“The taller I stood in my vulnerability, the longer the shadow of strength that fell behind me.” That sentence by Beth Kempton resonates with me.
Six months have passed since G drew his last breath, ending his and our (the kids and I’s) ordeal that was his Glioblastoma journey. It was a journey to hell and back and then some.
In the midst of the journey that lasted for just over three years, it was impossible to recognise just how vulnerable I really was. Now six months on from the journey’s end, I am slowly coming to terms with the enormity of the whole thing. People keep telling me who well I’m doing, how well I’m coping, how strong I am… I don’t feel as if I’m doing any of those things.
I feel as though I am slowly but surely picking up the shattered pieces of “me”. I’ll never reassemble them as they were before. That “me” has gone forever. This version of “me” will be different. I firmly believe it’s impossible to watch someone you love to die slowly bit by bit, day by day, and for that not to change you.
It’s recognised that a Glioblastoma diagnosis is one of the toughest to receive. It truly is! These tumours are a death sentence from the moment of diagnosis at present. Hopefully one day soon science will advance enough to change that. For now though, there is no cure. Many tumours are too advanced at the point of diagnosis to even be surgically debulked or for any life prolonging treatment to be an option. In reality, treatment can only buy so much time and tragically that can be quite poor quality of life “time”. Apologies if that seems harsh but it’s the truth….
Throughout G’s journey, I knew I had to keep going. I had to keep going to work (albeit work was in the living room rather than in the office). I had to keep going to set a strong example for my son and daughter to follow. I had to keep going for my elderly parents’ sake to stop them from worrying too much about us all. I had to keep going for G’s sake. I had to keep going for me because I knew if I stopped, I would crumble.
I kept going…
I kept working full time throughout. I kept writing, finishing and publishing one novel then writing and publishing another. I kept blogging, never missing a week. I kept journaling because pouring my emotions and fears out through the words I wrote on the pages of my journal kept me going…and so it continued.
There were many complexities to my marriage. I don’t propose to dissect it here. No marriage is ever wholly perfect. Mine, all 28 years of it, was far from perfect. Over the past few years, I’ve come to realise that society assumes everything in a relationship is a bed of roses pre-diagnosis. The truth in some cases can be a very different story.
I promised G right at the start of the journey that I would support him and whatever decisions he made to the bitter end, and I did. My love and support never wavered. I can say that with a clear conscience.
Only now though as the shadows of grief start to stretch out behind me, can I begin to appreciate the mental, physical and emotional toll that this journey has taken on me and my children. I don’t often admit it but we’re each a bit “broken”. Certain aspects have left each of us suffering symptoms similar to PTSD, but I believe that time is a good healer and with time and unconditional love, I’m optimistic that we’ll be ok. Time will tell.
I’m not very tall so I’m not sure that the opening sentence from Beth Kempton truly applies but even if I don’t stand that tall, I didn’t allow the weight of the journey to render me so vulnerable that I broke. I’ll not lie, I came close a few times but each time I would turn my face towards the sun and let the shadows fall behind me, adopting my “Sunflower Philosophy”.
That shadow that now follows me through every day has changed too. It’s a shadow compromised of resilience, strength, stubbornness, determination, empathy, compassion and unconditional love. It’s a shadow that I’m gradually learning to be proud of.
Coral McCallum 