Dilemma

I recently received an email from someone who had been following this blog, telling me in no uncertain terms that I should shut up. This set me wondering, actually. The problem is that I think that I have covered a lot of the consequences of Kay's death - at least the ones that can be aired in public. In keeping with that person's thoughts I'd been wondering whether to some extent I was "scraping the barrel" of grief.

On the other hand, there are so many consequences of Kay's death that I simply cannot air in public. And it seems to me that these problems are getting worse as time goes by. By definition I cannot tell you what they are, but trust me, they are very serious. In some ways I am healing from Kay's death and in others we are not.

Perhaps this should not matter, I should have other ways of coping with these problems. But unfortunately it seems that I do not. This blog has always been a way for me to vent my feelings, for me to get my own head straight, for me to achieve some catharsis. It is also a way for me to keep distant friends and family up to date with what's going on. However, I'm blocked from achieving this by the nature of the problems that we face and therefore blocked from catharsis.

My middle ground solution has been to keep writing - for I value and need every token of support that I get - but I end up either repeating myself or writing about peripheral, perhaps seemingly superfluous, stuff.

People often comment to me that they have no idea how it must feel to lose a child. My standard reply is that I don't either, at least not entirely. The pain and grief is like a huge diamond, multi-faceted and of perfect construction. Perhaps fortunately, I only get to experience it one or two facets at a time - this diamond is simply too large for me to "appreciate" in one go. Some facets I have seen multiple times, some are new to me or I have forgotten so that they seem new. But whatever, I keep going round and round this diamond. My way of coping is to try to describe, understand and come to terms with each facet, but this is a task that will undoubtedly take me the rest of my life.

I also suppose that it would not be healthy NOT to attempt to "appreciate" each facet as then one would only be postponing the inevitable. "Appreciation", I suppose (not sure what word I'm looking for here...) is the key to putting grief in its place. And an important part of my "appreciation" technique is putting each facet to words here - at least as far as I am allowed by social convention and respect for the feelings of others.

I guess that that's really my answer to the "Shut Up" email: this is part of my way of dealing with the circumstances in which I find myself.

If you don't like it, no-one's forcing you to read it. 

Long Way Away

I'm currently in San Jose, California, on business. An intense week of meeting a range of people from Venture Capitalists through to lawyers and 'rainmakers'. I'd forgotten just how far away California is, actually. It was a long trip getting here and the time difference takes some getting used to. Even after a couple of days I'm still waking up at 4am. 

Somehow it feels as though the distance and the intensity of what I'm doing here is building a little separation between grief and I. I don't feel quite so loaded down as I do at home. But then that could also be because I find Silicon Valley such an exciting place to be. I'm looking forward to every meeting, enjoying talking to the people, etc. All in all a very positive thing and very different and far away from the problems that I face every day at home.  It would be even more exciting if I could get a lead a some business deals here. 

That said, I was just looking through some photos on my iPad and came across pictures of Kay's last birthday. The problem with feeling more cheerful is that you have further to fall when hit by grief and I have to say that my stomach crashed to the floor. I had to quickly move on before I started thinking about her birthday...

I was also thinking that I shouldn't get used to feeling positive. We still have a lot of terrible moments to face, eg Kay's next birthday, 19th September, etc. And I also have to leave LaLaLand this weekend a return to reality. Yuk.

Broken Wings

Most of my life I have wanted to fly. As a child I dreamed about flying, everything was about either aircraft or the Apollo space program. My first flying lesson was bought by a girlfriend for my 21st birthday and from that moment the dream became a definite goal. I got my pilot's license in 1994. I bought my first plane in 1999. When I sold my previous business I bought a 'family' plane and an aerobatic plane. Since then I have flown more than 1200 hours as pilot in command. I have flown all over Europe, in the Alps, down to Malta, to Ireland, to Scotland, to Poland.

Some of the happiest times of my life have been either flying or flying training. Soloing in a monoplane and, some years later, in a biplane rate among the top 10 best things that I've ever done. Training for my twin engine rating and for my instrument rating were periods of extended happiness. The kick that one gets flying an aircraft blind down an instrument approach and popping out at the end 200ft above a runway, precisely positioned and ready to land, cannot be described. I've done this in training and I've done it for real, at night, in poor visibility, in the pouring rain, with my family in onboard. I've done it at high speed into Hamburg airport with an Airbus A320 behind me and in a snow storm at night into Tempelhof airport in Berlin.

I love flying at night. I love flying in bad weather. I love the precision and discipline that professional level flying requires. I loved learning to fly in the Alps and getting my certification for landing at Courchevel. I have experienced personal sunsets as I descended from high level to low level flight at twilight. I have seen lightening flash from the top to the bottom of a cloud, have flown next to the contrail of a jet. I have flown with brilliant and fun people. The list of incredible moments goes on and on. 

But perhaps most of all I love flying aerobatics. The raw enjoyment of throwing a performance aircraft around the sky is beyond the power of words to capture. Flying is the only thing in my life for which I feel that I have a natural skill, if not talent. A cockpit is the only place in the world where I feel naturally comfortable and completely confident.

