jmgoyder

wings and things

I’m glad I believe in Heaven

I’m glad I believe in Heaven, Anthony, because you weren’t so sure yourself but apparently the gates were wide open anyway and there was a big crowd waiting to welcome you. As you walked towards them, your back straightened, and your grin returned, and your voice came back. When you reached for my hand, and looked for Ming, your mother explained that we weren’t there yet, your brothers and sisters embraced you, and my dad introduced you around….

In the twelve days since Anthony died, I have woken up each morning, forgetting that he is dead, and even forgetting that the funeral has happened. The empty feeling inside me is like an icy wind tunnel and I cannot seem to get warm. My mother and I went to the grave-side a couple of days ago and yesterday, Father’s Day, Ming and I thought of going but didn’t. The impulse to go and see Anthony in the nursing home comes and goes constantly as I forget, then remember again. The many, many messages of condolence have slowed to a trickle, the beautiful flowers sent to us are now wilting, and whenever Ming leaves for work I almost say, “Can you go and see Dad?” And yesterday my mother was undone when, after church, she had to head home instead of to the nursing home.

On the day of the funeral, Ming and I had arranged for a viewing – just for the two of us. My only reason for this was totally irrational; I just wanted to make sure Anthony was really dead. And even when I kissed his cold forehead and lips I kept expecting him to open his eyes. He didn’t.

Ming and I had picked wormwood from Anthony’s favourite hedge to be used instead of rosemary sprigs, and a melody Ming had composed played as people placed these on the coffin around the branches of camellia trees we’d also picked that morning.

My feet seem to have grown bigger because they fit perfectly into Anthony’s ugg boots which I am wearing now. I keep watching the funeral dvd over and over and over again. So this is the grief I have anticipated for so long, raw, relentless, like a terrible storm.

But gradually, softly – away from that person sobbing – I am picking myself up. The special camellia tree Anthony bought me began to flower the day after the funeral, the dogs are constantly by my side, and Ming is here.

I’m glad I believe in Heaven.

 

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Anthony’s funeral

To my very dear blog friends, Facebook friends, and all whose messages to Ming and me have been so comforting, many, many thanks. I haven’t been able to reply individually yet so I am expressing my gratitude here.

The funeral was yesterday: a chapel service conducted by my best friend, Tony, an Anglican priest. I had asked my mother, Meg, to do the reading and she picked the lyrics of a song made famous by Frank Sinatra and, later, Elvis Presley. I didn’t know the story behind the words then but I knew they were the right words.

Softly, I will leave you softly
For my heart would break
If you should wake and see me go
So I leave you softly, long before you miss me
Long before your arms can beg me stay
For one more hour or one more day
After all the years, I can’t bear the tears to fall
So, softly as I leave you there
(Softly, long before you kiss me)
(Long before your arms can beg me stay)
(For one more hour)
Or one more day
After all the years, I can’t bear the tears to fall
So, softly as I leave you

Then, a couple of days ago, Meg thought she would like to give the reading over to Mandy, one of Anthony’s nieces. This was an absolutely lovely exchange and Mandy looked up the history of the words and found out that¬†Presley said the song originated when a man was dying and his wife was sitting by his bedside. As she began to doze off, he felt himself beginning to die and he wrote the words to the song on a notepad.

During the last 30 hours of Anthony’s impending death I had dozed off a couple of times, holding his hand. It was only when I woke and went outside to have a chat with Ming about the possibility that Anthony might actually die (something I couldn’t get my head around), that Ants died. Just like that. Softly, peacefully, alone but not alone because we were there.

It is impossible to describe my grief and shock at 9.40pm Wednesday 23rd, so I am not even going to try here. I can remember saying ‘no’ a few times because I couldn’t believe it. I hugged and kissed him, unable to accept that he was dead.

After the reading, Ming and I got up and did the eulogy and I was a bit shocked to see how many people were there – 150 maybe and many people had to stand as the seating was taken so fast. Old school friends of Anthony’s, nursing home staff, his entire extended family and my entire extended family, neighbours and friends and also people I’d worked with at the university, as well as a bunch of Ming’s friends. I felt so proud that I had a husband, and Ming had a father, who would draw such a crowd of people who loved and respected him so much.

https://barrettfunerals.etributes.com.au/etributes/anthony-goyder/dvd-tribute/

This man, Anthony, was my hero, my inspiration, and my definition of love.

