D-Day

That is the name I have given to days when I am sad and heavily under the influence of hormones. D stands for any of the following: Depression, Darkness, Despair, Doubt and Disappointment. Fleetingly (and I really do mean 'fleetingly') it can stand for Death, when I can see only my own and my loved ones' demise through a port-hole of misery.

Today is a D-Day. I am really poor until payday on Weds, I have about a fiver to live on. The heat hasn't helped. Nor has my impending period. Nor did the fact that I was given a cover lesson and had to work flat-out all day to try and inject enthusiasm into wilting kids. Then I got home and discovered something about potential upcoming changes at work, and BOOM... D-Day*.

All I could see in my future were more days like today and worse, and I honestly felt hopeless. If I'm more honest, I still feel a little like that right now. I sobbed through a phonecall from my dad and jibbered through a phone call with my sister, and I felt embarrassed on each occasion. It is pointless to try and think yourself out of a D-Day situation. Every turn has me slinking back into poverty and mental illness and that futile feeling like I am wading through quicksand. Shame prevents me from sharing my feelings; thoughts of those 'starving children in Africa' that were pummeled into my brain when I complained about doing PE in the rain at primary school. My boss is a control freak! Tough, there are babies in Africa with flies in their eyes. Get a grip.

I can't get a grip.

So I keep thinking to myself 'Next year'. Next year I will be out of debt. Next year I will be able to quit my job and find one in a place that isn't run by a megalomaniac. I will be further along the bereavement trail and coping better without Mum. But it isn't bloody 'Next year' is it? It's 'Now' and it's fucking horrid.

*Also, my fish wasn't cooked properly and I had to spit it out and leave it on the plate. Yes I know, starving children in...

What a let-down!

I had a bit of a meltdown this evening, before James and I were due to leave to see a comedy show. I've been pining for Mum a lot since I got back from New York. It's almost like I took a holiday from grief and came back only to experience it all over again. Fresh grief. Nice. In the end I pulled myself together, got myself there and had a good time, but it wasn't easy.

So here's the truth:

I'm not in good shape. I'm so stressed that I've got shingles on my stomach, and shooting pains around my shoulder and neck. I'm not sleeping well at all. I'm knackered all the time. I feel constantly guilty because I can't live at the pace I used to, so even though I give people the impression that I'm coping okay, I'm actually feeling like a tiny piranha swimming the wrong way up the Ganges, my fins are flapping so fast that they are wearing me out. At best I am functioning at around 70%, which means I can hold a conversation and crack a joke, but need to compensate by staring at the wall on my own for an hour or so every night. Usually at around 2am. My doctor, counsellor and family all tell me to take it easy, and give myself a break by taking less on and indulging myself a little more than usual. But when I do I feel extravagant, selfish and like I'm constantly letting other people down. And worrying about that just makes things ten times worse.

Grieving is like climbing a really greasy pole, or being a counter in 'Snakes and Ladders'. I don't know when I'm going to be back up to full speed again, and that's frustrating for me and others close to me. One week I can take two steps forward, and then three steps back. Another I can take four steps forward and no steps back. Sometimes I hit a big fat snake and end up back near the start of the board again. I want to be better. I don't need to win, I just need to know that I'll finish the game; even if I have to start all over again in a few years time.

Dying

I'm dying. I'm ALWAYS dying. Well, sometimes I think I am. Perhaps more frequently at the moment. I also think that my loved ones are all dying too. I stare really hard at them hoping to magically develop x-ray vision to enable me to scan them for tumours. Last week I watched James walking through Central Park in glorious sunshine and just thought 'What will happen to me if you die?'. Seriously though, all I think about at the moment is my own demise and that of my loved ones. I think the suddenness of Mum's illness has left me believing that death is a trickster, hell-bent on following me around and ruining all my fun. It's like I have a cartoon reaper on my shoulder that I have to keep swatting away.

DEATH!

I might be being a little melodramatic here. I'm flying to New York this evening. Anybody that knows me will tell you I am a RUBBISH flyer. I have to wrap my head in a scarf during take-off and landing so that I can't see what's going on. I take Valium before getting on the plane. I make informal wills on Twitter and Facebook bequeathing my worthless belongings to my nearest and dearest.

Once I am in New York I will be absolutely fine. But until then I have to contend with the following invasive thought every 2-3 seconds for the next twelve hours - 'DEATH DEATH DEATH!'.

Nevertheless I am determined to enjoy this holiday, Dad gave me money towards it from Mum's life insurance payout. If I believed in heaven I'd imagine her up there, cheering me on in the shoe aisles of Macy's.

A letter to Mum

Mum, it is spring. I wake up to chirruping birds and only need to wear a cardie to work. The daffodils are out, and the evenings are longer and every single shop is stacked with chocolate eggs.

I picture you on your hands and knees, prodding at the bulbs in the back garden in Norfolk. I can hear the 'snip snip' of your shears and smell the ozone in the air all around you. Spring was your season, and without you I feel lost. My daffodils wilted last week and I left them as they were for several days. Sorry Mum.

Mother's Day

Mum's been gone over two months now, her death is still very raw and occasionally inconceivable.

I can't get over Mum's final days and hours. Dark images creep into my head when I'm on the Tube or in the bath, and I agonise for ages over these pictures which show her shrunken, yellowing and in pain. Questions rise like bubbles over the pictures: Did she know she was dying? Was she scared? Could she hear me? The bubbles rise higher, choking me, and it can take hours to recover.

But I had my first counselling session last week, which was great. The counsellor promised me that the images would recede, in time. Everyone keeps promising me that. But they haven't, they're still there, and while they're still there I can't enjoy any memories of Mum when she was healthy.

One way I'm trying to combat these thoughts is by trying to replace them with a happy pre-cancer memory of Mum, where she's smiling, or teasing me, or baking me a Victoria sponge cake. But it's a lot harder to remember those memories than the more recent, more painful ones.

I am determined to do Mum justice this Mother's Day and remember her as I know she would want to be remembered; laughing, always busy, and calling me a 'baggage'.















Happy Mother's Day, Mum. Love you.

So I don't forget...

The bereavement counsellor has just left. It was good, I cried and laughed and cried some more. And now I am eating Mini Eggs.

I thought I'd share another recipe, cos I'm all Mastercheffy, like...

Chicken and Chorizo Stew

Ingredients:
2 chicken breasts
1 chorizo ring - sliced
2 sticks celery - chopped
1 medium onion - chopped
1/2 can chick peas - drained
3 garlic cloves - crushed
Handful parsley - chopped
1 can chopped tomatoes
1 tiny bottle red wine
Salt, pepper, smoked paprika

1. Sprinkle half a teaspoon of smoked paprika over 2 chicken breasts and seal for 5 mins over a hot griddle.

2. Slice the chorizo into slices no thicker than 5mm and use them to line a casserole dish.

3. Chop onion, parsley and celery sticks and drain chickpeas.

4. Crush garlic.

5. Place sealed chicken breasts over chorizo. Cover with chopped vegetables and garlic.

6. Pour over chopped tomatoes and wine.

7. Season according to taste and cook in oven (gas mark 5) for approx 90 mins.

8. Garnish with leftover parsley and serve with crusty bread.