And yet my desire to fly has vanished. This hasn't happened overnight. It started when Kay became sick and has grown since. I have flown once since October 2009 and the thing that utterly surprises me is that I don't miss it at all. Worse, I have absolutely no desire to pick it up again. When I think about the future I don't see myself flying again. My pilots license is sitting on top of a cupboard in the lounge, where I keep my car keys, gathering dust. And every time I see it, instead of the burst of pride that I used to feel, it leaves me cold. In the coming months I need to renew my medical. If I don't revalidate my instrument rating soon, I'll lose it permanently. But you know, I can't be bothered, it just seems like a lot of hassle. I'd rather ride my bike.

I can't work out what to make of this, er, change in attitude. It's been bothering me for a while now. What's not bothering me is a need to fly. What is bothering me is that I don't have a need to fly. 

What happened to my life's dream? Is this why I can't sleep? Because I've lost my dreams? What does not having a dream mean for the quality of one's life?

 

Desktop Background

I have a whole set of photos that I use as randomly chosen desktop backgrounds on my laptop. Of course, most of the photos are of the girls and most include Kay. One just popped up that I've not seen for a while and it broke my heart, again.

Let me tell you, losing a child, losing a beautiful daughter, losing a Kay is one of those experiences in life that I would strongly recommend that you avoid at all cost. I don't think it adds anything to one's karma that anyone needs, for any reason. I know that the quality of my life has been permanently damaged, that nothing will ever be the same again. And for what? Have I learned anything useful? No, the contrary in fact, I have unlearned what little I thought I knew about life. Have I gained anything? No, the contrary in fact. Am I a better person? No, the contrary in fact, I'm a less happy and enjoyable person to be around - though no doubt there are those who thought I was a miserable b**tard to begin with.

Life is now simply harder, poorer. The experience of losing of a child has no redeeming features. 

I shouldn't whine though. I should think about all those poor people in Japan and consider myself lucky. But that's so difficult to do when Kay is staring back at me from my desktop. I once wrote that the breadth of our emotional response is much narrower than the breadth of experiences that life throws at us. One can be very unhappy in excellent circumstances and very happy in difficult circumstances, as I experienced once during the time that Kay was in intensive care. 

So I suppose that on the scale of the experiences that life throws at us, having your life wiped out by a nuclear tidal-quake probably rates worse than losing a daughter to a failed bone marrow transplant. But yeh, my emotional response is narrow and therefore, although I have a deep respect and theoretical sympathy with all those poor people, I'm still maxed out with my own sadness and grief. We (or maybe it's just me) are such shallow creatures, are we not?    
   

Beauty and the Beast on Ski Holiday

 

Lots to say, no energy to say it

For some reason I'm feeling terrible this evening - an overdose of stress I think. My neck and shoulders are aching like hell, even after an ibuprofen. I feel mildly sick as well. There's a lot going, will come back to that later. But I suspect the straw in this case is something that happened to Marion this morning: she had an accident outside the school, hit a child in the car park to our Volvo.

Fortunately it seems that the child - 2 1/2 years - only suffered a knock to the head and a graze on his forehead. But this was a rather fortunate outcome, in arguments between Boys and Volvo's, the Volvo usually comes off better.

It seems that the boy ran between out between two cars and while looking over his shoulder and effectively ran under the left front wheel of the Volvo. Marion was driving very slowly, but only saw movement in the corner of her eye. The next thing she felt something under the car and stopped immediately.

Needless to say that Marion was extremely upset by this. She called me at home and I hurried over to school, where she was being looked after by the staff. The little boy was taken directly to the doctor, but came back to school a little later, somewhat worse for wear, but whole and healthy.

Considering the circumstances, Marion has so far dealt with it quite well, I suppose. But I think that the (second hand) shock has triggered some kind of stress reaction on me. Gee, do I feel awful. 

There's a lot to say about our holiday last week: the shadow of Kay, Nattie's ski accident (which was only scary), but I'm too tired to write about it at the moment. Hopefully I'll feel better tomorrow - have to improve quickly because I'm off to California on Sunday for an intense business week.   

Everywhere and nowhere

Kay is everywhere and nowhere at all. Sitting on the ski-lift I can recall her snuggling up against me. On the slope I can remember helping her, directing her., watching her do so well. At the restaurant I can hear her laughing. Nattie tells me about the time Kay dropped her ski pole, is wearing Kay's ski helmet. Kay is everywhere and nowhere at all. I feel constantly sick with grief and memories.

Oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why?

Brave

I keep thinking about how brave Kay was during her treatment. How scared she must have been when I drove her to Nijmegen for the first time. How she braved everything that came her way.

She didn't deserve to lose her fight. The brave shouldn't die.

Ski Holiday

I can hear Kay laughing in my head, right hand side, just around and behind my right ear. That part of my head feels different from the equivalent area on my left side. It permanently feels a bit like I've just been lying on my right hand side. I suppose that there are lots of explanations for this feeling, but it coincides with where I heard Kay talking to me in the days after she died and with where I hear her now, laughing and acting all excited because we've arrived on ski holiday.

