Category Archives: Life

Our Father’s Throne Room

A Princess is being carried on one of these grand sedan chairs by a huge retinue of striking looking bearers. Let’s watch this procession and see where they go. These bearers are have a regal bearing not like slaves or servants at all. There is a graceful confidence in the way they walk and their burden, the Princess, appears to be light. They actually look joyous in their duty; laughing with each other and conversing with the Princess in her sedan chair above them. They move forward and upwards to a stairway and, look, there is a Great Doorway and they walk right in bold as you like! They walk into the presence of a Mighty King – one who they are sure they can ask anything of – and they gently place the Princess before him. He is delighted that they have brought her. He runs from his throne to greet them and rests his hand on her head. He pulls her to her feet and hugs her to him; he treasures her. The bearers of the Princess rejoice; they feel the favour of the King. They know him to be their Father. The Princess nestles into the arms of the King, her Good Father and she knows she is loved. This her safe place; her healing place.

My Prayer Warriors were my Bearers. Every day, as soon as they were called into that ministry, they prayed and in so doing, carried me into the presence of God. His favour rests upon them. Of course, it was a great thing for me, but I know that in prayer for others, we also feel the favour of our Father. There’s lots of places in the Bible where we are instructed to pray. James tells us to “pray for one another, that you may be healed” (James 5:16). In his letter to the Ephesians (6:18), Paul tells us to pray for the Church and its ministers “praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, being watchful to this end with all perseverance and supplication for all the saints..” and he exhorts us to make “supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks [……] for all men” in his first letter to Timothy (2:1). So many times, throughout the Gospels, we read of Jesus praying for others and he commands us to do the same, even those who persecute us, and of course, he gave us a simple prayer to pray every day, where he taught us to call God “Our Father”. God compares prayer with sweet-smelling incense that pleases Him (Revelation 5:8). Clearly he loves to hear us when we pray. It reflects something of his own character; of love and mercy being poured out. He wants us to become more like him and, when we pray, we look up from our own selves; we are thinking of the needs of others and somehow, as we talk to God about them, we are lifted into the heavenly realms; we are in his presence.

Of course, I would have been in that band of Prayer Warriors for any one of my friends or family had they been sick or in trouble. Indeed I have been one of those praying boldly in the past. Even today, I am one of those lifting others in prayer to God. I love praying! Not that I am super good at it; or even good at remembering to do it! It’s like any exercise – you need to practice – and you don’t always feel like practising! I’m better when I can be disciplined about it. That is, when I use a ‘format’. So, at the moment, I am using Celtic Morning Prayer. The liturgy, the short Bible readings and the meditations there help to guide me into the Throne Room and I can talk more meaningfully (I hope!) about the needs of others. I have an order of praying for the World, the Church, Friends and Family and it works for me. We’re all different; we’ll have our own ways of talking to Father. (Much like me and my sisters had different ways of talking to our Mum). None of them are right or wrong; what matters is that we talk from the Heart.

As a fellow disciple of Jesus, a member of the Church, any one of us should be able to expect to be prayed for. We should be confident that the Church will gather and anoint us with oils and to know that our sisters and brothers are banging on the doors of Heaven, pestering God to the point of distraction. The Bible tells us this is how it needs to be:


“Are you sick? Call the church leaders together to pray and anoint you with oil in the name of the Master. Believing-prayer will heal you, and Jesus will put you on your feet” (James 5:14 Msg.)

However, now being at the very centre of things, in the midst of such a potentially scary journey, I can hardly put into words just how marvellous it actually feels. It is BRILLIANT!! Last week, we visited our previous church, All Saints in Marple. (We were there for almost 20 years and it’s really like our spiritual birthplace – so it always feels as though we’re going back ‘home’ when we go there). Our fab vicar friend, Daniel, dropped us in it by asking if we would be interviewed about the Cancer journey. We didn’t mind; it was great to have the opportunity to share what’s been happening with this part of our family and to publicly thank people for their prayers. Daniel asked what it was like for me ‘in the middle of things’ and I said a bit about the physical side of things, but more importantly, I said what it had been like having God so close to my side through it all. That it was the Prayer Warriors essentially, through their prayers and their messages to me, who had carried me into his presence, reminding me continually that he was there – above, below, in front, at the side and underneath me. My gorgeous, dear friend, Tracy had started the group “We Love Bev Prayer Warriors” – joined together on WhatsApp. Every one of them had jumped right into praying. They gave me verses from the Bible that gave me hope and joy. They made me laugh out loud with jokes and funny stories. Through this mode of virtual reality, they walked with me – indeed they carried me through and into the presence of our Father, the King. I LOVE them!!

In the days before surgery, Nad reminded me of something from Psalm 23. How the Lord has a table set with good things – for ME – in the presence of my enemies – they were Doubt, Fear, Death, Anxiety. They try to get seats at the table; try to meet my eye and get me to invite them. But the seats are all taken with Joy, Peace, Hope and Love. So there is no place for them!! On the morning of the op, I was inundated with messages. Daniel gave me words from Isaiah 26. “The Lord is my Rock Eternal – he keeps me steadfast and I can trust him forever”. Paula told me “The angels were dispatched a while back and the hedge around you prepared”. I loved the image, although later while waiting to go into theatre, I giggled to myself thinking of the surgeons trying to operate on stepladders and working over this enormous hedge!! “Blessed assurance, Jesus is with you every moment – feel his hand on your shoulder” – Muriel said. I did! I really did! “You go before me and you follow me. You place a hand of blessing on my head!” said Nad and “It is well with my soul” Andria reminded me, through that beautiful song of the same name. As I recovered, Janet messaged John to tell him of the rainbow in the sky over Manchester as she stood praying; a reminder of God’s promise. I posted a picture of myself with all my tubes and Nick made me laugh, asking me to sneak out the white-board pen he could see in the frame! He later asked if he could have the cannula they took out of my hand: “very useful for oil, with those little valves”.

Tracy, founder of We Love Bev Prayer Warriors, and her husband Nick – with us in Rome

They were not the only Prayer Warriors. Back in Honley, there were Cate and Richard, Angeline, Jenny, Elizabeth, Elaine…and so many others. Over in New Zealand, on holiday, Jane and Graham took time to pray. In Canada, there was Mel….Friends of Facebook from all over the country were prompted to call out to God for ME. At my own church, in Huddersfield, another Jane kept a group of willing and loving intercessors updated so that they could pray informedly and messaged me often to to let me know. Tania wrote often with beautiful, encouraging words – usually formed when she was in her Prayer Room – the Bath! (I love that picture of her praying through the bubbles!!) Mike, Steve and Jane came to our house and anointed me. Wayne and Ruth; Julie and Paul; Charlotte and Jo; Rebecca and James …so, so many people praying. So many people shared words, sent cards, brought gifts. I was loved – not only by the Father, and I was continually reminded of that, but also by my brothers and sisters in Christ. Even those who weren’t quite sure that God would answer, or indeed, weren’t sure there was a God at all, never mind one who listened, were prompted to, at the very least, to ‘hold me in their thoughts’.

The other day, I read something from “The Railway Children” and saw this

The morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns and watching Mother make A. P. on them with pink sugar. Afterwards the children went up to the village to collect the honey and the shovel and the other promised things. The old lady at the Post-office was standing on her doorstep. The children said ‘Good morning,’ politely, as they passed.
‘Here, stop a bit,’ she said. So they stopped. ‘Those roses,’ said she.
‘Did you like them?’ said Phyllis; ‘they were as fresh as fresh. I made the needle-book, but it was Bobbie’s present.’ She skipped joyously as she spoke. ‘Here’s your basket,’ said the Post-office woman. She went in and brought out the basket. It was full of fat, red gooseberries. ‘I dare say Perks’s children would like them,’ said she.
‘You are an old dear,’ said Phyllis, throwing her arms around the old lady’s fat waist. ‘Perks will be pleased.’
‘He won’t be half so pleased as I was with your needlebook and the tie and the pretty flowers and all,’ said the old lady, patting Phyllis’s shoulder. ‘You’re good little souls, that you are. Look here. I’ve got a pram round the back in the wood-lodge. It was got for my Emmie’s first, that didn’t live but six months, and she never had but that one. I’d like Mrs Perks to have it. It ‘ud be a help to her with that great boy of hers. Will you take it along?’ ‘Oh!’ said all the children together. ‘Oh, isn’t it nice to think there is going to be a real live baby in it again!’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Ransome, sighing, and then laughing; ‘Here, I’ll give you some peppermint cushions for the little ones, and then you run along before I give you the roof off my head and the clothes off my back.’

