Clinical depression and weightloss

Well, this week, I was diagnosed with clinical depression.  I've known it for a long time.  Even before my mom died last year, I knew my soul was injured and the physical me just withdrew further and further into the shell of my home.  I no longer see any friends, I feel my family is broken, especially with the death of my mom and I feel like a total failure as a wife and mother.  It was inevitable that I was going to break down, although I tried for the longest time to hold it all together.  My sister and husband had seen the signs for years, although I was in total denial.  My will to live was reaching an all time low.

So, I ended up at the doctor and the diagnosis was delivered.  Medication, therapy and group support have been prescribed so, it would seem, all is in hand.  But, I don't want to bang on about my depression - it consumes every fibre of my being - I really want to focus on how I am going to beat it.  As you know, 15 months ago, I became sober, giving up alcohol totally, so that is a step in the right direction, although it would appear, not enough to help life my depression.

The next thing on my list is my weight.  I am 30kgs overweight, which is a lot to lug around every day.  I cannot deny that it affects me in every way.  I hate going out socialising because I always feel like a giant (I am usually the tallest and the fattest), I definitely avoid the beach (and I live near some beautiful beaches), it goes without saying that I loathe clothes shopping and even being at work, I feel like I have nothing to contribute because how can someone as overweight as I am be taken seriously.  I conveniently have a desk at work that faces the corner with my back to everyone else.  It has come to suit me very well - like the proverbial ostrich that buries their head in the sand, I feel like if I can't see them, then they can't see (and be appalled by) me.

Of course, for the last five years, I have avidly watched the Biggest Loser and for the last five years I have been in awe at firstly, the immense bravery of the contestants showing their bodies in front of a nation, and secondly, the transformation.  As I sat on my recliner with my feet up, stuffing my face with chocolate, I have wished like hell that I could find the motivation to stick to a diet and lose the weight, thereby enacting my own transformation.  Of course, for five years, nothing has changed - well, except for my weight, which has increased in that time.

So, this week, I joined the online Biggest Loser club.  This is not the first time I have done this - like most habitual dieters, I do a rotation of all the popular diets; weight watchers, tony ferguson, biggest loser - but there is something about the Biggest Loser that I like.  I guess having a series attached to it makes it real, inspirational and with that is the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, I could achieve the same results.  My first week, I have lost 1.4kgs, but I have to confess this is not through sticking to the program.  It is probably more about not eating as much chocolate, although that can't be true - we've just had easter for goodness sake.  For whatever reason, I have lost it, and it is quite nice to see I have lost "one blob".

Tonight hubby and I were watching the Biggest Loser and the last five contestants did the reflective hike where, during a long hike, at intervals the weight they have lost is put into a backpack.  By the end of the hike, they are carrying the weight they have lost, effectively weighing what they weighed in the beginning.  After the program, hubby came up with the bright idea of getting me to feel the weight that I am carrying, thereby giving me a physical representation of how my weight is affecting my energy levels, and hence my mood.  Before I knew it out came the hiking back pack (now moulding after years of lack of use) and hubby was scouting the house for items that would add up to the 30kgs I had to lose. And this is the result:

Normally, I wouldn't show myself in such a public fashion but in the spirit of attempting to emerge from the dark cloud that sits with me, I decided to be honest with myself and confront the reality.

This is what hubby scouted around the house to put into the bag - yes, an entire set of dumbell weights, numerous books and a cast iron lid!!

I can tell you, it was quite horrible to carry it.  Hubby's passing comment? "How can you possibly feel well carrying this around, my love."  How very true!

The Wrath of Nature

Our televisions have recently been filled with images of the devastation that have hit Christchurch in New Zealand as well as the catastrophe that hit Japan. One woman in Christchurch survived the quake, only to return to her home to find an enormous boulder, dislodged from the mountain above from an aftershock, had ripped through her house like some wrecking ball on a mission. She was lucky, unlike others who, having survived the earthquake and had returned to their homes to survey the damage, had been killed by other renegade boulders.

