Man, This is Hard

I think that you can probably tell from the reduced frequency of these blog entries that we did OK in October. But in the last weeks, and certainly the last days, grief has been weighing on me more and more. I have a load of things that I planned to do today but they have been pushed aside by the overwhelming sense of loss that I yet again feel. I walk past Kay's picture on the wall, the picture that so perfectly captures her, and it seems impossible that she's not here. I know that I've said these things over and again and that repeating them has little value, but I still feel a sense of incredulity every time I realise that she's not here to be hugged, to give me a hug.


I just keep thinking that Kay was so full of life, so fit, so energetic. She wasn't a complainer, she got on with doing stuff, whatever it was that was on her mind. She lived her short life to the full, awake early and immediately busy. The whole day long doing things until she fell asleep, often even before her bedtime out cold on the sofa. She always fought her corner, always wanted to win (even if that meant changing the rules), was always determined. She had so many setbacks but she never complained about her lot, she just got on with doing her best. How can it be that such a wonderful child can lose their life? Why on earth have we not been allowed to see how she would grow up, what she would do with her life?


As time goes by this is one of the main themes that plays in my head. I'm so sure that Kay would have become successful at some kind of sport, hockey probably. She had the physical make-up and fitness for it, the mental drive and determination. Whenever I'm at the hockey club or playing tennis I feel her loss so intensely, I feel that I've lost an entire future that would of been a joy to behold. Even more so because of my three children, Kay was the most different from me. I've never been good at sport, I've never been (and still am not) a gregarious social animal, I've never been so full of the kind of energy and drive that Kay had, that she got from Marion. I recognise myself in Lauren & Nattie, but I could recognise so little of myself in Kay and therefore she was always so interesting and surprising to me. It is of course difficult to know anything about how one's children will turn out, what they are likely to do with their lives, but I feel that I have an idea about Lauren & Nattie, whereas Kay could have done anything. 


I saw a child the other day, a girl with long thick red hair, just like Kay's. I so remember the times that I buried my face in Kay's hair and was amazed by the rich thickness of it, by the colour, by the length. I remember feeling a sense of wonder that a child with such hair could be my child and wondering where she came from. When I saw that child the other day, I wanted to come home and find Kay's hair - I think that when it fell out curing Chemo, Marion put it away somewhere - and I wanted to bury my face in it. I miss her so terribly, painfully, mind numbingly, awfully, inconceivably, infinitely much. I don't know where she came from and I don't know where she's gone. I only know that she's left behind a hole in my life that is simply huge, that she's left behind a father who loves her more than can be described and that the combination of these things is the definition of a broken heart.

Annoying...

Apologies for the silence. Last week, during a largely sleepless night, I sat down and wrote what I felt was a good blog entry. Unfortunately when I attempted to save it something crashed and I lost the lot. I was so disappointed that I couldn't bring myself to try to reproduce it. Also when I'd finished it was 3:30am so I decided to make another attempt to sleep, which worked - kind of.

Last week we recommenced our tennis lessons after a break of two years. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed making a hash of basic shots on an outside court at 9pm on a cold winter's evening. But my enjoyment was severely coloured by the flood of memories that being on a tennis court again brought back. The last time I played tennis I had a complete family...  Kay loved tennis and won her club spring youngsters championship just before her bone marrow transplant... The bloody minded determination with which she struck every ball...

The past weeks the grief has been easier to bear - the change from acute to chronic, I suppose. It's just there all the time, rather like Kay's bedroom. And like Kay's bedroom, one is left wondering what to do about it or whether indeed anything can be done about it at all. I don't know.

That said in the last days the ache has resumed. I have been missing her so much again, longing to feel her lightweight frame snuggled up against me, longing to hear her laugh or her shouts of outrage when something wasn't going her way. 

I've been extremely busy at the office recently, and we're all under a hell of a lot of pressure for one reason or another. The stress has built up to the point where I'm walking around with a more or less constant pain of tension in my chest. This has been worrying me - which only makes the symptom worse, I have to say - I have not idea what a budding heart attack feels like and I really don't want to know. But last week when this pain was at a peak I started wondering if I should get check out by the GP. But then I thought sprung into my head, along the lines of, "What the hell, if I'm going to have a heart attack, bring it on. I'd rather be with Kay than continue to struggle on like this anyway". 

Of course, my "normalization circuits" cut in and I dismissed the thought. But it did indicate to me that I'm still very far from living a life of reasonable quality.