I was minded to think how wonderful it is to be able to respond in some way to the needs of others. Our hearts ache when we see misery and despair, illness and pain – but when we can DO something, it not only brings relief to them, it brings joy to us too. You know why? This is what I think. It’s because we are made in the image of God and it his nature to want to pour out love and mercy on his children. When we act out of compassion, we reflect something of his image in us. We shine. We are something like the best versions of ourselves; a version that’s closer to how Jesus might be. The children’s compassion for Perks and their longing to give him a good birthday, had an effect on their mother, people in the village, the grumpy post-mistress and also on themselves. Witness the delight of Phyllis at Mrs Ransome’s unexpected gifts.

When we can’t help; when it seems we can’t do any good – the best thing is to pray – because we know our Father can do good. Yet, we need also to pray before we act – because our Father is the one who knows the good we can do and longs to guide us to do that good. As we talk to him about our friends and loved ones, we are joined to him in his perfect compassion for them. We all end up in his Throne Room and we all end up knowing we are dearly, dearly loved.

Based in a Safe Place

I’ve been reading about two interesting people this morning – Abraham and Hagar. It struck me yet again just how trusting Abraham was; God made him a promise, but it was years and years before it was fulfilled. I could quite easily fall into the trap of thinking, ‘Oh blimey, now that’s real faith! Mine’s just rubbish!’ However, I read further and saw that Abraham actually wasn’t so great in his faith all the time. Like all human beings, he was frail and flawed. He doubted. (Although, to be honest, it WAS a rather ridiculous promise – a very old man having thousands and thousands of descendants, when he had an old, old wife who was infertile? Come on!!) He allowed himself to let Sarai work out an alternative plan – to make things happen; to hurry things along. They had clearly both begun to doubt that God would do this wonderful thing, so he slept with Sarai’s slave girl, Hagar, that she sent in to him.

For goodness sake! What a way to treat another human being! Poor little Hagar. I was reminded of the “The Long Song”, the recently televised book written by Andrea Levy. July was a black slave, and the new Overseer, John Mortimer took a fancy to her; believed himself to be in love with her. Knowing it was illegal however to marry a slave, even a black free woman, he married instead the woman who owned the Plantation, Caroline . He takes July as his “real” wife, giving her a permanent home underneath the house and being married in name only to Caroline. Of course, because of the fear of ridicule and the desperate need to keep up social appearances, Caroline can’t say anything. And of course, the smitten July, who bears him a child, Emily, revels in taunting her mistress with her raised-up status. It can only end in tears for all surely.

The themes are similar in both stories though – we can’t bear the status quo: things must be able to be better this; so they take steps to make it so. We do rash and impetuous, poorly thought-out things to bring about our dreams. Then the dream crashes around our ears; we end up in a sorry mess of our own making. Other people become caught up in the mess and are hurt in the process. God had made Abraham and Sarai a promise; she would bear a child. They stopped believing in that possibility and went and did something foolish and damaging to bring about the dream themselves. They couldn’t see beyond the place where they were in the way God had told them it would be. Hagar was damaged in the process. She had to give herself to an old man. She became pregnant and her natural response, just like July in “The Long Song” was to flaunt her ‘raised-up’ status. Sarai responded by ill-treating her and Hagar ends up running away.

Abraham gets a ticking off by God. ‘That wasn’t what I meant at all. What I promised will happen exactly as I told you’. I think they’re jolly lucky to be let off so lightly, given the mess they’ve made and the hurt they’ve caused! God enters into a covenant with Abraham, he gives him very clear signs, and his faith is deepened. Hagar was found in the wilderness place and comforted by El Roi – ‘the One who sees me’. Our God, just one of the 85 or so names that his people use to call on him in their times of need. She thought she was alone and forgotten but he came to her there and made a way back for her; he didn’t leave her in that desperate place. July’s story doesn’t go quite so well. She loses her new found status and, later, her daughter. It seems no one is looking out for her. There is a further twist in her story though; it isn’t quite the end.

Up to that point, Abraham had been pretty good at following God’s directions. He had left his homeland and allowed God to lead him step-by-step. (Genesis 12:1). (Although he does actually do some stupid things along the way, like let his wife become the Pharaoh’s concubine because he’s scared of being killed! There’s this bit in 13:14 that struck me deeply today though – “look around from where you are”. I got to thinking: I’m in a funny old place and I definitely wouldn’t have chosen to be here! I’m two days away from getting biopsy results that will possibly be life-changing. I’m here in this place of not knowing what’s ahead. I’ve had to give up control of so much. I’m needing to rest more; wait lots and trust loads! And it’s hard. It would be easy to become perplexed, even bitter, as I look around from where I am.

I recently finished reading all the “Cazalet Chronicles” – family saga series of five books, set from 1939 to 1958, by Elizabeth Jane Howard. Fabulous story. The family all became very dear to me; as if I knew them as friends. That’s what reading can do, not only transport you to another time and place, but entwine your reality with one created by another, so brilliantly that you fully enter into the lives of the people they present, as if they were real; at least for the time you are reading. The final book is titled “All Change”. The Cazalets are facing massive uncertainty as the family business goes bankrupt and their beloved Home Place has to be sold. Cary, now a mother herself says to her gathered extended family, including her husband, father, uncles and aunt,


“All through the awful time when Dad was lost and I remained the only person who believed he was alive and would come back, you [Archie, her husband, then friend] were here. You became my family, too. But the house stayed the same through that time. If I shut my eyes, I could tell you the detail of any room, and outside, the orchard and the fields and the wood with the stream running through it. ….This house is inside us and we shall never forget it”

Victoria Tower, Castle Hill. Sturdy and built from stone, but not indestructible

It strikes me that we do so need that something that stays the same. Life is so tumultuous; even in the very good times there is often massive upheaval, so we seek stability, security, anything that will not change. Buildings, gardens, places – all seem like they can offer this, as we find too often that people don’t. Our loved ones try to give that to us, but they waver, they too are uncertain, some may cheat, they move away and of course, they can die and leave us floundering. How lovely that Cary believes Home Place to be in their hearts. She’s internalized the feelings of safety and security it offered to her and knows she can continue with the strength she found in that place. It is a part of who she is now. I love how she made that step. I adore my husband, love him dearly and he’s been an absolute star since I became ill. A rock. He’s still human though and therefore, like me, has his flaws. I love my house; it’s a safe place in a storm; but, although it’s pretty darned solid, being made of Yorkshire stone, it’s not indestructible.

The Peace that comes from God passes all understanding . I don’t ‘get it’, but I do experience it, thankfully.
He is my ‘safe place‘.

No, I do believe that my one and only true safe place, is in the One who created me; my Father in Heaven: God. He never changes; his constancy is all I really can count on ultimately. He is El Roi – the One who sees me. He knows the state of my health and what I’m going through right now. God hasn’t promised that he’ll make me well; but I know he has promised to be with me whatever I face up ahead. It’s all I have to hang on to; that’s my safe place. Him. I can’t trust myself and I certainly can’t trust my body; I’ve learned that for sure. He doesn’t stop the storms; he doesn’t prevent me walking into them; but he is there right by me in the midst of them. And when this life on earth is over, that’s where I will be always; with Him forever.

Lady In Waiting

I’ve never been any good at waiting! Honestly, you should see me when the computer doesn’t fire into life immediately when I push that button. And you know that silly little symbol that appears when something is happening in the background of your PC? You know, it can be like an hourglass, or a whirly thing? Well, when that pops up my heart sinks and I bang my head on the desk and wail “Nooooooo”. How can it make me wait so long? I have STUFF to do! People to be calling…..cups of tea to be making!! Alright, nothing I need to do is THAT important, but you get me, right? Waiting for a machine to do what it jolly well ought to be doing is so frustrating.

We live in this era of ‘why-wait-for-anything’. Ads tell us we don’t need to wait for what we really want NOW. We can buy now and pay later – all on interest free credit too. We can borrow for what we’ve not yet earned so we can have the luxury of owning that ‘something’ in advance. Looked at in the cold light of day, it begins to seem rather ridiculous. The ‘get-it-before-it-goes’ philosophy can be infectious and drives behaviour – gives a sense of urgency which can actually push people into debt they could really do without, and, even worse, can’t afford.

I am learning now that I MUST wait. Waiting is becoming my status. I am calling this my Posture of Waiting. It is a Posture I have to learn to hold. Practice makes perfect – and oh boy – I have lots of opportunity to practice!!

There are other related things that I’m learning too. I’ve always been a very ‘in-control’ sort of person. I like to know what’s happening ahead. I like to be able to have a say in how things will be. I like to understand what’s happening and be able to influence how things will go; how I, and others, will operate. I’ve tended to be better if I have some level of responsibility; that is, if I’m allowed and empowered to lead. I am happy to take charge of projects. I love nothing more than to sit with a spreadsheet, mapping out tasks and contingencies; schedules and outcomes; expectations, plans and goals. Love it all. Sad, but true. I like working out what risks there might be; how can we manage them; how do we communicate with stakeholders. Love all of that. But, you know what? I can’t do that with Cancer. I’m learning that I cannot be in control of this part of my life.