The devastation has been huge with the water particularly being affected by sewerage pipes that were ripped apart in the earthquakes in Christchurch and the radiation contamination in Fukushima. As I watched the coverage, I wondered what Mother Nature is up to? I mean, since the beginning of the year, we have seen Queensland and Victoria devastated by flood, Western Australia devastated by fire, birds seemingly randomly falling out the of the sky, Christchurch devastated by an earthquake, not to mention the catastrophe that continues to unfold in Japan - and we haven't even got to the end of April. It seems that every week we are seeing footage of one disaster or another.

A quick gander across some forums tell of a story of the beginning of armageddon. With all these disasters befalling the world, wouldn't now be a good time to find Jesus, we are asked in one. This is the beginning of the end of the world, it has been foretold by the end of the Mayan calendar, 21st December 2012 is the end of the world, we are told by another. Climate change advocates tell us that this is the result of our wanton disregard for the precious resources that the earth provides, that the greed that capitalism engenders and the prolific consumerism that it encourages is slowly killing the earth and now it is fighting back. It certainly does seem like Mother Nature is groaning under the strain of all that is going on in our world.

We stand at a population of nearly seven billion, more than double the population in 1965. Surely we have to ask ourselves if this is indeed sustainable. Is it any wonder that Mother Nature is reacting. Are these just random acts of devastation, or is this indeed an earth that is yelling out for us to be more accountable, more considerate, to stop the consumerism, to stop the wars and to find some way to live in harmony with the wonderful gifts with which She provides us every day. It is certainly food for thought, don't you think?

Traditional Family Values - Extinct?

Whilst on my way to work today, I tuned in to my local radio station. The topic for the ten minutes was whether or not traditional family values exist. The argument, according to the middle aged presenter, was that The Brady Bunch should return to our screens so that current up and coming youngsters can learn what true traditional family values are all about. The Brady Bunch episodes would always culminate in the entire family being together either at the dining table or in the lounge discussing the moral of the episode - the proverbial image of families talking together and solving problems together. The lines were then opened to hear what the general public thought about this notion and indeed the notion of traditional family values and whether or not they still exist.

An expert was called in who categorically declared that the traditional family values of sitting down and eating together do not exist and that it is due to technology that this is the case. Then a plethora of people called in. Most of them wanted to make me puke. You know the kind. The goody-two-shoes types you used to hate at school who would tell on you if you were passing notes. I listened as mom after mom phoned in to say that they had traditional family values and that they insisted upon it in their family (not a hint of jealousy there, see?). I wanted to hit each and every one of them. I preferred the ones that phoned in to say that it was a miracle if their family got to see each other for more than five minutes in a week. In fact, I liked them a lot.

This got me to thinking. Why was it that I despised the family-value supermoms and loved the family-value wrecks. Was it because that I indeed fell into the category of the latter. Let us have a look at it. I am in my forty's. I have a husband, an 18 year old and a nearly 13 year old. I work part-time, my 18 year old is hardly ever at home and the only time we get to talk is in the car when I am ferrying her from one place to another (which admittedly is quite frequently). However, she announced the other day that she really hates my incessant questions in the car, to which I snapped that I wouldn't ask so many questions if she would volunteer some information on her life, rather than have me extract them like some painfully wedged in wisdom tooth. Strike one there then.

Our 13 year old has PDD-NOS and Sensory Processing Disorder. For those unenlightened (as we once were), PDD-NOS (which is short for Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified) is a mild form of autism and SPD is a condition that renders the sufferer unable to filter sensory input. They, by default, find communication on any standard level extremely difficult.

And isn't that the point of the Traditional Family Value (which we shall term TFV for short) of getting together at the end of the day? For families to get together to communicate, to talk about their day and find solutions to the day's problems as a collective family? I wondered at my own upbringing and tried to remember our TFVs. We sure enough sat down each night to eat at the dinner table, but more often than not, my parents would end up arguing. Us three kids would just look at each other, rolling our eyes, sighing at yet another chaotic meal. Eventually, my father would insult my mother and I, being the eldest and feeling the most protective of my mother would jump in and have my say too. We invariably would end up in our rooms not talking at all (and even perhaps a bit hungry because the meal had not been finished). However, sure enough, the next night, we would all have to sit down to begin the ritual again. By the time I was 15, I began a protest and simply refused to eat at the dinner table.