My sense of her is very vague, not as crystal clear as after she died, and certainly difficult to distinguish from a memory. But it's what I sense. The reason I suppose is that we're back in Schruns, Austria for a week's skiing. This place holds so many, many memories of the girls, of Kay, that I feel physically sick with fear of the recollections that will undoubtedly come in the next days. They started yesterday already with the drive, my mind kept flicking to memories of being here but I kept my equilibrium by diverting it to something else. When we arrived and drove through the village, everywhere I looked triggered a memory: here we played Madonna very loud in the car while waiting for Mama to do some shopping, there we rented skis for the girls the first time that they skied.

In some ways we have avoided being confronted by too many memories: we are staying in a different hotel by coincidence, we will use a different lift to get up the mountain, etc. However recollection will be unavoidable when we join our friends tomorrow and start the week's skiing. Already I feel the huge, massive absence of Kay. She was such a physical child, loved skiing, loved swimming in the pool afterward, was such a monkey, so very very funny.

Although I hear her laughing, her excitement about going skiing again, I have no idea if it's a memory or if it's Kay here with us. Whatever, I'm already achingly, painfully, grieviously missing her.

Dirk, Kay and Nattie. Schruns 2009.

Schruns 2009

 

 

State of Affairs

I had another poor night, last night. Couldn't get to sleep, couldn't stay asleep. Not a huge problem, but enough to leave me feeling very rough this morning. Verum is taking part at an exhibition in Germany. Sunday we traveled down, Monday we set up our stand, yesterday we had our first full day on the stand. Yesterday evening I was feeling... well exhausted, I suppose. My body was aching all over and I guess that that didn't help with sleeping. This morning, when it was time to get up to head to the exhibition, I felt as though I was into the exhaustion danger zone, so I have decided to rest out for a while and go to the stand a little later. I feel hellishly guilty about this, but frankly, I don't want to collapse and I still have a long week ahead - tomorrow is the last day, then we have to take the stand down and drive home for 5 hours. Then we have to unload everything from my car because on Friday I have to drive back to Austria for a week's holiday. I think that by the time I get to Austria I'll be too damned tired to think about skiing. 

But lying in bed this morning I was driven by my state to think about where I am in the process of grieving for Kay. Sometimes I think that I'm doing quite well and that I can take (my) normal life full on. But at others I am reminded that I am as yet still very weak and more or less constantly running on Emergency Power, Mr Scott.

And indeed, if I think about it, my normal energy levels are far from being replenished and most days I have to drive myself beyond what is normal. But this has become so commonplace that I no longer notice it. And the fact that I tend to end the day feeling like I have been lightly beaten all over with a stick has also become commonplace. In fact, lying here now, feeling so rough, I'm amazed that I haven't actually become sick. When I'm as tired as I am now, it feels like I'm suffering from bone deep 'flu, but without a fever. I suppose I have to thank the Homeopath for advising double doses of vitamins.

But what also troubles me is how long Mr Scott can hold the Starship Rob together before the dilithium chamber explodes. Essentially, the medics around me are just supporting me while I push myself deeper into the red zone. At least, that's what it seems like I'm doing this week. So when I was lying in bed earlier, wondering about getting up, I could hear the voices of my friends telling me I'd be a fool not to just keep lying there, so that's what I did. Thanks, friends!

Mentally things are also very far from improving, I suppose. Again, lying here this morning, trying to relax and recharge, I consistently found myself reliving Kay's last minutes. I so clearly remember us gathering around her bed, the doctors coming in, the sedative being administered, the ventilator being switched off, my eyes meeting with those of the doctor and her giving me the sign that Kay had passed away. All too often I also relive her last conscious moments as well, her last interaction with me, slapping my face out of fear for what was coming. I think about our last trip to the hospital in my car, her conversation with Esther about whether she wanted to stay in the hospital or go home, her worrying about how Marion & I would feel and about her deciding to stay at the hospital because she felt safer there. All these things and far more go through my head, often enough for me to find no peace with them or with life in general.

I think that at the moment life is harder than ever because I have the tendency to think that I'm considerably better than I was. I work almost full time, my agenda is fully planned, I don't spend very much time talking about Kay or my loss. I don't consider myself fully available, but shall we say that I think I'm back to doing 80% of what I was doing previously. I also think that people still make allowances for the fact that I'm only 80% available, but they don't make much allowance, which is fine and I would have it no other way - I hate the thought of being treated specially because of my circumstances. The problem is that half of the energy it takes to do the 80% is emergency power, which is something that I can and do try to keep inside me, but at moments like this it unfortunately does leak out. 

So, all-in-all, things are perhaps not what they seem in Rob-land. I'm struggling like hell to balance all the demands that my life makes of me, while running on emergency power. I'm still confronted with the most raw and intractable memories of Kay's final moments and I can find no peace with them because I want them to mean something, but I can't for the life of me figure out what they could mean. I have no idea how long this will or can go on. I fervently hope that there comes a moment when something gets simpler and I have more space in which to deal with some of these things and try to heal my system somewhat more.

Time to go and do some work.