It’s a rat of a thing, because, even though it’s yours, (as in, it’s in YOU), it’s YOU who can’t seem to get a grip of it. You get your head round what it is, or think you do; so it can be defined and you know what you’re dealing with. Then it turns out it’s just really an umbrella term for thousands of ‘types’ of tumours and minging cell abnormalities. That pop up and grow – seemingly where they jolly well like. You can research it all you like; you can find the statistics (frighten yourself to death over them). You can tap into websites and blogs and online communities – you can talk to other folk with cancer – you can quiz professionals. You can arm yourself with all this information. But what it boils down to in the end is this – you spend a great deal of time WAITING and NOT BEING IN CONTROL

As soon as my surgery was over, even while still poorly and recovering, I wanted to know what they’d found. What was next? I have no say in that though. It all depended on when the lab would be working over Christmas; what they found in a cell that might lead them to look in another; when my specialist was available for clinic. Things I had no control over. A usual two and a half week wait has turned into a five week wait. I sit here now, a week away from that clinic appointment on January 9th and I cannot make it come any faster. Someone, somewhere knows more about me; more about what happens next for me than I do. I can’t even plan what I’m going to be doing next month until I know those results, as the outcome will determine how much time will be taken in treatments, and what they are to be.

Then there’s the recovery from the surgery itself. No longer is it a case of – come on, Billy, let’s go for a walk on the hills. Now it’s ‘where can I walk today, that he doesn’t need a lead, and which won’t be too challenging for me?’ These have never been considerations for me before! I am however not yet back to full fitness, although I’m out walking again and also using a treadmill daily. I have to therefore be far more careful of where I walk; I have lost the carefreeness of being able to just grab the lead, call the dog and simply set off, deciding where we go as we walk. Fully in control of our own pleasure and self-esteem. I will need to wait some time before I can claim that state again.

I am finding this book helpful in my learning this new Posture of Waiting. It is “The Stature of Waiting” by W H Vanstone. It was given to me by Rev Steve Harvey, our Curate, who was given it when he faced cancer himself, by Bishop Jonathan Gibbs. I read this about being a patient :-

“What happens ….happens to him, is done to him; and the satisfactoriness or unsatisfactoriness of a particular day depends hardly at all on himself or his own efforts and decisions. A ‘good’ day is one on which a machine or instrument shows a certain reading, or a drug has a certain effect…”.

Yes, I get that. I am waiting for my body to heal; I can do somethings to help that, or at least not hinder it, but ultimately I need to let the wounds (external and internal) heal fully before I stress my body further. I am waiting for results which will determine how my next few months, maybe years, will pan out. I can’t make full plans until I know. I’ve become more dependent on others doing what they need to do. I am even, I realise, dependent on which drugs will be available in this area. Not all cancer drugs are available everywhere and some are available only on clinical trials. I can’t control if I am on a trial or not!

Vanstone also talks about how there is often a ‘suddenness’ in transition between being a self-sufficient person into being a patient. That this is so disconcerting that it immediately alters how we perceive the opinions, attitudes and remarks of others, as well as how we see ourselves. I know that I found myself constantly wondering how it was that professionals seem so easily to view me as ‘the patient’ when I hadn’t actually fully grasped that I was one! My head had to catch up with what was physically happening. So I was always having this conversation with myself in my head – how have I landed here? Is this really me?

This suddenness makes learning to wait even harder. Luckily, having moved from being ‘economically productive’ to being ‘retired’ in recent years, I have already learned the necessity of having to change pace. This is going to be helpful as I move forward. A more relaxed and considered pace has many benefits. It’s possible, beautiful even, to have time to stare at the clouds for a while. It;s pretty good to spend a whole afternoon relishing the reading of a book. It’s not at all bad to walk in the woods without worrying about having to get back to make a deadline. I’ve learned these things. I can learn how to wait for what is outside of my control, surely?

Vanstone’s book is of course about Jesus and his stature of waiting. About how what we have viewed as his ‘suffering’ was more about his ‘passion’ which has the same roots as ‘patience’. How he knew that he was called to move from being fully active to being completely passive. That he was ‘handed over’ to that state and how he accepted that as a fundamental part of his calling. I haven’t finished it yet, but I have learned already that even this – this wretched cancer thing – is part of what I am called into as a disciple of Jesus. God has allowed this to happen (he’s omnipotent so could have stopped it) and that there is a purpose in it. In ALL of it. Even, and possibly, especially, the Waiting and the lack of control. I will therefore gladly go on practicing how to wait with grace; with a good posture and with patience! Just don’t berate me if you see me banging my head on my desk and wailing in the meantime!!

An Unexpected Journey

It’s been a funny old year and it’s coming to a close in an entirely different way than I had expected. I had been dreading the 18th December – a year on from losing Mum. Yet, I found that I was happy to think of her with love and a deep sense of joy for having been her daughter. Now, was that because of the place I find myself in today? Not sure, but it’s bound to have had some influence.

Together with my hubby in Rome

Let me explain. A couple of months ago we went to Rome with some great friends of ours. We’d been looking forward to this very much. Although we’d had a fabulous holiday in SE Asia earlier in the year, by the summer it was really hitting me just how much I was missing Mum. (For more about that, see my earlier post). By mid-September I’d felt out of sorts for some time, putting it down to grief. So flying off with friends who always make us laugh and who are very dear to us, gave me such joy. We had a brilliant time, then they came back and we stayed on a week, hiring a car and tootling round Lazio, up to Assissi and Firenze, back down the coast to Civitavecchia, before flying back home ourselves. Now for a gory bit – if you’re squeamish or you don’t like mention of “women’s stuff”, skip the next paragraph!

Assissi

It was in Assissi (I always remember things by places!!) that I first noticed some bleeding. Now, as I went through the menopause around 8 years ago, I knew right away this wasn’t normal. It was after sex (I know, I’m far too old to be doing that sort of thing!!) so I wasn’t overly worried – there are many reasons it might happen. Nevertheless, I made a mental note to get checked out on return. I saw no more bleeding during the holiday. On return, I noted a very tiny blood stain one evening which prompted me to think I must call my GP. I also remembered having something that felt like a period pain back in early September, which I had put down to potential summer ‘flu. The following day, whilst in Sheffield on a course, I saw more bleeding – not loads, but enough to make me realise I could not mess about. I skipped the next session and phoned the GP. An appointment was made for the following morning – after some assertive pestering of the receptionist!

Thus began something of a whirlwind – no, more like I’d jumped on a train that I hadn’t really meant to catch and that was hurtling along and I simply wasn’t able to get off. Now, let me tell you this – when I saw the blood in Sheffield, I felt icy cold and remember thinking, “This is cancer” I’m not daft; I know the statistics are that most (more than 90%) women who see such symptoms will be fine and there are many reasons that bleeding occurs. Maybe you think I was being dramatic; I am known for that! I don’t think so. I am usually an optimistic sort of person and, in terms of health, I don’t tend to get anxious about things. I feel as if I just knew.

The GP was fab. She reassured me and explained about cancer pathways (which, given my background, I knew about anyway) and that, even though the likelihood of it being cancer was very small, I would be on the pathway until it was ruled out. Ten days later I am in Huddersfield Royal Infirmary having a Hysteroscopy. Not a pleasant experience, but was supported by the loveliest of nursing staff and done by a wonderful Consultant, who was kind and very funny; I really liked her. She found, what she believed to be, a polyp, or possibly, she said, it might have been a fibroid. I was referred for the first available slot on the Day Surgery list.

So, duly, on the 13th November, I went along for this minor operation to remove the dratted polyp. It was the first time I’d had a general anaesthetic since I was 11 years old. I was very impressed with how the system worked and with the care and attention I received. In fact, I felt rather proud when the Anaesthetist pronounced me “fit, slim and very healthy”! (How we love the affirmations of professionals, despite our desire not to want to care!!). He said I would recover well. The time for my surgery came around and I was wheeled, wearing a gorgeous gown and delightful compression stockings, down to the theatre. A cannula was inserted into the back of my hand and the anaesthetist’s assistant was chatting away to me about my Fitbit and how many steps I aimed at each day, when I felt my face freeze and the room fade away. A minute later, so it seemed, a nurse was saying my name. “What’s happened? Can’t they do it?” I asked and she laughed; it was all done. Wow! Forty minutes of my life I didn’t know about.