When I became a mother, I imagined a life of TFVs and the Brady Bunch image of eating together, talking through our problems and celebrating our successes together. But, alas, the reality just didn't gel. I was exhausted, suffered terribly with post natal depression and it was all I could do to get the food down the baby's throat so I could curl up and find some blissful sleep. As the children got older, I returned to study and then to work. Time became an issue. The children couldn't wait for my husband to get home as they would be too hungry, so I would feed them early. Being almost six years apart, the conversation was somewhat difficult. They certainly did not want to communicate with each other. I would try to eat with them, but gave it up in favour of adult conversation later in the evening. While they were eating, I would try to complete household tasks so that my house didn't permanently look like a bombed flat in Beirut. The TFV dream seemed to be slipping away.

Eventually, I didn't even think about the TFVs. We succumbed to technology (which, frankly, I love). A TV and laptop in each room and a mobile phone for each person. When we have dinner, sometimes we manage to eat together, but more often than not we don't. TV eating is big in our household. I get the feeling I should be ashamed of that, but somehow, actually I'm not. I realise that society's demands are a double-edged sword. It demands as a mother you expose your children to as many activities as is humanly possible, jamming their every waking moment with some learning experience. But then, you also have to make sure that they have enough time to slow down and sit quietly at the dinner table (and even at lunch on the weekend) to talk and be together. Frankly, with all the activity we are shoving at them, it is incredible they even have the energy to eat, let alone talk and solve problems as well.

As it happens, neither of our children do 'activities'. They are extremely anti-competitive and as such don't do sport/music/dance. Our 18 year old doesn't talk, full stop. It wouldn't matter if we made her sit down and eat with us, she would still glare at me every time I asked her a question about her life, like I was invading her privacy. Our son blurts out random things whether we are at the table or not. As parents we can make sense of what he is saying, but again, sitting at the dinner table would have no baring on that at all. As for my husband and I, well, we have always done our talking in bed (among other things), when we have crashed after a very tiring day of working, cleaning, cooking, running kids around, etc., etc.

In fact, I am wondering, really, why we have a dining table at all. All it is used for is a dumping ground and on which to do homework when the kids don't want to be in the study. I guess it is a symbol. A symbol of an ideal - of a family that sits around it at each and every meal time, talking animatedly about their days, sharing and caring in that Brady Bunch way. I guess it is an allusion to a TFV I once wished I had, but now realise is just a pipe dream (loaded with guilt for the time strapped mother). Maybe one day, in act of rebellion, I will burn it, but for now, I'll keep it ... just in case.

Change is hard to accept

Wow, three months since my last post. A lot has happened.

It is funny how life is in a constant state of flux. Nothing ever stays the same. It is a lesson that I have been slow to learn and I still struggle to accept. Today, I am having to cope with yet another major change in my life. Our 18 year DD is 'leaving home'. I put the words in inverted commas because she isn't really leaving home in the "this is it, I now have a new address" sense. Rather, she has a new boyfriend and now spends more time at his house than she does at home.

I am surfing unfamiliar territory here. My darling hubby is totally accepting of the situation, citing that this is natural and exactly what should happen. I am less accepting of this situation. As if the loss of my mom was not enough, I feel a deep sense of loss for my daughter as well. I know that technically she still lives with us, but we recently went on a two week holiday, and she opted not to come with us. Then when we returned she opted to stay with her boyfriend and told us that she would see us "sometime on the weekend". Ridiculously, I have taken this totally personally.

My mom was my best, and at times, my only friend. I struggle to make friends largely because I am a bit of a homely hermit and tend to stay indoors a lot (plonking away on my computer or surfing the net on my insatiable quest for information). When I lived in the UK, my mom and I would meet up three or four times a week and talk and window shop for hours (I have mentioned this before). I guess my expectation was that my relationship with my daughter would be the same. I had this idea that she would want to spend time with me and we would talk for hours on end laughing and revelling in each others company. Romanticised, hey? But our relationship is nothing like it. Our DD is head strong and quite independent (except when it comes to getting a job and earning her own money, but more of that another time). For the last two and a half years at least her friends have been far more important to her than her family. I have no way of knowing if this is normal. I never had a huge circle of friends and up until the age of 38 stayed very close to my parents and in particular my mom. I do remember my boyfriend being more important to me than my parents and lying to them to be with him when they forbid it - does that count?

