A haze of hopefulness and trepidation

We bought a Christmas ham this year which I did not expect to do. Although this is a traditional activity and part of the normal preparations for the festive gatherings, we are not in a normal state of being. 

So, when my husband adamantly asked for one to be ordered I simply agreed, flummoxed by the request, and arranged for my daughter to complete the task. Afterall we were in the throes of rigorous cancer treatment and Daryl could barely speak, let alone, eat. 

The ham now sits in our fridge, and like me, is possibly confused by its presence post-Christmas. I did suggest baking it on Christmas eve, but that suggestion was shut down quite stoically. Just as well, as I was exhausted, and the idea of cooking was truly unappealing.

 

Now, Christmas and Boxing Day have been and gone, in what feels like a haze of hopefulness and trepidation. 

I worried Daryl wouldn’t be up for the chaos of Christmas breakfast, a tradition on my side of the family that brings us all together, resulting in big personalities vying for attention, tall tales, and even bigger hugs all around a very loud dining table. 

Yet, in the early hours of the morning as we prepared to go, Daryl didn’t even whisper a complaint or suggest staying home, despite a difficult night cementing the weariness in our bones, just that bit deeper. 

I worried that our presence would dampen the spirit of the morning, I worried that Daryl would feel self-conscious, that he would feel left out, that he would be exhausted. But I needn’t have worried - despite the tears that welled when some of our clan laid eyes on him, the extra tight hugs, the careful lowering of exuberant voices - the mornings celebrations were perfect in all its imperfections. 

I shed quiet tears and ached for the loved ones who were missing from the table - loved ones taken too soon by the angels of death, others through choices made from petty grievances and stubborn pride - then I looked around and rejoiced in those present. I realised I have limited resources left in my emotional tank, so I must accept the situations as they are and make the best of each one. I recently read a small sentence with a big message, and it read, “The biggest mistake you make is to live your life like you’ll get another chance to experience all the beauty that surrounds you.” And it’s true. We have experienced so much grief and loss this year that this needs to be reinforced, repeatedly, until it is our truth.

 

Working in the retail sector I watch and read the trends around the industry and listen to the people who shop in our store. I hear their grumblings, grievances and listen to the choices many are making to enhance their lives and those around them. For our family we chose experiences as the theme for our gifting this year. This has been highlighted by Daryl’s journey which has touched us all in some way, emphasising the brevity of life and opportunity. We were doubly blessed when our children chose to gift us similarly, with an experience to enjoy down the track, when Daryl is up for a new adventure. A day we look forward to very much. 

 

The remainder of the festive days were filled with family and friends. Daryl pushed himself to participate in family traditions throughout the big day and while these choices cost him physically, rendering him unwell for the evening and into the night, I’d suggest he would repeat it again, given the same circumstances. 

 

Today, the heatwave which has taken hold in Victoria is still in full force and we have taken refuge indoors, resting in the air-conditioning and enjoying the company of visitors to our home. Even the pups have been allowed inside to get some reprieve from the sweltering conditions. It’s hard to believe we had the wood fire on two weeks ago!

 

The Christmas ham still sits staidly in our fridge, and I finally asked the question about its fate. Turns out this humble ham is Daryl’s symbol of hope and healing. It will be providing the base for a celebratory feast to say thank you, sometime in the near future; a future we cannot even envision today, but one that is building moment by moment. For now, we take inspiration from the words of our children:

 

Finding the words in times of hardship is never an easy task, as such, we search for words used before – in doing so, we found this beautiful piece that made us smile. We hope it brings you both a bit of happiness too….’Home’ – Nikki Barnes.

 

Find the people and places that make you feel home.

Find the ones who take care of your soul and make like you can be completely yourself around them.

Find the ones who light you up from the inside out and encourage you to be yourself.

Find the places where you feel at peace, the places you could spend forever exploring and wandering.

Find the places that make you want to see even more of the world and the ones that make you happy to be alive…

And whenever you find one of these people or places, hold onto them so tight.

Tell those people you love them often.

Visit those places as much as you can.

Never let go of those people or places because when you find peace and love and joy in the world, it is worth more than gold.

It is where you are meant to be.

 

We love you both endlessly.

 

Love always, The Gang xox

 

 

Until next time,

N

 

 

 

 

The Beginning - Shadows

The shadows darkened that day. 