Recovery did go well, as promised, and I was eating toast and drinking tea 30 minutes after surgery. I was visited by one of the surgeons who told me that the polyps (“There were more than one?!) had successfully been removed. “And you didn’t find anything else?” I had this concern that maybe a huge tumour would be hiding behind those pesky polyps! I was reassured that a biopsy had been done to check everything out anyway. Apart from not being able to drive and feeling dopey in the afternoon for a few days, I was fine. I was very glad it was done with and started to get on with my life, enjoying my walks with the dog; the fear of cancer receded from my mind. How blessed we were to have such a fine NHS that acted promptly and cared compassionately. I went to a New Wine “Women & Leadership” conference for two days and was able to enter into it fully and really enjoy it. Back at home, I got two sets of results back from other tests. A mammogram was clear; my cervical smear test was clear. I was on a roll! I felt better than I’d done for a long time.

Ten days after the surgery, a Thursday, I was ironing (must have felt good, because I rarely iron!) when I got a phone call from the MRI scanning department at HRI.

“Beverley Playle? I believe you’re waiting for an urgent MRI appointment?” said the efficient lady.

What the dickens? I felt my knees go weak. First I had heard of it. I can only think of one reason I would need one. “Why? What’s wrong with me?” Poor lady – I sensed her back-pedalling – probably reading the notes as I spoke and feeling absolutely dreadful, as she realised she was meant to call the Clinical Nurse Specialist and not the Patient. She made a hasty retreat and 5 minutes later, the CNS was speaking to me, apologising for the mistake, explaining that the Consultant wanted some scans done before they could meet to complete the set of tests. There were lots of reassuring noises and it was all very professional, but I knew then what the outcome would be. MRI scan was set up for that same day and a CT scan for the following morning. See what I mean about the “fast train”?

Funny thing though; I prayed; a lot. I called on others to pray. Somehow the fear dissipated. I find that incredible. It was like God stepped in and simply held me. A friend reminded me of how, at the New Wine event, we had heard that “underneath are always the Everlasting Arms [of the Father]”. And they caught me. I truly felt as if He scooped me up and hugged me to Him. I wasn’t under an illusion; something horrid was going on inside me, but He made me safe; and He made me brave. So, when out walking with Billy, on Friday afternoon, I got a phone call from the consultant, I knew what she was going to say; I was ready for it.

“There is no easy way to say this; it’s not great news. We found Cancer in the lining of your womb.”

I said I was ready, but it’s a bit like being braced to catch a huge ball you can see hurtling towards you; it still knocks you over with the weight of it. My feet weren’t quite planted firmly enough. I sat on a stone wall by the side of the woods in Honley. I looked out to the hills beyond and I thought “I want to live. Lord, I really want to go on living.” Then comes the telling of others. My husband – tears and declarations of love. I felt his concern when he met me on the drive as I got back from the walk and dried the dog for me! Then telling my daughters and sisters. So many tears. So much shock. Yet, the stats tell us that 1:2 people will get cancer in their lifetimes. Yet we know that most, caught early enough, are very treatable. Yet we know that it’s possible to live long and good lives, even when untreatable. Research brings new treatments almost weekly. Still, we are shocked by this horror. Still, we tremble at the word. Still, we find it knocks us for six; sends us sprawling.

Less than a week later, we go to meet our new Consultant, a Mr Nugent, at the McMillan Unit in Halifax. ‘I do not want to be in such a place’ I thought. ‘This is not the path I choose’. But here I am, gone from being in control to having no control. This is it now; I have to be “patient” and be done to. He draws me a diagram to show where they have seen it. He talks me through the scans; they seem clear. But it’s not the usual Endometrial Cancer. I have a “rare and aggressive” type. Well, that’s just great! For once I wanted to be just run-of-the-mill! I’d got my head round cancer, now it’s whirling again. I could cope with losing my womb, but now it looks like more has to be done to shift it.

Serous Carcinoma. This blighter operates at a deeper, cellular level. It can be there without being seen. There’s a standard clinical pathway for dealing with it surgically – lots of long physiological terms – but basically they are going to take all my reproductive organs, my cervix and something called an Omentum (who knew we had one of those?). Apparently, it’s an apron of fatty tissue where nasty things like cancer cells tend to hide. That must go then. Oh, and while we’re in there, let’s get rid of around 20 or so Lymph nodes/ glands in your pelvic area and abdomen! Why not? Anything else? No, that’ll do for now. We’ll put everything under a microscope and see if this varmint is hiding anywhere else.

And if it is hiding somewhere? Well, then that will mean Radiotherapy and also Chemotherapy. And if it isn’t there? Well, you might need Chemo anyway. It’s all about ‘margins’ you see. But if it’s absolutely not there at all – no sign whatsoever – is that it? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Apparently not. This is a persistent and devious thing – it can raise its nasty head after a couple of years. Could pop up in the vagina. Or the bladder. Possibly the bowel. Very rarely seen in the lung though! Well, that’s just great! At least my lungs are going to be fine. I can breathe!!!

Earlier that morning, I’d met with my daughters, daughter-in-law and two of my grandchildren. Gorgeous 6-month old Harry and 11-yr old Ronnie. We had breakfast together in a place we all love over in Stockport. A good friend dropped by to join us for coffee. Over Eggs Benedict we shared joy in being together, with every one of us privately holding our real thoughts about what we might learn that afternoon. Back at home, after dealing with the information we’d received ourselves, we took turns to call everyone and update then. Sam says “I don’t like that word ‘aggressive’!” No, me neither. I’ll fight back, I promise her. I can be pretty aggressive when I need to be.

So it turns out the surgery will be done on the Friday 7th December. It could be done earlier, I’m told, but they’ll be hard pushed to get me in for pre-op before then. “I’m not having it done earlier. We’ve a night away booked with a gourmet meal, in North Yorkshire. I’m not giving that up!” A girl needs some control, don’t you know? I want my night away in a posh hotel – it’s a bargain break we booked ages ago. Suddenly it feels symbolic. I have to have that night. It’s agreed. The 7th it is then. After our night away (which was amazing, I have to say!), it all feels more real and we start our preparations in earnest. New pyjamas; dressing gown; Sanctuary shower gels. Crucial stuff. Things have to be cancelled. Do we still do the family Christmas dinner? What about events I was involved in? It all gets sorted – and Op day arrives.

In my pre-op finery!!

We stayed the night before in the Bexley Wing Patient Hotel. The top floor of this specialist Cancer Unit and rooms much like a Travelodge. Better than travelling into Leeds at 5am that’s for sure. 7am finds us down at the door of the ward. ‘Is this actually happening’, I ask John. From then on it feels like I’m like royalty. Surgeons and anaesthetists turn up and ask for an audience. Everything is explained well and my questions dealt with in detail and with kind frankness. An ‘Enhanced Recovery’ Nurse (What?!?) comes by and talks to me about what I can expect to feel immediately after the surgery. I don the required compression socks, as I change into the theatre garb and say goodbye to the hubby as he goes off with my blessing to have breakfast; it’s time I had my own space, to think my own thoughts now. He thoughtfully messages me a photo of his eggs and bacon as I am reading my consent form. Such love:)

At 10am I walk to the theatre with the Enhanced Recovery Nurse; delighted I had bought a dressing gown of a decent length to cover the obscenely flapping gown and that the revolting paper knickers would not be on display! I joke with the Theatre Assistant as he shows me the trolley he has set aside for me, “I had ordered the Maserati, you know”. Shrugging and smiling, he tells me it’s the best he can do but he’s sure he can sort out a cream tea to compensate. “Well, I had asked for the Prosecco”. “We’re all waiting for Prosecco; they promise and it never comes!”, he quips. I like him; I feel safe as he wheels me down the corridor to an anteroom of the theatre where it will all happen. I meet the Anaesthetist again and she struggles to find a decent vein, as it’s cold in there, but eventually the needle goes in and then, the cold drug starts to enter my bloodstream. She asks where I’d like to go in my dreams today. “Angkor Wat, please”. She says she’ll try to oblige and it’s the last thing I remember.

Not looking my very best (morning after surgery)

The op went well; I say “well”, what I actually mean is that they got the organs out that they said they were taking and nothing went wrong. I felt pretty dire after it- but then, it is major surgery. ‘How bonkers’, I remember thinking, ‘I was healthy and bouncing around yesterday – today I’m laid up in bed, on oxygen, in awful pain, morphine through a drip and being closely monitored by nurses who are expressing concern about my low blood pressure!’ It all hurt like heck for a few days but I was looked after brilliantly; visited by some truly lovely people and continuously messaged by fabulous prayer warriors! (More about that in another piece!)

