Handprints on the patio door

There is something immensely beautiful in children's play, rosy cheeks, muddy hands and handprints on the patio door...

Priceless...

Letting go

Feel the Summer Storm

It is late afternoon and both children are hot, sweaty and irritable. My dad seems to be equally annoyed with the heat as with the childrens' crying. We are hopefully inspecting the clouds slowly creeping from behind the hills. 

'We really need some rain!' exclaims my dad, sadly looking at the vegetables, which in past years were carefully tended by my mum. Her terminal illness has been lingering above us for months and I know that these words mean a lot more to him. He needs this cleansing effect of a summer storm, we all do...

An then, all of a sudden, almost unexpectedly dark clouds close the sky and the heaven opens, with thunder and a heavy downpour... 

Mr A strips himself naked and runs off into the rain, jumping madly and laughing. The expression on his face tells me that he loves the experience, loud thunder, heavy drops of rain on his body and puddles under his feet. Miss R seems intrigued by her brother and crawls into the rain, but quickly retreats back and is happy to play with a bucket of water.

I observe the children in their pure joy of feeling the summer storm. I long to join them, but I just sit there... Tears are pouring down my cheeks... The burden of my mum's illness is too heavy...

Hospice

A heavy burden fell off my shoulders. We managed to transfer my mum to a hospice. 

My heart was broken every time I visited her at the hospital. I don't even want to talk about it... I desperately wanted her to come home, yet she trusted that only the hospital can deal with her pain and nausea.  

Yes, she might be under the influence of high doses of morphine and yes, she is dying, but she is still a human being, who deserves all the kindness, love and warmth than anyone can spare. When welcomed to the hospice, her first words were: 'Here it feels like they haven't given up on me yet.'  Bless her heart.

I have been taking Miss R to all the visits. The little one  is always so blissfully engrossed in playing with whatever she finds around her; crawling in the grass in front of the hospital, playing with soil, picking up cigarette buds (yuck!), peeling off bark and putting pebbles in her mouth. 

My mum likes to see her even for those short minutes of consciousness, although the morphine is really taking all the emotions away. It saddens me that she will never be able to see my children grow up... Their giggles... Their cuddles... Their bumps and bruises... Their hand painted Christmas cards... 

Watching her grandchildren grow up was my mum's biggest dream and this has been brutally taken away. 

Up in the clouds

I have been playing Zach Sobiech's Clouds on repeat over the past weeks. And crying... a lot... mostly alone... 

I am struggling so much... 

Struggling to be the kindest daughter to my terminally ill mum who longs to come home, but trusts that only the hospital can help her...
Struggling to be the most supportive daughter to my helpless dad who feels completely lost without his wife being around...
Struggling to be the most understanding sister, to not judge how my brothers and sisters are dealing with their emotions...
Struggling to be the most loving mummy to my little ones who have found themselves abroad, away from their daddy, away from their home and surrounded by intensive sad emotions...

Mr A partially oblivious demands: 'Mummy, can you play the cloud song again?' Of course sweetheart, and perhaps we should talk about your grandma too...

Touching moments

'This is the beginning of an end!' After weeks, these heavy words are still echoing in my confused head and I can still see the oncologist's expressionless face: 'There is nothing else we can do for your mother. Make sure she is comfortable and pain free.'

It feels like this is my mum's last visit at home... She want's to go back to hospital.  I am sitting in my parent's garden, paralysed, holding back tears, repeating to myself: 'You need to be strong! You need to be strong!'. My worst fears that I have been dealing with since I came to Slovenia came true. 

My mum is sitting on the bench, so weak, so skinny, so ill, so faded. Then Miss R crawls over to her and my mum helps her with the last of her strength to stand up. Miss R clings onto my mum's hand and gives her a big smile. Such a pure, precious moment that I will always treasure...

                                       

I haven't been so scared in a while...

Yesterday was supposed to be the first day of our summer holiday in Slovenia... But it was the day that scared me, that shook my foundations, that left my head buzzing with endless questions... 

When speaking on Skype over the past weeks, I thought that my mum had been much weaker, paler and and was getting skinnier. But seeing her in real, it left me speechless... 

Is she dying???? How did we not notice sooner? Is it just me? Can my brothers and sisters see the same? Can my father see it? How did we ever find hope when we were told that she had stage 4 ovarian cancer?  Did the encouraging results of chemotherapy fooled us? Was she lying to us about the success? Is there a cure that can still save her? How do I convince her to go to the doctors? Who do I talk to?

It feels like I am going to be sick. I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to my sister...

The children sense all my emotions even if I try to hide them. The night was horrendous with both of them waking up on rotation and me not being able to fall asleep thinking about my mum.