I'll Be Missing You

This was meant to be a blog explaining what I had decided to support with my participation in The Outlaw, but it's ended up being about my Nan. Halfway through I wondered if I should just erase it, because who would really want to read it, but I carried on, partly because it does explain why I've decided to raise money for that cause, and partly because this is also my personal log of this journey, and I have found this quite cathartic to write. So if you get bored, tough!! : p

As Mothers day approaches, I am more than aware that I won't have anyone to take out for lunch, buy flowers for, or say thank you to. Just writing that my eyes are blurry with tears. As I've mentioned before, last year I lost my wonderful Nan to cancer. Families aren't black and white, there are variations, complications, and differences to the 'norm'. When talking about this I have often found myself saying 'I lost a parent', because the general consensus when I say 'Nan' appears to be, 'oh, that's sad, but you still have your Mum don't you'. I got fed up of explaining that no, actually I don't. My Nan was my Mother, she bought me up, and made me who I am today. Biology doesn't come into it.

Anyway, when she was diagnosed the doctors had only seen very few cases of the cancer she had, which was carcinoid. It was almost unheard of, and she was actually given a consultant in America to liaise with her doctors here around treatment options.  Not that there were many. Initial diagnosis gave her 0-5 years to live. She lived for 12. I truly believe this was her state of mind and attitude.

For many people it would have been easy to give up, after all, being told you have a terminal condition, what's the point of carrying on?  Just sit and wither away! But no. She was extremely spirited, and determined to keep her independence. She managed it for a few more years, but as the cancer grew completely over her lung breathing became too difficult, and she became nervous about leaving the house alone, in case she had a 'funny turn'. I also felt the same, after being called to fetch her from town when she couldn't manage to get home. She had tried to walk up a hill and got so breathless she couldn't go any further. At the time I didn't drive, I was on my way to getting a motorbike, but that was the end of that idea. I switched to car lessons, so that I could take her wherever she wanted to go. (I did try and convince her that she'd love being on the back of a GSXR, wind in her hair, but she just raised her eyebrows)

That didn't stop her though. Arriving one day to take her shopping I almost fainted when I saw her up a ladder cleaning windows!! She refused to get down until she had finished, telling me  ''Instead of fussing make yourself useful and out the kettle on''.

As the disease progressed any kind of physical exertion became difficult. This was awful, she had always been a very active person, attending 'swing into shape' with her friends every week, which always made me laugh, and walking everywhere.

A wheelchair arrived eventually. She eyed it with suspicion. I eventually got her to go in it, being upbeat and positive, saying we could go for walks in the park etc, without her getting tired. Actually she was more worried I'D get tired pushing her!
I knew for a woman of her pride it was hard to get in that chair. Hard to accept help. Some days I'd get it out and she would insist on walking telling me, ''You aren't putting me in that thing, I'm not dead yet''.

She would make sure she went out every day, even just to the bottom of the garden, saying if you don't move your body seizes up. She faced the symptoms as they worsened, fought and fought, refusing to be beaten. One episode sticks clearly in my mind. We had been to morrisons, and halfway round she felt ill. She had refused to bring her own chair, so I ran to get one of theirs near the entrance, worried she'd faint. She was sick into a bowl, and couldn't hold her head up. After 30 minutes I took her home, and insisted on calling an ambulance. They came to check her over, and advised she go to hospital. She looked at me with the saddest, most vulnerable expression and said, ''Will you come with me?'' That was her asking for my help. She never did that. Ever. At that moment I felt my heart break. I just answered with, ''Of course I will!'' I was careful never to show her how stressful it all was, because I think at times she felt guilty that she relied on me. Truth is, I was happy to do it. I was happy to do whatever I needed to. I wanted to.

March came, and her check up. We found then (we being the consultant, me and my grandad) that the cancer was now into her throat and neck, the tumour was huge, and protruding. Nan had noticed it in November, and had hidden it by wearing a neck scarf. When I asked why she said she knew it had spread but hadn't wanted to worry me. The 2nd lot of Chemo had just finished, and we were told it hadn't worked. The doctors and her consultant in London were talking about a new type of radiotherapy, and would contact us in due course. She said as we got home that she knew that was it, and she accepted it.

The weeks passed and she began sleeping much more. Her appetite waned. I kept encouraging her to eat, but it was too much effort. I found a vice though- Mcdonalds chicken nugget meals. She loved them. So from then on I'd say ''do you want some soup?''
''no thanks''
''Sandwich?''
''no''
''What about Mcdonalds?''
*silence*
''ermmm.. are you going to have one then? I don't want you going all that way just for me''

Result. After that I'd usually just drive there first, and take it to her. She'd tell me off, try to give me the money for it, but all I cared about was that she was eating.

My Nan always said that when she went, she'd want to go quickly, and that she'd hate to 'linger'. Her worst nightmare was that she would end up ''being a burden'', unable to function properly, incontinent and unable to care for herself. She was an extremely dignified woman, and was scared of losing that dignity.

She died on 16th June 2011, at home, in her own bed. As she wanted. I take great comfort in that, although  obviously I wish with all my heart and soul that I had been there. I often used to stay over, and I still ask myself, why did I go home that night? why didn't I stay? I asked myself a million times, why didn't I give her a kiss, tell her I loved her before I went? Obviously I know the answers. We are human, and I didn't do that because that isn't what we did. We never had done really. Nan wasn't a huggy kind of person. But with death comes so many whys and whats. And although I questioned myself, I know that a hug wouldn't have shown her I loved her any more than she already knew.

My grandad found her. I got the call at 11.15am. I can still remember the moment exactly. I saw 'Grandad mobile' flash up, and I almost ignored it. In my heart, I knew. Then I answered.  Silence, then a deep breath and-
''It's me, I've got some bad news...''

That expression, time slows down.. it really does. Each second becomes an hour. Everything stops.

Sometimes I forget she is dead.. I have seen something, heard something, and get excited to tell her about it. I get excited to go and see her and share what  I've been doing. Then I remember that she isn't here. And never will be. But for those moments.. I  think she is. And I long to keep those moments, where I had forgotten, just for a minute, that part of me has gone. I have those moments, and I feel whole again.
When I remember, the world returns to being that little bit empty.

Through the undulating process of grief, I have thought of many things I could do to honour Nans memory. Firstly I have finally decided that through the Outlaw, I'd like to raise money for the Nottingham City Hospital chemo department. Many hours were spent sitting in there, and as my Nans chemo was made and sent from London, (where her specialists were) she appreciated being able to have it here, rather than travelling all that way, as they initially wanted her to. I want to support a local cause, and I want to do something she would approve of. Not that she would approve of Outlaw. Even when I would come in after a 30 minute run she'd be worried I was ''over doing it'', so heaven knows what she'd make of an iron distance and the training involved!

So I am asking for your support and sponsorship, and give my heartfelt thanks for you taking the time to read this.

And to my Nan...

Every step I take,
Every move I make,
Every single day,
Every time I pray,
I'll be missing you.

(This was played at the funeral, and I also had it engraved on the headstone- I had to laugh, what a super cool Granny having Puff Daddy!!)