I’m home now, having been discharged the following Tuesday. What can I say about recovery? It’s hard work being still. I am not good at being a patient. It’s frustrating when you want to go for a walk on the hills and you can only shuffle across your lounge. Every day though, I found the pain lessened; I could move a little easier and I felt a little better. Two weeks on, I know I’ve still a way to go, but my incredible husband is beginning to feel that there is life after nursing the wife! Christmas will happen and will be even more wonderful because I realise afresh just how precious my loved ones really are. All the organs and tissue that were taken away are currently being analysed and on the 9th January I’ll be back with Mr Nugent finding out what the next steps are. I am honestly not afraid. It seems to me that there is not point to fear. It feels like it would only serve to try to destroy my hope and my happiness. I will NOT less this thing steal my joy or chase away my peace!! They have seats at my table – I won’t let despair and anxiety sit down with me! (I’ll talk in another piece about how my faith has sustained me and how the prayers of friends have carried me as I stumble along on this journey).

I have Cancer. I need to keep saying it to remind myself it’s actually true. It isn’t a horrible dream. It’s not someone else; its happening to me. But today, as someone has said to me, I have less Cancer than I had two weeks ago. And for that I am thankful. The 9th January will take care of itself and nothing I do will change what will be known that day. I intend to live well and live long; I will fight when I need to and lie back and be done to when that is called for. I go on being held in those “everlasting arms” and rejoice in how truly marvellous it is to be alive and have my life filled with so many who love me and delight me. I am very blessed.

https://www.macmillan.org.uk/information-and-support/womb-endometrial-cancer/understanding-cancer

Dear Mum, I miss you….

Dear Mum

I saw your face this morning on my Facebook News Feed – once again I was blind-sided and melted into tears. It’s a face I miss seeing so much. Your smile with your sparkling eyes – knowing I can’t catch it ‘live’ again, ever, hits me in the gut each time I see your image.

It’s that one of you and Jacob – taken at our house when we were actually in Italy and all the rest of you were celebrating Hannah’s 21st birthday. Jacob is such a sweetie and you were always at your sunniest with a baby on your knee. And they seemed to love you, didn’t they? I’m thinking of that other one of you watching Jess and Izzy opening the sweets you’d given them. I miss how they loved to search in that wardrobe drawer for the chocolate you kept there for them. Just a couple of months ago, our Ali fancied some chocolate and was half way up the stairs before she remembered there was no chocolate there any more, because there was no wardrobe, because there was no you.

No you. I don’t seem to be any closer accepting it. I ache today with the missing of you – the absence of you. It’s not that I ache all the time – or at least I’m not aware of the pain. It’s that it keeps washing over me like waves of desolation that leave me trying to right myself up because they’ve knocked me off my feet once again. Turned the ground beneath me to sand that slips and slides when I’m trying to stride out. I have a feeling striding out is not going to be possible for a good while.

I missed you today as Ronnie started High School and Sammy started a new job. You’d have loved seeing him in his smart uniform. Sammy will have a uniform too. I’m so proud of her. You’d be delighted in her and in my pride. And Hannah’s birthday tomorrow. A whole year since that party. You’d have bought your card weeks ago. And slipped her extra pocket money for her Vegas holiday.

I missed you in the garden centre a few weeks ago. I just wanted a rhododendron. I simply wanted to go in, pick one, come home and plant it. All to make a corner of the garden a little brighter – cheerier. Even as I parked up I knew it would start. I could feel that now familiar tightening of stomach muscles and I started to brace myself for it.  I put on this brusque demeanour and strode purposefully away from the threat of grief, through the displays of cards, gloves, ornaments and bags –  but it caught up with me as I entered the plant display area. I looked at the roses and just knew it was with me; I hadn’t left anything. It wrapped its arms around me and the tears spilled all down my face so I couldn’t even see the bloody roses! I just felt you at my side telling me how beautiful they were. And probably urging me to pick one – because you know I love roses, don’t you? Then there was this incredible display of cottage garden perennials and I know you would have gasped at it, “Oh, just look at those” and you’d want to stop and smell and have a look at the labels. How many times have we meandered round a garden centre, Mum? How many times have we filled our trolleys with a dozen plants neither of us planned to buy?

Then I realized why I’d found the garden a difficult place this summer. It wasn’t just time and lack of it. It was because out there, I have to think of you. I might have gone weeks without talking to you sometimes, but always, always something about the garden or about plants, would be in our conversation when we spoke. It’s what you were about. And it makes me ache with the emptiness of your absence whenever I’m in my own garden or in a nursery or something. Just looking at someone else’s place too can bring me down. Like when the Magnolia flowered this Spring. You knew, I’m sure of it, that you’d never see it bloom. I loved that it was a “Stellar” – my star of a mother shining away. You’d have loved it – and it has pride of place down by the Mountain Ash that you loved in our garden (once we’d agreed that that’s what it was!). It flowered only for a few weeks, but it was stunning in its beautiful simplicity. White blooms, so pure and bright against the deep green of the Laurel. But not lasting long. Reminding me that none of us do. We’re all only here for a very short time.

It’s perfectly natural to lose your Mum when you’re in your sixties. Eighty-nine is a great age – and you lived life well and full. You had an incredibly positive impact on so many lives and so many people loved you. So we have much to be thankful for. I get all that and I’m content that you are with our Lord in eternity – though I’ve yet to grasp what that means. For now, I simply accept that somewhere, in some time, you live on and you are now fulfilled and happier than you ever were and that we will see you again.

That sort of helps, in the longer-term. But in the right here-and-now-term, it doesn’t help one bit! Because it’s now, today, in the garden; at the end of the phone; active on Facebook; sitting by me in the car; nattering away in my kitchen; talking my ears off as we trundle round shops – that’s when I want you and need you. I don’t want to wait till I leave this earth and join you in everlasting glory.

I cannot bear to think too hard about Christmas. I didn’t even have it on my radar till I saw that I was down to preach on the 16th December. The weekend we plan to inter your ashes with Dad’s. I felt sick at the thought. I realised that, in the background of my mind, the dread of meeting the one year milestone had been building. Confronted with the reality of something I clearly would not be able to do, hit me hard. I think that set me off. Reminded me that I had never travelled far from the place of broken-heartedness that losing me you had put me in. I can’t even bear to think of decorating the Church – something I’ve done for last three years. I used to tell you what we were planning and you were so great at helping me with ideas. You loved hearing about it all. You loved all that was going on in our lives.

You’ll be pleased to know we’re clinging on to one another. Me and the other girls. We see our bro too from time to time. We’re planning a holiday to commemorate what would have been your 90th birthday. It will be such a hoot. Over in Bridlington. Didn’t we have some good times over on the East coast the last few years? That picture of you nearly blowing away in Scarborough is one I treasure.

I missed you when Lou and I walked on Flamborough Head. I thought about how you used to sit in the car and read while we went off walking. Remember Cayton Bay? And you’re not there now – pretending you hadn’t been asleep. “Just resting my eyes a little” And you’re not anywhere to be found.

You’re not here to advise me. Counsel me. To listen to my moans and groans. To tell me what you’ve been up to. To play that confounded Word game with! To laugh at the tales of what Jess and Isabella have been up to. I want to tell you how Cat is in another play. I’d like to show you photos of how her children are growing up so fast. I want to tell you all about New Wine this summer. I want to see you smile. I really need to see your smile. And I want you here to believe in me. No one has ever believed in me like you. My greatest cheer-leader. The one who urged me on. My fiercely proud mum. Where the bloody hell are you?

I want you here. Now. I want this aching of heart and soul to go away. I don’t want to keep crying in garden centres. I want to lift the deep sadness that has settled on me and push it away. Yet I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll lose you completely– you won’t be there at all. The absence of you is all that I have of you – like an indentation in a seat or a crumpled cushion. The pain of you not being here comforts me because it reminds me you were here. I’m therefore left with something that is not a nothingness. I’d rather cry than not remember. At least aching is feeling.

I do miss you, Mum.

Love and hugs,

Your daughter

*****

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Our Gran – by Becci

“Our Gran” by Becci Turnbull

 

Today we remember you and say our last good bye,

 

We will celebrate the life you lived as you watch us from the sky

You’ve been so influential gran and we thank you for all you’ve done,

Coming to see you was always so much fun

Baking, running holiday club and playing fuzzy-felts

You’d always keep us busy, with 34 grandchildren in the house

We probably made you dizzy

 

Apart from Alex, who could do no wrong,

Oh far from it with those grommets haha

 

We’ll miss those muffin like Yorkshire pics,

Your famous eggy bread and your breakfast toast,

But you being here gran is what we’ll miss the most

 

We love you gran, but now it’s time to fly,

Although our hearts are breaking its time to say goodbye

We’ll keep you in our memories, we hope that you can see,

Although you are so far away you’ll always be the heart of our family

Fierce Love – Tribute to Our Mum

Our Mum was fierce – like a tiger. Let me tell you about her.

She was the best of mothers and we loved her dearly. But she would be the first to say she wasn’t perfect. She thought it was wrong to think too highly of yourself and that was something she instilled in us as we grew up (sometimes more forcefully than we might have liked). My sister, Lucille, well remembers what she said to her when my sister was anxious about people looking at her on a particular social occasion “Who’s going to be looking at you? There are far more interesting and important people to look at!”

