Death Is Messy

And it lives in me now, taking up space that was once reserved for shopping lists and col regs and people’s birthdays. It steals my sleep and burns the edges of my happiness.

There’s no nice way to talk about it. How do you tell someone about something so traumatising it changes who you are irrevocably. Something they will, most likely, experience themselves one day. You hate that for them, and you hate the tears in their eyes when you tell them what happened, because you know they’re crying for what they will lose one day. And you can’t tell them that it will be so much worse than they could ever imagine. There’s no golden light at the end of it. You can’t sugar coat it with positive outcomes, you can’t tell them the pain is worth it in the end.

You realise that you need to hide the ugly parts. She passed away. We lost her a year ago but we’re doing well, thank you. Life is hard without her but what a blessing the children are.

But. But. But.

But we will never be the same now. But we were 5 and now we’re 4. But we still haven’t deleted her from the what’s app group. But I cry every time the kids can’t see me.

And it’s true that death is ugly. The day we got her diagnosis. The simple procedure to buy her more time that ripped away the little time we thought we had left and shredded her dignity into tiny pieces, scattered from different hospital ward to different hospital ward. Each one with a coded name that meant more than suggested. She’s getting worse. She’s getting better. She’s going home. She’s about to die.

The hospital staff that came and went on some sick carousel ride. We celebrated losing the bad ones. But can’t we keep the ones that care? That made her laugh? They were so few and far between.

In between hospital visits we made phone calls to relatives and cancer support charities who told us they were sorry, but they weren’t able to help because she didn’t have an official diagnosis. She had slipped between the cracks. We watched the disease she didn’t have spread quickly and without any mercy. She was dying without proof. So the ladies with sympathetic voices turned their help away. It was unfortunate. They didn’t know her name.

We sat beside a remote controlled bed and pretended it was ok that the person we loved most was dying, then we handed over the burden to the next visitor while we tried to find someone, anyone, who could explain what was happening.

‘I just want someone to care about me’ We do Mum. We did. But we weren’t who she needed. All the degrees, all the PhDs, all the exams couldn’t make us the right shoulder for her to cry on. I’m sorry.

Visiting hours were over at 9pm, so we left her to die alone while we went home to newly made families and smiled as we played with her grandchildren. Fed them to sleep while crying in a dark room. Unsure what morning would bring.

I wonder, was she lonely during those long nights next to coughing strangers and bleeping machines. The nights when no one was there to chase down nurses who had missed her medications. Was she scared?

We laughed on morning visits, mostly. She wore her new pyjamas, the ones packed in the suitcase that was meant to be on a flight to Greece. Her hair started turning grey. She looked beautiful. I should have told her that more. We named ducks and did crosswords and I helped her shower. She was so beautiful.

And she was brave and calm and incredible as always. Always finding someone else who needed more help than her. I ran errands for people she had just met. A suitcase to collect, a blanket for the lady opposite. A vicar cane to visit and chat, the only person around to help ease her mental load. She was a blessing. Thank you God.

Then she was coming home the next day. She was getting better at dying. And then they missed an injection, and she was getting worse, and she was never coming home again.

She might not last the night. She might have weeks. You’d better get here quick.

No one tells you that death is messy. It wasn’t slow and drawn out like the doctor told us it would be. She didn’t just sleep more until she didn’t wake up. I was prepared for the change in breathing, for rattles, for waiting. But this was chaotic and confusing and messy. It replays with graphic clarity every time I close my eyes, while I’m driving, when I wake at night to feed my baby, the baby she will never meet.

It’s not the done thing, to talk about death. But maybe I wish it was, so I didn’t have to stand wide eyed in front of the poor consultant, begging her to prepare me for something I could never prepare for. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this post.

November is Pancreatic cancer awareness month. It’s the disease that stole from us, but it’s also now part of my mum’s story. And for all the people who turned us away, the pancreatic cancer society didn’t. It’s one of the cruelest cancers, because it’s rarely ever caught until it’s too late. Most people die within three months of diagnosis, my mum only 6 short and incredibly long weeks. I’m sure in the future I’ll do some sort of fundraising, but now is not the time. If anyone is looking for a worthwhile charity to donate to this month then this one has my vote. And not even really because this cancer needs more research, but because they were the only charity who provided any kind of emotional support to someone who had just found out they were dying and leaving behind so many people they loved.

Birth stories are all the rage these days. Everyone wants to know how your baby was born, how you were born. 39 years ago there was a huge thunderstorm. The intimidating midwife got stuck in a lift. I was stubborn and took my time, leaving my mum exhausted. My entrance was as dramatic as my moods, I burst into the world kicking and screaming, with a mass of dark hair and already chubby little legs.

On the 26th July 1885 Jill Nancolas held me in her arms for the first time. On the 26th July 2024 I held her hand for the last time. And a year after, almost to the day, her fourth grandchild was born.

These stories are all hers. Her birth story, her death story, her legacy.

This month in particular I’m thinking about everyone who has watched someone they love die. I hope you can find peace. I hope you can grow to accept the new person you’ve become. I hope you can remember, in those dark moments when you replay the trauma, that love is so much greater than death.

Because when we do die, love is all that’s really left.