My husband says that it is perfectly normal and a good indication that we have done a good job. She feels confident enough to go out into the world and be her own person. I still worry and I am not enjoying this new change that is settling on our family. Our son is now essentially an only child (which, frankly, he seems to be enjoying just a bit too much). I feel like I am going through an empty nest syndrome without all of my children having left home!

We have yet to meet the boyfriend, but when I speak to her on the phone, she is elated with him. He seems to tick all the right boxes - good education, employed, independent - but that doesn't mean anything really, does it? I just wonder if I am being over protective or, dare I say it, selfish. The last two years have been difficult for her and I. I am strong and quite volatile. I was brought up fearing the wrath of my father, and fear him I did. At times I would "lose it" and apply the same tactic with her, especially when I felt disrespected by her but she would respond by being more head strong and simply doing her own thing. It created a huge rift between us. My mom said that it was karma because I was the same when I was her age but I don't remember being quite so headstrong. Maybe I was, I don't know.

The upshot is that I don't want her to leave home. I want her to stay a little longer so we can become friends and mend what I perceive to be the rift. I feel desperate, like a child. She is the mature one - independent, knows her own mind. I have never had that confidence. I've always second guessed myself - even now as my daughter prepares to venture into the world, I am wondering if I have done a good enough job and feeling wounded by the fact that my 18 year old doesn't want to spend more time with her 42 year old mother.

Of course, as I am writing this, I realise just how full of self pity I am and how much "it's all about me" I have become. I have probably been this way for at least five years, but no doubt longer. Our daughter is safe, well and happy. Why can I not be happy for her and for the fact that we have brought her up to know her own mind? Because in my mind, I expected her to fill the role that I filled for my mom - as friend and confidante. You see, I am realising with me that it is all about expectations, of which I seem to have many, and that when those expectations are not met, and they rarely are, I am almost devastated. It takes me a long while to adjust course and be happy with the new direction as it were.

I am reading a lot about living outside of oneself. Living to do for others rather than concentrating on what is going 'wrong' in one's life - the perfect antidote to self pity. I think that I realise that I have lived a great deal of my life lamenting what has not gone according to my expectations and that I need to start living outside of myself. It is hard for a person that is very introspective, rarely ventures out except to work and shop and is used to getting her own way to accept this, but accept this I must. At the age of 18 my daughter is brave and strong and able to face the world and 42 years into my life, I must do the same.

Time is no friend of mine

Today is another sad day. The sun is shining, a glorious day. But my heart, my heart is a black jagged rock. Lifeless, sick. I am exhausted. I loathe the exhaustion. I loathe the process of mourning. I am motherless and I loathe that even more.

When I was pregnant with my first DD, I would scour books to find out what being a mother entailed, and I would look for stories on what it was like. I had this "need to know" desire to know what to expect. People, usually moms, would see me and smile. "You know," they would say, "nothing can prepare you for motherhood. It is something you just have to experience." In my naivite, I did not believe them. I continued to pour over those books. Of course, when the day finally came for my DD to arrive, the penny dropped and I knew exactly what those people meant.

I believe the same can be said for losing a mother. I used to nurse, so I have seen a lot of death and witnessed a lot of loss. I have seen people lose friends, siblings, relatives, parents and children. I have seen people have lingering illnesses that ravaged their bodies until they died, and I have seen people die suddenly, with no warning. I have watched as family and friends reacted to both scenarios with varying degrees of grief and relief.

Then, to add to my schooling on loss, when I was 25, my first husband, died in a scuba diving accident. He left me and our 16 month old daughter behind. He had been my high school sweetheart and my best friend. Despite us not having the most harmonious marriage, I felt the loss greatly and knew, at that very moment, that life would never be the same again.

Fifteen years after that loss, with my nursing career over, a new husband and another child in tow, I imagined that I had graduated quite well from the school of loss and felt that I probably would not have to go back to that school for quite some time - say, in another 20 years or so. I also felt that when that time came, having already lived through so much loss, having experienced it professionally and personally, I would be ready and would cope with it not only well, but with aplomb. I was wrong.