 

She could be scary – especially when riled. We might be able to twist our dad round our fingers, but we knew Mum wasn’t to be messed with. She had no truck with excuses if the list of chores she’d left us to do hadn’t been done. Our family was definitely a Matriarchy. What she said was the rule – no matter how illogical! Woe betide us if we broke those rules – or even try to argue the logic.

Tigers defend their own though. No one dared mess with her children unless they wanted the lash of her tongue – and that could be a stinging lashing, let me assure you. I still delight in the memory of her making mincemeat of my Maths teacher at a parents’ evening. He was left in no doubt that it was his teaching that was at fault and not my inability to learn. And the teacher who told her my brother was ‘ineducable’ – he had a speech defect as child and struggled to learn to read – well, the poor woman was left trembling after Mum had finished with her. There was one time, over 30 years ago, when an elderly gent in this church, tore a strip off me for the dreadful behaviour of my two-year-old Samantha. Mum saw me and Sammy crying, flew down the path, overtook him just as he reached his car. Oh boy, he regretted his words. He could hardly drive his car for shaking.

She would always be on our side – in public. We might get a good telling off out of sight, or even a thick ear, but she always stuck up for us in front of others.

Who will have our backs now – the way she did?

Who will give us the sort of support that had her sitting up all night, sewing costumes for pantomimes, shows, rose queen pageants? Who will make us the latest fashions – hot pants, maxi dresses, penny-round shirts, so that we’d always be well dressed and that no one could look down on us? Who will decipher the sketches made on the back of bus tickets of something we needed making – the top like that, the skirt like that? And who will forget to take the pins out of the seams of our home-made clothers?

Who will root through every drawer, every cupboard, every handbag to scrape together the money needed for a school trip we so desperately wanted to go on? And who’ll go without new dresses or a holiday herself, so that her precious children, could go skiing in the Cairngorms, or kayaking in Wales, or on an exchange trip to France?

Mum believed in us fiercely. “You can be anything you want to be – if you set your heart on it” My sister, Ali, would never have gone for it and took on her dancing school, if not for mum’s belief in her. She sewed, raised funds, acted as ‘unpaid secretary’, taking calls, placing orders and doing everything she could to make sure it worked out. And who clapped the loudest when Sandra marched with the QAs as a nurse in the Army? Who cheered the most when I was in plays, or applauded the longest when I graduated? Who bought us walking boots and swelled with pride when Lou and I walked 100k? Mum could do ‘proud’ like no one else.

Who will cheer us on now?

She wasn’t the greatest of cooks. We all have wonderful memories of warm muffins on Sunday afternoons and steaming hotpots. But there were also Yorkshire puddings that resembled rubber that even the birds refused. Liver you could line your boots with. Gravy that had to be sliced not poured. She loved reading, much preferred it to housework – seldom was she seen without a book in her hand; but Mum holding a mop or a sweeping brush or even a duster is not an image any of us can recall.

At one time or another, we’ve all ended up back home. No matter how old we were, or what had happened to bring us back, her door was open to us and the children we towed along with us. Before we’d hung our coat up, she’d have our kids enrolled in school, was taking them to Brownies, Cubs, Sunday School and Holiday clubs – all smoothly done, with a huge smile on her face – caring for them as we got ourselves back on our feet. She embraced the children of our partners and they became her grandchildren overnight; treated them the same as those of her own blood.

She was an intelligent woman, no doubt about that. She also had a mule-like stubbornness that defied all logic at times. Try as I might to convince her of French and Italian pronunciations, she still insisted that it was a Kwich Lorraine, a seeabata loaf and that those green things were manjaytoots! And garlic – well that was a thing of the devil. As was pasta – olives – chilli – curry – and yoghurt. And she could never politely and quietly refuse these things – “Oh no no no!” with a face contorted with disgust, was her reply, as if we were offering her snails to eat!

But she also cared fiercely. She had time for people – enjoyed listening to their stories. She was the one on our estate when we were kids who everyone came to for advice and comfort. She has always been the one to ‘go-to’.

She was well able to voice her opinion. And she was rarely wrong – in her opinion. She could be demanding. Who else will leave a voice message “Beverley, it’s your mother. Remember me? Ring if you can find my number that you’ve obviously lost!” or “John! The “E’s’ gone off my laptop again and nothing’s coming in or going out. You’ll have to come and sort it – I’ve got to send prayers round tonight”

 

And let anyone dare distribute wedding flowers before she had given instructions! Believe me, her stick could become a javelin if crossed in such a way! Lucille’s partner will vouch for that.

Mum also loved fiercely. First, above all, she loved God and really did serve him with her heart and soul and for all of her days. She loved in a way that was unwavering and deeply loyal. She married her teenage sweetheart, my lovely dad, and he was always the only man for her. He suffered her temper, her nagging (which she termed ‘encouragement for improvement’), her strange logic and demands for certain traditions to be upheld – which led to him being thrown out the back door every NYE, kept out there till the bells had finished and let back in carrying coal, whisky, sugar and a sixpence. He died 34 years ago and she still had his pyjamas and pillow in her own bed.

It is her love that we shall miss the most. The strength of it. The force of it. The way the whole family revolved around it and were held together by it. Love which compelled her to save all year and take all her grown-up children out for a meal on HER birthday. Love which dictated she keep a drawer full of chocolate for the little ones who visited. Love that urged her to spend time on every holiday or day out looking for something the children could do at Messy Church or Rock Solid or for a flower arrangement. It was her love that fiercely shone when, only minutes after being given her terminal diagnosis, was galvanised into list-making – all the children she hadn’t bought Christmas gifts for had to be sorted. That same love had her sitting by her hospital bed writing cards to each of her children and grandchildren – painstakingly checking the list that Alison must follow to insert money into each one. When her fierceness began to ebb away, it was an honour and a privilege for my younger sisters and me to serve her by caring for as she was dying.

Today, while the pain of her death is still so raw – it feels as if her love has taken a leave of absence and that where we once revolved round her, we now revolve round an empty space. A gaping wound. It hurts and there are times we feel like howling.

But actually, I don’t believe that her love has gone. It was God-given and I think it lives on in all of us – that somehow, through being together it will be pooled and recreated; replenished and revived and passed on to our children’s children and beyond. It was too strong, too fierce to be quenched. The light of our Mum’s fierce love was far too bright to be put out.

 

Falling Apart and Holding Together

It’s two weeks almost since Mum died, a week before Christmas Day – since the light of her dazzling smile was last seen. We have cried so many tears our jaws ache and our eyes sting  – it feels as though it helps to cry – you think you’ve finished – then off you go again, triggered at the sight of a flower or a compassionate voice. This morning it was the Magnolia that did it. She bought it for my 60th birthday, insisting we got it months before the date, as they were in season then. It was a small shrub and she helped me choose it at the Garden Centre we often visited together. As I carried food waste to the compost heap earlier, there it was, singing to me with a profusion of tight buds covering it. It will give me a riot of flowers in the Spring – and she won’t be here to see them. Will they comfort me then?

Death is horrible. It rips those who watch it apart – it drains them. Forget all that ‘wasn’t it wonderful that she was surrounded by her loved ones’ business – it’s actually bollocks (‘scuse the language). No matter who is there, it’s unpleasant, heart-breaking and downright mean. It’s an affront. An assault. Death grabbed my mother, took her away from us when we need her here. Well, that’s how I feel right now. I’m not in the mood to be pacified or calmed by the comforting words, that I’ve used with other people and no doubt will use again, despite this. Right now, at this minute, I want to howl from the rooftops that I want my mum. I want her back with us. And if she could just be back for a little longer, I promise I will never be irritated when she asks me to rub her legs for the twentieth time at 3am; I won’t grit my teeth as she turns down yet another lovingly prepared meal; or argues with me that her bible needs to go there, no not there, but just there! I won’t sigh with exasperation when she demands I phone the optician to return to check her glasses, even though I know fine well she isn’t going to pick that book up and read. I will be patient. I will be kind. I promise.

Let me tell you of her dying. We had watched her becoming frailer after her diagnosis of Cholangiocarcinoma at the end of October. I write about this in Companions at Journey’s end. I said more in Reason to be about how this has become our identity – daughters of a dying mum. And we thought we were prepared. We expected it. The only unknown was the ‘when’. And the best thing, in the middle of this horror, was that we had such good professional support. Particularly, a caring and compassionate GP. Mum would not need to suffer in pain at the end of her life. Well, once again, I have to say, that was ‘bollocks’ and I’m not asking to be excused this time.

