Warning:
Very depressed, and dark post follows. Please do not read further if you are distressed by raw emotions.
It seems so long since I have visited here, I feel I have forgotten how to even use the computer.
I have a new version of Windows now, and can't seem to master the photos, so there will be none added to this post.
When I figure out all the things I have forgotten, I may post something.
My son's journey through his battle with cancer, was so harrowing and terrible, it has left me permanently disabled, it seems. When he was first diagnosed with the rare, strange cancer, in his left foot, he made light of it, and even nicknamed his foot. We read up as much information as we could find, via the internet. He realised that his leg would be amputated, because the tumour was too large to be removed. He joked about having a tattoo on his leg, of dots, with a 'cut here' message attached.
The reality and the shock of the actual amputation was so hard, there was no laughter to be had, though he struggled valiantly to keep his head afloat. He tried to use his black humour to get him through that bleak and terrible time.
Not everyone seems to suffer such grief about amputation. My son suffered from so many problems regarding the manner of the amputation, and the inability to get pain control, and a decent fitting prosthesis, and an ignorant Dr telling him he may well never be able to have a prosthetic.
Just what a severely shocked, traumatized, sick, and grieving man needs to hear. Bastard.
There were the snide remarks about 'pity parties' on one hand, (only an arsehole would say such a thing, and some of them were female) and 'how brave' he was on the other.
The truth was he was neither, and in the end, after the diagnosis of the cancer having metastisized to his lymph nodes, he knew he would not have long to live, and he could not be bothered to keep up a facade for people, so he withdrew, and did not want contact with the world.
He was very brave during the last weeks of his dying. He knew there was no treatment, but was advised that he could have radiotherapy, to slow the growth of the secondary tumours, which had become open, disgusting, and distressing wounds, and to help relieve some of the pain.
He finally died around a week after the radiotherapy. The staff could see him dying, a little each day.
His last week was an agonising battle with pain and distress, and grief. All the medications failed, all the pain relief failed. I wished it was me, who was so ravaged with pain, grief, and agony. If I could have traded my life for his, I would have gladly done so.
I have days when there seem to be possibilities,for some type of future, but there are many, when I don't have any, and it all seems pointless and bleak. There are the moments when someone phones, who does not realize my son is dead, and that is so hard to take. Not their fault at all, and though I tried to notify everyone, of course, there are inevitably people who are missed.
I took myself and my daughter on a short cruise to try to get us both right away from our grief filled surroundings. It seemed initially, to work very well. We both enjoyed the trip, even though the weather left a little to be desired and at one stage we were in the snow! It was all so different from anything we had ever experienced, and there were no associated memories of either Gom, or my son.
We both returned refreshed, and for the first two days, I felt as though some of my energy had returned. As is common with grief, something came along to take me right back to the beginning, and I cowered in my bed, unable to face the world.
I live a hollow facade of a life, in many respects. No one wants to really know how you feel. No one needs to know.
I am almost too afraid to voice my innermost feelings. I rarely do. No one wants to hear the truth.
There are so many overwhelming hurdles to be crossed. I have no stamina. My inclination to live has gone, but my heart still beats, and my lungs still fill with air, involuntarily. I long for rest.
Sorry for the bleakness.
Very depressed, and dark post follows. Please do not read further if you are distressed by raw emotions.
It seems so long since I have visited here, I feel I have forgotten how to even use the computer.
I have a new version of Windows now, and can't seem to master the photos, so there will be none added to this post.
When I figure out all the things I have forgotten, I may post something.
My son's journey through his battle with cancer, was so harrowing and terrible, it has left me permanently disabled, it seems. When he was first diagnosed with the rare, strange cancer, in his left foot, he made light of it, and even nicknamed his foot. We read up as much information as we could find, via the internet. He realised that his leg would be amputated, because the tumour was too large to be removed. He joked about having a tattoo on his leg, of dots, with a 'cut here' message attached.
The reality and the shock of the actual amputation was so hard, there was no laughter to be had, though he struggled valiantly to keep his head afloat. He tried to use his black humour to get him through that bleak and terrible time.
Not everyone seems to suffer such grief about amputation. My son suffered from so many problems regarding the manner of the amputation, and the inability to get pain control, and a decent fitting prosthesis, and an ignorant Dr telling him he may well never be able to have a prosthetic.
Just what a severely shocked, traumatized, sick, and grieving man needs to hear. Bastard.
There were the snide remarks about 'pity parties' on one hand, (only an arsehole would say such a thing, and some of them were female) and 'how brave' he was on the other.
The truth was he was neither, and in the end, after the diagnosis of the cancer having metastisized to his lymph nodes, he knew he would not have long to live, and he could not be bothered to keep up a facade for people, so he withdrew, and did not want contact with the world.
He was very brave during the last weeks of his dying. He knew there was no treatment, but was advised that he could have radiotherapy, to slow the growth of the secondary tumours, which had become open, disgusting, and distressing wounds, and to help relieve some of the pain.
He finally died around a week after the radiotherapy. The staff could see him dying, a little each day.