Nothing and no-one can prepare a daughter for the loss of her mother. I am sure that losing a mother for a son is equally painful, but since I am not male, I can only speak from my own female experience. It sucks. Big Time! With the passing of my husband, I found that time was indeed the great healer that old wise men say it is. In time, I allowed myself to be open to new opportunities and eventually to love and, yes, live again. I thought on my first husband with fondness and love, but I loved my new (and current) husband in a totally different way. And I knew that this was not only okay, but right.

Not so, with losing a mother. Far from being my friend, I am finding time is my enemy. With each new day (and it has been 105 days since her death), I find living life increasingly difficult. As time passes, images of her last day of life haunt me. I find myself screaming out inside my mind, wishing I had said and done so much more with her before she passed. I try frantically to remember the sound of her voice, the feel of her touch and I lament the fact that she is no longer here to help me make sense of a world I have always found a challenge. I feel like a young fledgling that has been forced to leave the nest, to make its own way in the world, but I am the one who clings on to that nest for dear life, begging not to be made to go.

My heart cries out for a face I will never see in the flesh again, for experiences I will never get to share. I long for advice on my children that only a mother can give, based on that mutual sense of knowing. I feel so alone. I brim constantly under the threat of sobs, my heart physically aches. I sit in a house that needs a mother's attention - unable to move, no longer able to care. My own children are bewildered, unable to understand the loss I am experiencing. How can they until they themselves walk this path? I want to cry out at the thought of this pain that they may one day be forced to suffer.

How is it possible to move past this mire? Time is no friend, that is for sure. With each day, I am reminded time and again that my mother is gone forever. Never again will I be able to phone her just to say hi, or that I am having a bad day, a good day or that one of the children drove me round the bend today. Never again will I hear her excitement at her achievements, and have her delight in mine. Never again will I be able to wander ALL day around the shops, chattering constantly, buying nothing, because neither of us have money, but going home feeling like it has been the best day ever. Never again will my husband say "What on earth do you two find to talk about ALL day?" How could he understand that mothers and daughters always have lots to say to each other?

I wander when the hole in the soul gets filled. I wander when my own life starts to take on meaning of its own, knowing that the thread that bound me to my mother, has been severed, never to be repaired. How do you reconcile that? How does a daughter reconcile that the woman who gave her life, who taught her everything she knows about being a woman, wife and mother, who is so inextricably linked to who you are and are likely to ever be, is gone, forever.

I feel like a rudderless ship, sailing in a squall filled ocean, unable to see my way clear of where I am headed, being tossed about this way and that, constantly feeling sea-sick to boot. I am unable to help my ship mates or those around me because it is all I can do to hold on myself. I feel like rain is pelting my face, stinging, and I am wondering when, if ever, the storm will pass. My logic, of course, says to me it will. I will eventually pass through the storm; no longer will the rain be pelting my face, and slowly, I will be able to emerge, standing on my own two feet, strong enough to provide some sort of assistance to those around me. But I suspect that my rudder will be irreparable. I will no doubt have to replace it with an invention of my own, but I somehow feel that it won't be the same, as good or as efficient, as the original.

Until then, I guess it is just a matter of riding the storm of loss, where time is no friend, and the ocean is vast. Such is a motherless daughter's lot.

Alcoholism, Autism and Death

October 2010. 10 months into the year - the year that has decidedly been the annus horribilus of my 42 years of life. This year, I discovered I was an alcoholic, my son was diagnosed with autism and my mother died. Add into the mix an 18-year old daughter who took it upon herself to push every single boundary a parent could put into place, and you have the recipe for a melt down.

I don't want to sound like I am wallowing in my own misery here. Well, actually, I am wallowing in my own misery and, right now, I don't care.

It seems to me that the minute I gave up drinking, my elixir of emotional escape, life threw at me what can only be described as one massive curve ball after another. Discovering that our youngest DD has autism (not Aspergers after all, but High Functioning Autism), was a bitter pill to swallow. When he was nearly 6, he was diagnosed with ADHD/ODD (oppositional defiance disorder) and through that diagnosis, we treated him behaviourally as best we could, often pushing the boundary in an attempt to get him to move outside of his comfort zone. We had no idea that what we were doing was traumatising him because he suffers enormous sensory overload and that his 'small world' is an attempt to control that sensory overload to within bearable limits for him. Not knowing what life holds for him is worrying too.