Mum spent much of her last day in this life in terrible pain. It was horrible to watch. She died on the Monday and on the Friday before, she had become so much more unsteady and my sister and I realised we would have to make a decision very soon about insisting she was nursed in bed – it was becoming unsafe for her to try to walk to the commode any more. By Sunday afternoon, the decision was taken out of our hands as her leg gave way when my sister was helping her to bed. Thankfully our daughters live close by and were able to help lift her to bed using a blanket. She was not distressed, but obviously very weary. By now she was hardly eating at all. Sips of soup, teaspoons of custard – but little else. She’d stopped reading; she wanted to talk less and less. Our plan, made over the phone that night, was to increase the carers to four times a day; ask GP to call to review; the district nurses would come in the morning anyway. The bedroom furniture was further rearranged and the bed pulled away from the wall to make nursing easier.

Events quickly overtook us. At 5 in the morning, my sister called an ambulance as she was struggling to clear her secretions. We’d been advised that the paramedics would be able to make her more comfortable, even though she would not want to go to hospital. Wrong! They were almost insistent that she go into hospital. My sister was made to feel as though she was obstructing treatment. After an hour of wrangling with them, all the time my mum telling them she did not want to go, a call was made to the on-call GP (what a useless system that is, for someone dying!!) who did an ‘over-the-phone’ assessment and agreed that staying at home was in  her best interests. Oxygen had rallied mum and she was a little brighter. The doctor told us he would leave a message with her own GP for an  urgent visit.

After half and hour, mum was clearly in pain, had become very weak and was distressed. I set off to drive across the Pennines to be with them all. My niece, daughter and sister were all round her bed, upset and anxious when I got there. Mum was dying – it was obvious now. there would be no coming back from this. He breathing was laboured; she was wracked with pain. She was SUFFERING. Lou had phoned the GP to be told by a receptionist that the doctor would come after surgery – at lunchtime! In the meantime, we had to watch our mum crying weakly in agony. I held her hand and sang the 23rd psalm to her – the Stuart Townend version, her favourite. As I sang the words “I will trust in you alone”, it sank in that no one else can be trusted. We had been assured that this very event would not be allowed to occur and yet here she was in the most awful pain – and there we were helplessly watching and trying to comfort her.

We tried MacMillan; the district nurses – all were concerned but no one could help. We had to have a doctor to prescribe the drugs she needed. Why had they not already been prescribed? Good question! And one we are pursuing in complaint to the GP.  To cut the whole story short for now though – a GP finally arrived shortly after 2pm, prescribed the drugs, was followed back to the pharmacy by the district nurses who were back within half an hour and administered them promptly. Within minutes Mum was calm and mercifully free from pain. At peace.

My sisters, brother and I left her with the grandchildren and went with the district nurse to discuss what would happen over the next 24 hours or so. We left the nurse then, in the privacy of another bedroom to write up her notes. I’d hoped to take my youngest daughter home to feed her children – it’s 4pm now-  but was called back by my brother. He was sitting holding her hand; my sister on the other side of the bed with the youngest great-grandson in her arms, a month-old baby. With no further words, Mum let go of Paul’s hand and of life and with that she was gone from us.

Then we howled. Then we sobbed. Then we clung to each other. Horrid, horrid, horrid. Ripped apart by her exit. She brought us to this world and has left us not to cope without her. Even to the end, she did it stubbornly. That’s not the way, Mum. We were all meant to be there! You were meant to wait till after Christmas Day. It was all meant to be beautiful – not this bloody mess and wrangling with doctors and watching you suffer and feeling traumatised. You did it all wrong! Come back – can’t we try again? Do it better this time?

I ache with it all. I hate that she is not her at the end of line to speak to. That she won’t phone me and berate me about something I’d said I’d do and hadn’t got around to. That she isn’t there to make selfish demands on my time or my sisters’. That I will never see that smile again. Hear her laugh. Tell me that story – again – and again. And be there when my heart is breaking. Hold me and hug me when I need the warmth that only mums are able to give. I want her so bad and it hurts so much.

My mum and I shared a faith in God and the life to come. Of course, I know where she is and that she is free, restored and with God. Well, I think I know that. Today, my faith has been battered. I am  hoping it will hold me; my fingertips are barely holding on to it – but I am angry and in pain and it feels as if my grip could slip. What will hold me then? Where can I find peace? It evades me for now. God – we need to have words. I feel so very badly let down. She was such a good servant, Lord. Why did she suffer as she did? Take her, if you must, but not like that.

In our pain we cling to each other – my sisters, brother, daughters, nieces and nephews. We know that only we fully grasp how painful this is for each of us. Our hugs are plentiful. We talk into the early hours with each other. We text, message, share photographs. She was always at the centre of things, our mum, our grandmother – she laid a great foundation; as she has gone, so we come together and rotate around her absence, pulled closer to each other in our loss.

Reason To Be

It is six weeks almost (really? Only that long?!), since we found out that Mum’s time in this world was drawing to an end. I wrote about those very first days in Companions at Journey’s end. It helps – to write about it and to talk about it.  It’s easy to feel isolated – alone in all of this. We read on a website (I had typed “what to do when someone is dying” into a browser – because I really, really want to know what to do) that feeling as if you exist in some sort of bubble, as if life is now passing you by, as if you may not be able to concentrate on anything else, as if this, this waiting for death, is all that matters – all of that is normal. The relief we all felt was wonderful. We are so afraid of getting it wrong, Of making mistakes that will somehow ‘spoil’ what is left of our mum’s life.

Some of our questions are obvious, but seem frightening to vocalize. “Who do we ring first if she dies at night?”; “What happens to her body after she dies?”; “How do we arrange a funeral?” We hesitate about asking these questions out loud at first. And how much do we talk to mum about these things? Sometimes she seems clear and keen to discuss things life her personal effects and her funeral; her financial affairs and contacting people to say goodbye to. Other times, it is as though she is in denial about everything. She can hardly walk to the commode in the bedroom, yet demands that a stair lift be fitted so can come downstairs. She feels she is going stir-crazy in her bedroom. We doubt she will actually use it. Most of the day she is simply too exhausted to do anything. Having a drink wipes her out. Yet when someone visits, she rallies, drawing strength from some reserve deep within herself. She is delighted particularly when the little ones come – Oscar, Isabella, Jessica. She loves to watch them hunt in her drawers for the chocolate she has always hidden especially for them. She’s always loved babies and toddlers and they have always responded well to her. Last week, my sister and daughter felt the tears pressing on their eyes as they watched her press a coin into the hand of Cooper, the latest addition. A tradition she has upheld with every baby who is put in her arms.

She doesn’t rally much for us now. We have to accept that exhaustion is normal; fighting spirit is rare. She can’t sleep through the night; her legs and feet throb. She can’t lie down; he lungs feel as if they are being swamped with thick fluid. She feels totally listless and her interest in anything is diminishing daily. Sleep is her best friend, but eludes her too much to refresh her sufficiently.

Professionals are being marvellous. The community nurses bring dressings, pressure relief aids and their competency, which we grasp at. She gives them a hard time, refusing their offers of painkillers (fear of constipation!) and raised foot-stools (makes her legs hurt more). They try but they cannot please her. Carers are wonderful, giving us some respite and bringing another kind face into the mix. Allowing our inter-reactions with her to not always be about bodily functions. Allowing us to take a walk or go to the shop. They even wash pots and empty bins as they brightly chatter. We are becoming very fond of them.

The GP patiently explains what to expect; holds our hands as she tells us how to report the death when it happens; talks with us of practical things and puts her arms around us when we weep. Her compassion makes us cry more, but reassures us we are not alone and that we are cared about. All the time we know we are ‘in-waiting’, that this may last days, weeks, possibly months – the time is the one thing unknown.

As I walked to the shops a few days ago, with a list of things she wanted – prunes, jellies, tissues – and instructions to pay the papers out of  “that money, not the money you draw out” – I remember thinking that this was now my ‘reason-to-be’. Not that I was a vocational shopper, but that being ‘daughter-to-my-dying-mum’ was my reason right now. It has taken centre stage in my life, as it has in my sisters’. It is what we do right now, as I described before, we are ‘companions-at-journey’s-end’. Other things happen and life goes on; other people call on our time; jobs need to be done, but “this” is the “thing” that occupies most of our waking hours, interrupts our sleep, takes up much of thinking space and prevents us from making too many long-term plans. This is just how it is. And worse, if we feel even the slightest resentment about any of that, we hear an inner voice chastising us for being mean. Sharing with each other though, we have come to understand the normality of our thoughts and our questions.  We are not mean; just human and we’re feeling our way along a tricky path.

There is something of purpose in it; this ‘reason-to-be’. We are needed, we are treasured, we are occupied purposefully and mostly, there is nowhere else we want to be. This consuming of all of our time is what we give up willingly. It has focused us on how precious life is and how much we should revel in it. How it is only in relationships with each other that we truly come alive. We give and receive from one another and become more human in the exchange.

