on, tucking Ikky your teddy into bed with you and moving on in the bedtime conversation with your brothers.

Yes. When i thought I was dying last year and then I didn't. It's true True. 

And all those months from then until now have been bonus, and yet I'm so greedy, and it can't be time for me to hibernate again under this next chemo surely.

I'm greedy, starving, desperate for time time time with you boys. For you to be older so you and I can be the 'us' we will be in those days, added on top of these beautiful days with you so very young. I am greedy for days upon days for you to know and be loved by me in all the ways I imagine.

Will you boys imagine how it could have been if I didn't fly away too soon? Will it be well with your souls, your hearts that are still growing and navigating this tough world? I pray it will be. I pray a lot into your futures. That grace would meet you when I can't. That Jesus would be a very present help in times of trouble. He has been loving me super big even (maybe more even if this could be right) in this bossy cancer.

And Miss E reminds me often of Jesus' big love, and how cancer doesn't get to be as bossy as Him. There will be a day when every single knee bows at the name of Jesus. Even the name of cancer will bow on one knee and throw his gritty grubby hands in the air in surrender. It will be over. No more disease or sickness. And our sweet Jesus will make it all all right for good.

I mull it over. In and out of nauseated delirium, I mull it over. 

And again I'm so glad to have a hope which is an anchor for my soul.

some down time at Nana's with the iPad

day-two-after-chemo

Dear Day-Two-After-Chemo,

You are my least favourite day. Well one of. I have had a day or two from the last round to lift my head from the fog, and then yesterday the poison pumped into my port, as I sat and chit chatted with the gorgeous nurses and had a coffee and scrolled through Instagram. All ordinary. 

And one of my favourite nurses (really do love you Miss E) somehow saw we were late to our appointment with Dr K, and I was told that all year I have been casual about these said appointment times,  and been therefore been found lolling about in the waiting rooms and in chairs out the back keeping my doctors waiting. Whaaaat? Feel so bad now. Right. Time to step it up and be a fabulous patient to make up for it. Seriously, why did no one give me a slap on the hand or a little tiny tell off...sorry Dr K and Dr O.

And the fabulous Miss J is such a crack up. You have influenced me to get a puppy Miss J. Absolutely true. I just could not look at your face one more time when you asked me if we had decided yet. And I love how you love your Freddy. Lucky little doggy he is.

So you know I think you are hilarious, and sarcastic in all the best ways, and also a bit of a great nurse too. Shout out to you cos I never did ask if I could put your photo here. But now my littles will love you to. K?

But now it's day two, and this is less fun. It's me and you heading it off, but you have nausea and bone pain and exhaustion on your side.

And nausea you have come with vengeance, and yes you have managed to take me down, cowering in my bed, curled up and breathing deep, hoping with all my hope that your visit will be a short one. You might be my least favourite of all. No offence.

Dog bone weary. Is that a thing? I'm tired, 'like opening my eyes is hard' tired. Like 'turning over in bed to reach my phone takes some gumption' tired.  Tired like 'breathing takes thought' tired. 

I want to give up today. 

I'm sorry my littles. But I want you to get this, hear me say this. Today I want to give up cos this is hard. I want to say 'no more of this Havalen please. Seriously. No more, but thanks.'

I'm scared to voice that. 

The thing about being a cancer patient is that doctors listen to you. I mean, really listen to you. Like at my appointment with Dr K yesterday I kicked off our discussion with how full on it was last week with nausea. Now if you visit your GP as just a 'regular non-cancery-person' this snippet of info may just fall on deaf ears. Not here. If you are a cancer patient with not so much time left to live it up, all of a sudden being taken down by nausea on a regular basis just won't do. And so maybe we should not persevere with this drug Dr K suggests. What a thought. Kicking to the curb a major treatment option cos I'm weak.

He's a great doctor.

My words as a patient carry weight, and tend to guide the discussion and way forward with treatment and medications. Can't ask for more than that. But that's scary too, because I'm far more accustomed to my very legitimate complaints falling on deaf ears.

I must be too used to being healthy.

This is the major leagues. I better keep up.

Darling Soul wiggled in beside me this morning - I was watching a clip one of my besties sent me last night - such a beautiful song- to lift me, and Soul came to watch. He liked it. Then to matters at hand, he had to go and have breakfast. Huz was calling him, but he had lost his red hat that he wanted to wear (I wanted him to wear it too, after my enthusiastic attempt to cut his hair was not my best effort) and he lay there and sobbed, 'I want my red hat, and it's gone, it's gone, it's gone'. 

I had been doing my own sobbing into the pillow this morning, (thanks 'day-two-after-chemo') and somehow these baby tears over such nothings had me well up and cry into his little shoulder. Not at all over the red hat, no of course not. Over his little troubles, his very little little troubles, and over my very big ones. And so his chubby hand lifted my chin off his shoulder and he stopped his sobbing for a second to say, 'Or-right, I will marry you'. And it was so earnest and true. So I said, 'Thankyou darling. That would be nice'.

And there it was. A marriage proposal, given and received. I think it made me cry some more. And Soul puttered off to breakfast.

I wonder when the 'big day' will be.