His last week was an agonising battle with pain and distress, and grief. All the medications failed, all the pain relief failed. I wished it was me, who was so ravaged with pain, grief, and agony. If I could have traded my life for his, I would have gladly done so.
I have days when there seem to be possibilities,for some type of future, but there are many, when I don't have any, and it all seems pointless and bleak. There are the moments when someone phones, who does not realize my son is dead, and that is so hard to take. Not their fault at all, and though I tried to notify everyone, of course, there are inevitably people who are missed.
I took myself and my daughter on a short cruise to try to get us both right away from our grief filled surroundings. It seemed initially, to work very well. We both enjoyed the trip, even though the weather left a little to be desired and at one stage we were in the snow! It was all so different from anything we had ever experienced, and there were no associated memories of either Gom, or my son.
We both returned refreshed, and for the first two days, I felt as though some of my energy had returned. As is common with grief, something came along to take me right back to the beginning, and I cowered in my bed, unable to face the world.
I live a hollow facade of a life, in many respects. No one wants to really know how you feel. No one needs to know.
I am almost too afraid to voice my innermost feelings. I rarely do. No one wants to hear the truth.
There are so many overwhelming hurdles to be crossed. I have no stamina. My inclination to live has gone, but my heart still beats, and my lungs still fill with air, involuntarily. I long for rest.
Sorry for the bleakness.
15 comments:
Meggie, there are no timetables on grief and you have had such a lot thrown at you over the past few years. We're out here pulling for you, you know. Sending you much love, Jennifer.
Dear Meggie, you are so brave, and have had so much to bear. I truly hope you recover from such great pain, and can reach some sort of equilibrium. It is hard to recover and to let go of pain. I think of you often
Oh what persiflage said. And I couldn't care less how bleak it is..you are writing! ×
Oh Meggie. It's all so sad. But your bloggy friends do care, if you want to tell us about it. No one can fully understand your pain except someone who's been through something similar, but we do sympathise so much. I can quite see that this doesn't help much.
Oh Meggie I was thinking of you only yesterday and planning to write an e-mail to see how you were. There are no words that will make things better and nothing any of us can do to help unless just knowing that we are here and thinking of you helps. I can't begin to imagine (I don't want to imagine if truth be told) how awful your life has been these past few years but I do believe that you will come through this terrible time eventually and know a certain amount of peace. Life will never be the same - how could it - but it will have its good times again I am sure. I have missed your e-mails and the wonderful photos you often sent.
Dear Sweet Meggie. We're all here pulling for you, although, any words at a time like this seem hollow and empty. Thinking of you and sending you very big hugs.
So, so sorry for this dark place you are in today. I hope a tiny bit of sunshine and hope will soon make its way to you and become brighter each day ever after. (Hugs) XOXO
Hi Meg, I am being a coward - I don't know what to say to you except keep writing - it might help. I have never been where you are right now so I don't know how it feels. If the same happened to me I would be in a right predicament - I could not run this place on my own I can't drive all the mowers etc. Being alone is one thing, being lonely quite another.
I really hope something eventually helps you from the dark place. It will have to be something in a different direction.
Hugs and encouragement from Ali.
Meggie I am so sorry that you are having such a hard time with it all. So understandable, and you mustn't feel that you have to live to a timetable.
Everyone copes differently, and for you, this is how you cope. There are no right or wrong ways to do this.
I'm not going to tell you that the sun will shine on your face again, I don't know when or whether it will.
But you have to deal with this in the way you know best. Don't try to be someone you're not until you are ready to be who you want to be.
You have been through a shattering experience...so it is understandable you feel shattered!
Meggie,
WE are here to hear you. Share and we will do our part to share the bleakness and perhaps help carry the load. But do also share with us all the good things about Gom and your son. Do also share with us about your daughter and about Zane. Hugs.
Oh Meggie. Like so many already have said, we are here to hear you. How you feel is important! Writing it out is important! It's an avenue to release emotions, to process thoughts and feelings. Please don't be afraid to voice your innermost feelings. Shout them out! They are yours, they belong to you, they are a part of you. They matter! You are fully entitled!
I wish there were some easy way to assuage grief. I wish for you rays and beams of sunshine and loving warmth. My thoughts are with you.
Meggie,
What a difficult leg of life's journey you are on just now. Having children is one of life's special gifts and I know that I would do anything for my son- so it would be so hard to watch him suffer like you did with your beloved Brett. Grief has no time line- perhaps writing will give you some comfort. In the meantime, know that you are well loved by others who want to bring you comfort and solace during these difficult times. Sending you a big cyber thoughts and positive healing energy.
Warmest regards,
As always,
Anna
and here is a place you can come to. To vent to cry to just say what you must get out. We are here with love and patience for you, always. You have walked through a very very hard place, may still be in the mists of it. But know you can always come here and find love.
It is hard to read your pain... I think all of us wonder if when something so horrendous happens how we will survive. Thank you for sharing.
Ah Meggie, never feel the need to apologize for those feelings of grief and despair. Sometimes just putting them into the air in front of you helps you be free of them for a time. I often think of you even though I am not in touch or online much anymore. Sending you a virtual hug and hope that the good days come more frequently.
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