So, as I watch Isabella and Jessica rise up and down on the electric bed, laughing joyously and see mum smiling on at them, I remember my Gran and the huge love she had. That smile replicated on my mother’s face; that delight felt in my own heart; that beauty seen in my daughter watching them too and that laughter lighting up the room from my granddaughters. And I love that each of us pass something of ourselves, down through the generations, as we pass through this life, that will live on and light up other lives once we have passed on. More of what gives us reason to be.

 

Companions at Journey’s End

A few weeks ago my Mum turned yellow – seriously yellow! She actually  looked as if she was auditioning for the Simpsons.

“Mum, you’re yellow,” I told her, trying hard not to sound too alarmed. “Oh I know, your sister keeps saying that. I can’t see it myself and I don’t feel ill.”

We persuaded her eventually- not easily – to go to the GP.  I dreaded what my sister would tell me when she ‘phoned me that night. I could be wrong, I thought. Surely a damaged heart valve is enough to be living with at 88? She couldn’t possibly have any liver damage, could she? It might be some kind of weird Hepatitis that they could deal with quickly.

I was kidding myself. I knew there were no other explanations. Urgent scan booked, two days later, on a Friday, she reluctantly (because she had a whole diary of commitments that day!) climbed into my sister’s car and they made the journey to Stepping Hill hospital. My sister drove home alone. Mum was too dehydrated for a scan; they admitted her and set up an IV drip to pump fluids into her.  She was irritated by the whole inconvenience. There were flowers to sort for church; linens to wash for Communion; hyacinths to be lifted out of dark places.

The CT scan was booked for the following Monday. Luckily, I could be there. I didn’t want to be there. Well, I was happy to be with her, but I knew, with a sickening ache in my stomach what it would reveal. I arrived at 11am and at midday she was wheeled down to Radiography and I walked alongside her. I’d be doing a lot of that in the coming days. Walking by my mum.

She wasn’t happy about the scan. “It’s the noise I’m worried about.”

“Good job you’re deaf then!” I joked. I expected her to be frightened as we waited; she was more bothered about wetting herself, being saturated with fluids and with bursting bladder. I watched through the open door as a Radiographer patiently explained what would happen. She had a professional, calm air about her that probably reassured Mum, but which brought home to me that I was now on ‘the other side’.

I was in the NHS for over 30 years; a nurse for most of that time, I also spent many years working with parents and families. I was the one doing the reassuring; patiently explaining; demonstrating compassion. Now I watched as Mum embraced the patient role; lay on a trolley and was fed through a ‘Polo-mint’, as they termed it for her amusement. I did not enjoy being a patient’s relative; I felt powerless and uncomfortable. I wanted to be ‘in-the-know’ and doing the reassuring.

Then began the waiting game. We would have the results by 7pm and my sister would be with me then. Our other 2 sisters and brother waiting in their homes for news. My eldest daughter and niece arrived at 6pm. Sammy, the eldest daughter, is good to have around on these occasions. She’s funny and loud; she helped us to forget that we were waiting for terrible news; news that wouldn’t be new; that would actually confirm what we actually already knew, but perhaps couldn’t accurately name.

He was a young man; no more than 30 – younger than my youngest. Dressed in green scrubs (so glad for those; they made him into someone who surely knew what he was talking about), he came and sat on her bed, next to me, opposite my sister and close to Mum, so that we would all hear him as he spoke. Ali and I held our breath. Mum looked totally relaxed and gave him a dazzling smile (she is so good at dazzling smiles!) as he began to explain what was going on inside her.

“There’s no real good news to share, I’m afraid. It seems there’s some mischief afoot in your tummy.” It was a good way to start. Mum grasped it, I could tell, but kept on smiling. “It looks to be a sizable tumour and we’re pretty sure it’s cancerous. It’s choking off your bile ducts and messing up the area round your gall bladder and pancreas.” A lot of Mischief afoot then.

He quietly answered our questions. He drew pictures to show what was going on. Worst of all, in his gentlest tone, he explained that there was nothing that could be done. The tumour was nasty, was large, would not respond to chemotherapy and could not be surgically removed. That’s when your blood runs a little bit icy cold; when you hear there’s no hope. That what lies ahead is painful and miserable. But they could make her more comfortable

“Are you saying there is only palliative care is all that can be offered?” He wanted to give us more than that. “We’re not quite there yet. We’re going to look at inserting stents into the ducts so that we can drain off the bilirubin – that’s what’s making her yellow.”

“Are you in any pain at the moment?” he asked Mum.

“Only in my legs. It’s all this fluid you’re putting in me.” Professionals want us to be grateful that they’re trying to help, but my Mum saw this intervention as nothing but a nuisance.

“I’m sorry it’s all bad news” he says. He sounds embarrassed; as though he feels he’s failed her. Ali and I are fighting back tears and Mum just says, “Well, what will be, will be.” He leaves us and we all sit there stunned for a minute. Mum is the first to spring into life. We are given a list of people who need to know – and later there’ll be a list of jobs that need to be done. She has a focus now; she knows ‘what’s what’ and somehow, despite the awfulness of the diagnosis, she is galvanized into action.  It is she who comforts us by giving us tasks to fill our time. Presents have to be bought; messages have to be conveyed.

And so we enter a period of madness; of conversations where people are shocked and saddened. Of busy-ness; where we work through the lists we have been given. Of questions and uncertainty; where  we struggle to find the right professional to give us accurate information. One day things seems clear – the next it appears no-one seems to know what’s going on. We hear nothing; there is nothing to tell us then suddenly she is whisked off to Wythenshawe at the crack of dawn for stents to be inserted. One day it is essential she has IV fluids; the next, when she tells them she won’t have her other arm made a mess of (her right one had a clot and became severely bruised and very sore) it apparently is no longer important. Then she has an infection, but it’s okay, she won’t need to be in a side-room as ‘it won’t be good for her mood’; the same evening, she goes to the loo and finds her bed and belongings moved to a side-room. We are exhausted with driving to this hospital, finding parking places, and with trying to find out facts about our own mother.

Most of the nurses are wonderful; some are not. There is the night nurse who refuses to let her get into bed at the side she finds easiest. Who tells her off (telling an 88-yr-old lady off! What?!) for needing to have her legs lifted into bed. ‘How do you manage at home? That’s not what we’re here for’. I wish I had met this nurse. I would have lifted her legs for her!

Then there is the day we can’t take any more. Mum is becoming depressed. She hates that she has to use a walking frame; that she needs a pressure cushion; that she cannot manage all her toilet needs and finds it difficult to wash. An alpha-female, used to being in control, she has been independent all her life. Now, daily, all that is being taken from her. She wants to be at home. And we’re told she perhaps as no more than a few months left with us. Her bilirubin levels are still staggeringly high. Her legs are swollen so much her joints can scarcely bend. She can’t sleep and she hates the food.

We decide to demand answers. What is the point of her being here if nothing more can be done? I ask, in my best voice, ready to stand up to professional defensiveness, if we can talk to someone about our mother’s care because we’re concerned. We are ready for battle but are instead disarmed by kindness and compassion from a Nurse Practitioner. I love this nurse. Plans are put into place with great haste and the very next day she is discharged into my sister Ali’s care (she lives with her).

What happens after discharge is another story – one I may tell another day. But a commode is installed; a special bed is delivered; carers are appointed; rotas for us are established; stair-lifts are installed; a funeral is talking of; application for lasting attorney is registered; the house and our lives are turned upside down. All this and more – as we all prepare to accompany our Mum on the last leg of her journey. As we make ourselves ready to let her go. As we watch her shrink, become frailer and wait for the inevitable pain to hit her in waves.

We have shed so many tears, but we’ve had to dry them for now as there is much to do. We have so little time with her, we can’t be wasting those precious moments sobbing. In the coming weeks, we are told, she will become less able and more bedridden as her muscles waste and the cancer invades other parts of her body (it has already found its way to some glands and into her right lung). Her heart is already compromised with Atrial Fibrillation and is working very hard to fight this invader; but it won’t win, we know that.

Mum has a deep faith.  She is not afraid of Death for she knows it was defeated on the Cross. She is, however, wary of dying. She knows it has to be done but she wishes it could be missed out and that she could just go straight to the Father.

And she does not want to leave us. We can’t bear the thought of her not being here. I think now, as I write this, that months from now, I will read this and she won’t be here. I won’t see her again in this world. I carry around the weight of the sadness of that with me always.

But tonight I have laid down the sadness for a little while. I have girded something within myself; something of her that birthed me and made me strong enough to face a tough world with a smile on my face. And I give thanks that I have the honour of being one of her companions as she makes this last stage of her journey. And I pray for strength to carry her, along with my sisters and brother, on that day when she can no longer carry herself. And for the fortitude to be able to let her go when the time comes.