DD begins high school next year, and we have no idea how he will cope with the change of school, the demands of changing classrooms for each subject and the demands of homework three or four times a week. It is all I can do to get him to do his homework once a week!!

And, as if the universe hadn't thrown enough at me, my mother got lung cancer, after having given up smoking 26 years ago, and passed away just 8 incredibly short weeks after receiving her diagnosis. My mom was the one woman in the world who knew me, who never judged me and, who, to me, was goodness personified. I was not ready to have her suddenly ripped from life and from me.

Mom's last days were not good. I wish I could say that she slipped away peacefully. She looked peaceful enough, but I know that is because the drugs kept her below the surface of consciousness. She did not want to die. Who does at the age of 62? As the days progressed and breathing for her became more difficult, she kept crying, saying that she was going to miss everyone so much. She worried particularly about dad. Always thinking of someone other than herself. On the Sunday before she died, I attended her and my dad's baptism. I am not a religious person, but I wanted to share in what was clearly very important to my mom, and of course, my dad. It was emotional, and those that were there said it was 'beautiful'. I don't agree. I found no beauty in witnessing my mom pleading with God not to take her life, apologising for wishing she could die in the days when my dad drank, and would verbally abuse her in his drunken state. I found no beauty in her belief that she may be being punished for wanting to die at a time in her life that was almost unbearable to live, despite dad being sober for 26 years and their marriage being happy and solid since. I saw no beauty in how everyone thought it was a miracle that my mom had committed her life to God 'only' a couple of months before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Where was the miracle, where was the justice?

In her last day of life, Mom was really restless, unable to urinate because her morphine interfered with her kidney operation. The doctor came to see her, and we were told that she would not last much longer. We tried to make her comfortable on the sofa, whilst we waited for a hospital bed. My sister massaged her legs, whilst the house became an endless platform of people coming to say goodbye - a testament to the love that Mom imbued. In a quiet moment, I sat next to her, holding her hand (I loved her hands). "I love you, Mom", I said. "I love you", she whispered, still restless. Those were the last words she would ever say to me.

Eventually, having not been able to wee for a day and a half, and after a couple of attempts to drag her to the toilet (and I say dragging because the disease had gripped her so much that she was barely conscious), the home care nurses came to catheterise her. As they did so, she cried out whilst thrashing about, wide-eyed, like a caged animal, "Help me!". It was barely audible because her voice had been taken by the tumour, but her expression said everything she wanted to say. We had to hold her down whilst trying to get that damn tube inside her. My mom, this once poised and gentle woman, was being violated in her own lounge. She was aware she was dying, I am sure of it. Mom had said that in her dying moments she would like to utter something profound, something that people would always remember, but it wasn't to be. "Help me" were the last words she ever uttered. 12 hours later, under the cover of a series of drugs and, no doubt, the comfort of an empty bladder, she died.

I cannot begin to describe how the loss has affected me. I am a motherless daughter and mother and I feel wretched having been forced to join that club. I do not make friends easily. I have trust issues and I find the effort of keeping friendships going quite difficult to maintain. Mom knew that and just accepted me for who I was. I have lost the one person who understood my psyche, who understood my difficulty with the injustices in the world and my inability to do anything about it. She understood my ever changing mind, and my fierce struggle for justice for Jordan. She understood the reason why I was totally overprotective of our eldest DD and she understood that even though I so desperately wanted to, I simply did not have the energy to be the domestic goddess I believed her to be. The moment Mom died, I felt all my inadequacies woosh at me, as the realisation hit me that I would never find, in anyone, the love that she had for me, warts and all.

I know that I see mom's death not in terms of what was taken from her, but what was taken from me. I know it is selfish, but again, I reiterate, I don't care.

In the nearly four months since Mom's death, I have found life difficult. I have indulged in the seduction of depression, not wanting to see anyone or do anything. I have managed to get out of bed, and 'function', but the reality is that I am nursing a broken heart and a broken soul. People say that time heals all, but I have yet to experience that. I do not know if time will heal the hole inside of me that has been left behind by my mother. Perhaps time will enable me to cope with the wound a little better, but I am not sure if it will ever heal.