 

 

 

 

 

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Anthony’s death

Anthony, you are still here with us Рwith me, and with Ming. You can be seen in all of the camellias you planted, and heard in the squawking of your guinea fowl. You are inside the taste of salmon mornay, and the aroma of the dairy cows. But you are also not here  Рstained glass of my soul, the king of Paradise Road. Beautiful husband. Beautiful father. We love you, Anthony.
The above is what I wrote for the death notice in today’s newspaper. Anthony died on Wednesday night at 9.40pm after a short struggle with pneumonia. It’s Saturday today and I keep forgetting and thinking I need to get to the nursing home. Last Friday he was alert and cheerful and that was the day he said his final words to me – “You’re still beautiful, Jules.” I wrote about that in my previous post, not knowing then, as I answered “You’re the beautiful one, Ants” that this would be our last conversation.
Anthony died after his first ever dose of morphine. The doctor said this would take care of any pain he might be in and also help ease his breathing. I rang Ming and his girlfriend, Amber, and asked them to come and chat with the doctor who had told me that it was impossible to predict, but that it would not be a matter of weeks, but days. After the doctor left, the three of us went outside because, even though Anthony was barely conscious, I didn’t want him to hear my question to Ming – “Do you want me to ring you straight away if Dad dies in the night?” It was a silly question really because of course Ming said yes. I had poured myself a small whisky from the bottle in Anthony’s cupboard and was sipping it happily, relieved that would he would be comfortable for the next few days, when the nurse on duty came out and said, “He’s gone.”
I couldn’t believe it and we raced back into his room. It is difficult to describe the thunderstorm of shocked grief that washed through me so I am not even going to try to express that here. I thought it was a matter of days, not minutes.
One of the most wonderful things about Anthony’s death is that, despite the many, many years of his illnesses, he didn’t suffer until just before he died.
I looked at his tiny, diminished body, and I saw a giant of a man.
Oh how much I love you, Ants.
PS. The reference to Paradise Road was not meant to be metaphorical. We do actually live on Paradise Road.
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14. Death and dying

About a year ago, Anthony had a series of TIAs (mini-strokes) and was unconscious on and off for a few days. I panicked and began funeral arrangements but he ‘did a Lazarus’ and has been as okay as is possible since then. Recently – the last few days – I have noticed a marked deterioration and this afternoon I couldn’t wake him up and he looked deathly.

I am once again afraid even though I know that tomorrow he will probably be bright-eyed again like he was a week ago. On the other hand, I think I better go back to the funeral people and finish the arrangements just in case.

A friend of mine, whose husband has been in care for around the same time as Anthony (he had a massive stroke), has invited me to a seminar this week on death and dying so I’m going to go. I think it will help me to be more prepared mentally and emotionally. If Anthony were suffering constant pain or distress I would be wanting him to die, but he is so comfortable and uncomplaining that I can’t even imagine it.

It is so many years now that I have been trying to prepare myself for Anthony’s death – ever since the prostate cancer diagnosis when the urologist said he probably had 1-3 years to live (around eight years ago!) But then the Parkinson’s disease took precedence and has been by far the more debilitating of the two diseases.

The fact that Anthony is still such a huge part of my life on a daily basis (even when I don’t go in to the nursing home), the fact that I don’t find visiting him and being with him at all onerous, and the fact that we derive so much enjoyment from each other’s company, leaves me ill-prepared. It will not be a relief when he dies; it will be the most grief I have ever felt, and I’m not ready.

I don’t think Ming is ready either, although he just assured me that he is, well, sort of. He also assured me that he will come with me next time I make an appointment with the funeral directors. I think it’s about time we got back to the business side of Anthony’s death.

One of the things I should probably do is to figure out what to do with my ‘Anthony time’ once he is gone. Of course there is the book I’m writing and that will help, but the gap he will leave in our lives is going to be massive.

This feels like the peak of the anticipatory grief I have felt for so long that it’s like a second skin; this is the knife edge of the most terrible mixture of fear and love. But perhaps this isn’t the end after all and tomorrow Anthony will look at me, smile his slow smile and repeat what he said the other day: “You’re still beautiful, Jules.”

 

 

 

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“Thoughts on hearing loss”

Awhile ago my mother had an epiphany about being deaf. She was at a social occasion and, as usual, finding it very difficult to keep up with the conversations around her. Meg never complains about this despite the fact that, at times, she must get extremely frustrated and even depressed about not being able to hear. Her hearing loss wasn’t gradual; it happened all of a sudden in 2003, just like that! Since then, it has become worse, even with the use of various hearing aides.

I love the following poem that she wrote because it shows the kind of resilience she has, and is a great example of acceptance. With three children, eleven grandchildren, with spouses and partners, four great grandchildren, and one on the way, family occasions are often loud, boisterous and Meg often misses out on any or all of the conversations around her dinner table, even if only a few of us are there. But the poem shows her ability to derive joy anyway:

The Owl
I perch nearby
Look down and see
A nest filled up with hatchlings.
Their beaks are open wide
A thousand feathers flying.
The patient mother drops a worm.
They squawk and flap.
Cacophony of joy.
She drops the next
And bedlam fills the air.
I watch.
I smile.
I share.
I am alone
But
I am there.

 

 

 

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Our TEDx talk

Here is the link to the talk Ming and I gave the other day at Bunbury’s TEDx event.

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Doing it

I bumped into some relatives today at our local, rural, shop and they said they had intended to go and see Anthony today, but it was too late in the day. It was raining relentlessly so I admitted that I, too, hadn’t gone into town to see Anthony but that Ming was doing it.