A few words, uttered by a small man, sitting in his windowless office, tilted our hold on the universe a few degrees. “The results show cancerous cells” the doctor said. His narrow eyes flited nervously to ensure his message had been heard, then launched swiftly into the practicalities of referrals. Stunned into silence, I watched his hands shake a little as he moved his fountain pen across the page, asking very important questions - name, date of birth, weight, height, next of kin – I am here I wanted to say, I am here but I cannot move. The shadows have crossed into my view, covered my heart, and balled in my stomach. They are filling my lungs, filtering the air I need to breathe, the shadows have entered uninvited, unannounced and with fervour. Raising my eyes, I see my own shock and fear reflected in my husband’s, the first tear to fall from his face signals the beginning of a journey we can’t imagine.

 

What do you do after you’ve been told you have a potentially life-threatening illness, what do you say, how do you feel? There is no handbook, no guidelines, no set of rules. How do you watch the person you love with all your worth, invisibly shatter; how do you stop yourself from crumbling alongside them? 

Over hot chocolates we shed silent tears, passersby did not notice, we said the right words, positive, strong, hopeful, cupping our mugs with both hands to stop them from shaking, we smiled the smiles of the broken. 

 

After the initial diagnosis there is little to do but wait and inform those dear to you, that life as we know it, is about to change. With each telling there is no comfort or reprieve, everyone is devastated. No one is expecting this story. 

The lack of answers gives way to questions that go unasked, except in our minds. The dark, sinister thoughts that tease and twirl around, shadowing any positive aspect of thought, especially during the twilight hours, are the cruelest. The nights are interminably long. Four types of cancers, we are told, are in the report. This is not looking good. The shadows eat this information and grow ever darker. Internet searches feed the beast. 

 

 My man wakes shuddering, damp with sweat, crushing the sheets as he wipes the tears from his face. The night terrors are here, and sleep is elusive. He grieves for his father, his dear, darling dad who he cannot bring himself to tell. The fear of causing pain to this 95-year-old icon is palpable, his heartache is raw, and I see it in the newly formed lines on his gentle face. I see the shadows in his eyes – hunted, searching, fearful eyes grieving things that are not yet lost to him.  I hold him, I never want to let him go. I have nothing else to give him but me and I pray this will be enough. 

 

The cancer centre contacts and appointments are made, scans to be had locally to ensure the white coats have everything they need. The local coats move fast, they are kind. 

One week, then more scans, tests, interventions, conversations, questions, consultations. 

Seven days before we know how the “and in sickness and health, ‘til death do us” part pans out. 

One hundred and sixty-eight hours before we face the life altering moment of definitive diagnosis. 

Ten thousand and eighty minutes to wait for the prognosis. 

Six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred seconds before we know the plan of attack. 

It feels like fucking forever. 

 

The hours are filled with activity, there are still jobs to be done on the farm, unfinished projects that held no timelines before, now seem to be priorities. Clotheslines need relocating, paths paving, lawns require mowing, edges whipper snipping, weeds spraying. And there is the shop, how do we manage our beautiful store?

Spring is smiling its sweetness upon us and as the greyness around us starts to recede, bursting into colourful blossom, it reminds us that a new season has begun – both in nature and in our life. The winter fog that lifted outside our window revealing the day, has settled in our soul; no matter where we look, how we listen, or who we see, it does not budge. 

Instead of early Spring rain, tears fall freely. There is no sunshine here today. 

 

Friends and family keep us distracted. Their presence provides moments of comfort, care, and compassion. The little ones bring laughter and fun into a home full of shadows. Oblivious to their Poppy’s pain they don’t see his silent tears as he plays trains, they miss the anguish as he helps them feed the chickens. 

What is he thinking through these moments? 

What demons are taunting him? 

The little ones do not know their Grandma’s fear, they are safe and secure, for now their Poppy is the centre of their world – and he loves it.  

The grown-ups though, they too are grieving, they too are fearful, they too are now waiting for the shadows to change. 

 

 

Until next time,

N

Christmas Wishes

For more than 50 years I have looked forward to Christmas Day and all the hope and joy it promises to deliver. 