So, here I am, able to write again, which is progress in itself and trying to look forward to the next stage of my life. Our house is on the market and I am looking forward to moving into our new house in a new community. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that when we bought that house 15 months ago, it would represent a true step into a new future, leaving behind all the bad that has happened this year. I know that life is hard (Dhukka - first noble truth of buddhism) and I know that nothing ever stays the same, but I cannot help myself hoping for a couple uneventful years. Years that will allow me to get used to the notion of living in the moment, remembering the wonderful woman that was my mom and enabling me to be there for my autistic son who is going to need his own mother now more than ever.

Until next time.

We need more time

Today is a beautiful day. The sun is shining, blue skies everywhere, birds flying in and out of the bird feeder and pond in my parents' back garden and you could easily be fooled into thinking life is good. I went into my mom's bedroom and lay with her for a while. We chatted about the events of yesterday and she commented on the beautiful day it was. "I must get out today", she said, "but after I have had a bit more rest, I am tired today." Comments like those are becoming more frequent.

My dad is frustrated. He believes that we are all giving in. He wants a remission and I feel for him. We all want that, but he feels he is the only one who is trying to fight for it. I left my mom to rest and my dad went into the room. Their room is actually inside a conservatory. Light floods the room and mom has a wonderful view of their beautiful garden. I would love that view when the time came for me to go. I hear dad say that he won't allow her to stay in their room all day and her pleading with him, saying that she is not giving in, but just needs to rest.

I understand dad's frustration. He has been the patriarch of our family for ever. Always in control, always the problem solver. Volatile, but passionately in love with his family. Now, faced with a problem he cannot solve, frustration and vulnerability have overtaken him. At times, we have caught him crying and as my sister and I have approached to comfort him, anger flashes in his eyes and he orders us to leave him alone. Even now, the only person he can let close to him is my mom. I fear for him, for how he will really cope without her. The cracks have started to show - some of his behaviours have been irrational and not like him, although the way he is handling the stress is very much like him, only ten times worse. I have assured my mom that he will be taken care of, that he can come and live with us, if he wants to.

Mom is so worried about him. In fact, she is worried about everyone. This process of watching mom die seems to have brought out the worst in us, rather than the best. I am usually the peace keeper and healer in the family, and yet I have turned into a ball of anger, finding fault in everyone except myself. I feel martyred at times, resentful of all that I am doing for everyone else and feeling like no-one appreciates me. My sister, struggling with so much outside of this journey, seems to me to be a shadow of the person she was. My brother has retreated to the sanctuary of his family and who can blame him. Watching someone you love ebb into death is not easy. My poor dad is trying so hard to keep us all going. To keep us believing that mom will find a way to go into remission, to give us more time to have with her. I, sadly, do not have that faith and my lack of religion/God belief does not allow me to pray for it, what is the point?

I love going through to my mom in the mornings. I lie with her on the bed, in my pyjamas. I find myself studying her. Her eyes are so blue and so kind. They are eyes that have seen heartache, but have loved so much. I study her hair, now shaved. I love the shape of her head. Her ears stick out and I absolutely love them. She seems so fragile lying in bed. I usually suggest we do something for that day, she usually agrees but asks for time to rest, just a bit longer.

I have noticed that she is wanting to sleep more. Our palliative nurse said this would happen. She said that the cancer needs energy to grow, and that it draws this from the body. This starves the body of energy and so the body's response is to sleep, since the lack of energy will make you tired. Bit by bit, the body will shut down as the tumour grows and your body is starved of more energy and eventually, you will slip away. Watching mom sleep fills me with dread. I know that while she sleeps that monster growing inside of her is drawing energy from her increasingly weak body. I know that when she puts off going out with me on a beautiful summer's day to sleep, it is because the monster is willing for more of my mom to help it grow.

A frustration rises in me again. Why isn' she getting the treatment she needs, even to just keep the tumour at bay for a short while. Why can't people see the urgency? Why can't they see that we need more time, mom needs more time?

As I sit here looking out into the beautiful clear sky, watching the birds, and admiring the glorious garden, I wonder how much time we have. All of our days are numbered, for certain, but mom's days are much fewer. Each day I wake up and think, another day gone. I do celebrate her life and the wonderful person she is, but, perhaps selfishly, I look to the skies and rue the timeline that is our life and the shortened version that is my mom's. My mom is so gentle and kind and I can't help thinking, "We just need more time".