Doing it?

Why did I describe my visits to Anthony as a job that needed to be done? Why didn’t I say, “Ming is visiting Ants today”? instead of “Ming is doing it today.”

I am so embarrassed that I expressed myself this way because for all of these years I have felt and believed that the romantic love I share with Anthony would somehow sustain us. In fact, as Ming often points out, Anthony is now mostly lost in his world of Parkinson’s Disease Dementia. Yesterday, for example, Anthony was mostly asleep during my 2-hour visit and this is often the case.

Perhaps love is not simply a feeling but also a decision. For me, this realisation has made all the difference recently because in deciding to love someone, that ‘do it’ decision, is an absolute in the face of multiple contingencies.

Do it.

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“A person with dementia is not a person who is dead and gone.”

This was the sentence that I began, and ended, our TEDx talk with last week. Like the other speakers, Ming and I only had 15 minutes to deliver this talk which was a challenge as I had written this massive missive of around 20 pages! Thankfully Ming convinced me to turn this into a cue card presentation and we practised it in a hallway before the event began.

It is extremely difficult to talk about Dementia because everyone has a different story of what it’s like (for both the person with the disease and the carers). Ming and I now have a disclaimer that admits our luck in that Anthony’s personality hasn’t changed and that this is one of the many reasons we still find joy in our interactions. We acknowledge that other people, coping with the multi-faceted aspects of Dementia, may be in hellish situations.

I am so glad that Ming and I had the opportunity to talk about our own situation. Anthony is immobile now, his previously loud voice a whisper, and mostly he doesn’t know who Ming is. But he is still alive, free of pain, accepting and full of love for me; it’s a beautiful thing.

If I can influence just a single person to visit their spouse, parent, friend, I will feel I’ve made a slight difference. There are so many thousands of people with Dementia in nursing homes who never have contact with loved ones; these people are, quite possibly, the loneliest people in the world.

A person with dementia is not a person who is dead. And nobody is ever, ever, gone.

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9. “You seem like a very nice bloke.”

Ming visited Anthony yesterday and once again wasn’t recognised. I am so proud of the way Ming is handling this. Instead of feeling hurt and upset, Ming just goes with the flow and has fun with Anthony anyway.

Ming: Do you know who I am?

Anthony: Well, you seem like a very nice bloke.

Ming: Yes, Dad, but do you know WHO I AM?

Anthony: Aren’t you the hairdresser?

Ming: No – I’m your son – I’M MING, DAD!

Anthony: Yes, that’s right.

Ming has the same booming voice that Anthony used to have. He also has a similar gait and the other day as he suddenly appeared in my view through the front window, I thought for a split-second that it was Anthony. The nostalgia was unsettling, but also quite pleasant. He loves the stories I tell him about how Anthony used to be before and just after Ming was born. These stories have helped Ming to cope with Anthony’s ill health over the years, especially lately. Ming has very few childhood memories of having a father who was robust, gregarious, the loud, life-of-the-party, generous host because he was a one-year-old when Anthony suffered his first cancer – kidney cancer.

One of the most wonderful things for me is to see so many of Anthony’s qualities embodied in this larger-than-life son of ours. Ming is full of humour and a kind of boisterous grace. To hear him tell me about how fantastic his visit to Anthony was yesterday is like a gift.

Two very nice blokes.

 

 

 

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8. Carrot juice

Several years ago Anthony and I embarked on a carrot juice diet and we went through two juicers (warranteed and replaced) in our quest for better health. We did this for around two months until our skin took on a rather strange, yellowish hue and Anthony developed arthritic pain. At the time, I did a bit of research and discovered that an overabundance of carrots can actually be harmful so we gladly quit the carrot juice and laughed ourselves silly about what idiots we’d been.

Looking back to that time, I now think that perhaps Anthony was showing signs of the Parkinson’s Disease Dementia that has now pretty much paralysed him, physically and cognitively. I guess I was trying desperately to find a solution?

I am a great fan of cold-pressed juice but I also know that it takes a hell of a lot of carrots to make a single glass of this elixir and nobody in their right mind would ever eat that many carrots in a single day. Nowadays I make juice with the outer lettuce leaves most people throw away, a single carrot, an apple, and orange, and a bit of ginger. This quest for health has consumed me lately due to my recent battle with mycoplasma pneumonia; I need to be well again and it has taken so long to get better. The hospital doctor did actually include (in his written report) my suggestion that my illness might have something to do with grief but, in the end, that was dismissed, the evidence of the mycoplasma bacteria was found, and I was given mycoplasma-specific antibiotics.

Anyway, back to carrot juice; once I was out of hospital I decided to go on a health kick. I’d lost five kilos so fast that my arms were (and still are) wasted and (hilariously for Ming) still stick-like. The other day, I reminded Anthony of our carrot juice adventure and he smiled. He remembered!

Anthony: But it’s good now isn’t it?

Me: Yes.

Anthony: I prefer chocolate.

 

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