As a parent, I worked myself into a frenzy trying to make the experience a treasure trove of memories for my children and those around us. I wanted them to have traditions - tree decorating, fruit cake, mince pies (homemade), Christmas punch, carols for 25 days straight, poorly made stockings-filled with love and undies. I wanted them to grow with the knowledge the day was more than just a present grab. I wanted them to appreciate the people in their lives, family and friends, and enjoy the gift of giving, not just receiving. I ached for them to have so much more than I did as a child. I yearned for them to experience joy, to know they were worth the effort. I dream in many small ways this was achieved, but I doubt I got it right all the time. But then, like Christmas, I am not perfect and in this imperfection, I hope they reflect on the positives, cut their mum some slack for the unnecessary stress, forgive her woeful sewing skills and grow from the experiences they have shared in their lifetimes. 

This year I am passing the festive baton onto my middle daughter, and her family, who have offered to take on the tradition of Christmas breakfast. I am delighted and saddened in the same heartbeat. I know I won't be able to roll out the festive feast in 22 days, but I wish I could do so. 

The smell of bacon cooking infused with coffee brewing, the mess of pancake batter splattering over the cooktops, muffins toasting to various degrees of crunch, the sticky fingers from cutting up fruit, and the endless cups of tea being prepared in a kitchen way too small to fit the extended family, along with the sounds of table setting and children helping, will be missing from our home and will be replaced with just us. There will be no strains of Christmas carols to make the kids groan and our annual song 'Christmas Shoes' will not be played; there won't be mounds of torn wrapping paper strewn across the floor, quickly collected by my eldest daughter, and neither of us will wear silly Santa hats. 

I expect by the time the morning of December 25 rolls around, I will be extremely grateful for the silence, to start the day slowly, to ensure Daryl can join us. I will be thankful for the opportunity to pack up the stockings and gifts and hopefully drive just a short distance away to join the chaos of our family Christmas tradition. Maybe we will wear silly hats, listen to the sounds of Christmas carols or they will be drowned out by the delightful din from excited grandchildren and grown-ups alike. Whatever the morning brings will be just right. I will, as I do every year, observe my family, through tearful eyes and a full heart, counting my blessings as they open their gifts, exchange hugs and words of appreciation. For us, it is an opportunity to bless our children and their partners (all 15 of them). But this year, no-one deserves some TLC more so, than my own husband and their father, step-father, grandfather - Daryl. 

Daryl has endured the horrors of intensive radiation and chemotherapy treatment for a cancer diagnosis that shattered our world some six months ago. This has been a period of our lives that we never anticipated, like many before us, and we have had to find our way, navigating a medical system and developing a whole new vocabulary. We have needed to live away from home to be near the hospital, away from the people in our world, away from our work, our business. We have had to adjust to a new normal even when this normal kept morphing and changing, leaving little room for complacency. We are not friends with this new normal, merely companions for the near future, until we might bid it goodbye.

In the weeks leading up to this Christmas we find ourselves re-evaluating everything we once believed, fought for, or considered relevant. In all this reflection, it is clear the priorities are not our material possessions but the people in our life, some near, some far. The ancient philosopher Epictetus wrote "The key is to keep company only with people who uplift you, whose presence calls forth your best." He is correct.  We have been unable to change the circumstances we found ourselves in, but we could and have influenced the journey. Some days have been darker than others, but today, like every day we are yet to be gifted, we are choosing to embrace the positive, accept the reality and release anything we cannot change. 

Christmas will mark the beginning of the recovery phase for Daryl, a period of healing and rest, of waiting for the next instalment. We are blessed to be able to wait back at the farm surrounded by the familiar smells and sounds of home. It is nice to be in our environment and to be greeted by our four-legged freeloaders and our cackle of hens. To walk into our business, breathe in the scent and be soothed by the soulfulness of stories is like a dose of Daryl's magic pain potions, - it brings calmness and relief. Now the festive decorations are starting to go up, we are being modest this year, and for once I am ok with the theory of less-is-best.

Christmas it is not being cancelled at Rivergum the year, although it was considered, it will be merely changed. Like us, it will evolve into another form, fitting into the heart of our family, as it gathers together for the first time, in so long. 

However you spend this festive season and the days leading up to your celebrations I wish you many things, but most importantly I with you good health, good people and good luck (luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity - Seneca). 

Don't wait to do things you wish to do - do them now. There's never enough time, never enough money, nothing is perfect - that's ok. Do them anyway.

Until next time,

N