jmgoyder

wings and things

New beginnings

Every day, I smile back at my favourite photo of Anthony which was taken many years ago when he was well. This is the photo we chose for the bookmark distributed to those who came to his funeral, the one I often put into the back pocket of my jeans when I go out. Luckily I have a few spares because I accidentally washed one of them with my jeans the other day and Pip has dog-eared another one with her sharp teeth. FullSizeRender

Another new beginning: today I got to meet my newest great nephew, Archer, beautiful second son of my niece Ashtyn and her husband Gordon. He is such a winner! His big brother, Spencer, is equally adorable.

Archer with Julie

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I love them.

But something else new seems to be happening to me; I have regained that curiosity about the future that I experienced fleetingly not long after Anthony died. It’s a very simple curiosity and consists of doing deliberate but simple, rather mindless things that are somehow meditative and calming, like the jigsaw I have begun, and cooking new, interesting recipes. The curiosity comes in the form of the question: “Will I be able to do this?” And because these activities are so simple and enjoyable, the answer is, of course, “yes”.

Small steps I guess – a kind of hop-skip-and-jump into each new tomorrow of Anthonylessness, his smile of encouragement somehow more real now that I have lost the real thing. He was always so proud of me.

Standing on a slippery rock, with imagined wings preventing me from falling, on the brink of a new beginning, almost smiling again.

Beginning again

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Ming’s honesty

One of Ming’s friends asked him the other day if he were relieved that Anthony had died. Ming was taken aback and slightly affronted at the question, but eventually said yes.

After admitting this relief, he went on to say to his friend that it was as if a black cloud had lifted.

When Ming told me this today, I responded by saying that this was okay but my own feelings were different and that Anthony’s existence in the nursing home was never a black cloud for me despite the many cloudy days, weeks, months and years of illness. If Anthony had lived beyond the pneumonia that killed him, he would soon be entering his sixth year at the nursing home. He was already pretty much bed-ridden but to add suffering to the situation would have definitely been a black cloud for me too; I would have had great difficulty coping with Anthony suffering.

That’s why I am so grateful that Anthony died when he died. The quickness of his death still shocks me but I am gradually recovering from that shock I guess. It will take much longer, of course, to process the grief I feel (my own black cloud?)

In the meantime, I am fortunate to have such great support from family and friends. I’m very grateful for messages I’ve been remiss in replying to.

Ming’s honesty is sometimes ruthless but it is so refreshing that he isn’t nervous to say what he really thinks and feels. I didn’t know that Anthony’s nursing home existence had become a black cloud for Ming and I don’t know why I didn’t know that.

 

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The retreat: 3

It was the three counselling + guided meditation sessions with Karen that most helped me to take a hesitant step forward. In the first session, I explained that I felt trapped behind the bars separating my life with Anthony from my life without Anthony; in the second session, I had become curious about the future but was also wishing that I could have had one last conversation with Anthony. Karen suggested writing him a letter in the journal I’d been given on arrival. I did this and brought the letter to my last session, read it out to Karen, and cried.

One of the things that struck me about this exercise was that it was so different from my writing to, and about, Anthony on my blog for so many years; the public speaking Ming and I had done recently; the death notice for the newspaper; and even my notes for the eulogy. This time, I was writing something intensely personal just to Anthony and it is comforting to know I can do this any time. Yes, I read it to Karen but she was like a sort of conduit between the grieving me and the curious me and, once I closed my journal, I felt safe in the knowledge that I had written something very private – just between Ants and me. I am very grateful to Karen for her compassion to me, and her wisdom, and how comfortable she made me feel during these self-revealing sessions.

So this is my last post (for the time being!) about the retreat but I have also written a  recommendation here: https://www.tripadvisor.com.au/Hotel_Review-g488330-d2700910-Reviews-KalyaaNa_Spa_Wellness_Retreat-Bridgetown_Western_Australia.html

I was so incapacitated by grief when I arrived at the retreat but I came home stronger, wiser and filled with gratitude and, yes, curiosity. On my drive home I got a real sense of Anthony laughing kindly at my antics, and wanting me to be okay.

I’m okay.

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The retreat: 2

In the evenings, Karen’s husband, Vince would come home and serve us pre-dinner drinks – mineral water in beautiful wine glasses (the retreat was alcohol-free) and then seat us at the dining table. This table was in itself a visual gift – white linen table cloth, fresh flowers, scented candles. The other guest, J, and I were then served two courses of amazing food – mostly vegetarian/vegan/raw, beautifully interesting and creative. The four of us would chit-chat during the meal as Karen served and Vince washed up. There was a feeling of leisurely calm in the serving and partaking of food and Karen was very happy to share her recipe secrets.

I have never really thought about the idea of sustenance before but Karen (a qualified chef) provided us with such amazingly healthy food that we came away from that dining table sated, even comforted somehow. Having not eaten much of anything since Anthony died, it was a luxury to be fed in such a kind way. I kept wanting to hop up and help with the dishes etc. but soon learned that it gave Karen and Vince a lot of pleasure to serve us. I felt like a queen!

After dinner, I mostly retired to my suite and watched television and/or cried for Anthony. The resort had an extensive dvd and book library so, as a movie fan, I was in my element. It was absolutely wonderful to know that, once I’d retired, I would not be disturbed and that private space of grief, and movie distraction, and tears, and sleep helped me recover. Plus my bathroom had a big spa bath and I made the most of that as we only have a shower at home.

I realise that these posts are a bit disjointed but it is impossible to describe KalyaaNa – https://www.kalyaanawellnessretreat.com.au/ – in a single post. The experience was surreal and valuable at so many levels.

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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 – with 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  – stained 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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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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11. Lightning visits

During my bout with mycoplasma pneumonia, I wasn’t able to visit Anthony for about a month, if I include the week before and after hospitalisation.

Ming and my mother, Meg, visited him almost daily and that way I could speak to him on the phone, tell him (in my usual dramatic way) that I was terribly sick and in hospital and that’s why I wasn’t there with him. All these weeks later, now that I am well again, Ants still remembers my absence and continues to ask me if I am okay. A couple of the carers at the nursing home said that he behaved differently during this time, that he was uneasy I guess. I think that maybe the way he was missing me was quite visceral, rather than cognitive but I don’t know.

Now that I am pacing myself better, and looking after my health with lots of green juice, homemade dahl, and sourdough, I’ve allowed myself to do what I call ‘the lightning visit’ –  a visit lasting a few minutes rather than a few hours.

The lightning visit idea allows you to visit your loved one fleetingly, but memorably. I might spend most of an afternoon, holding Anthony’s hand, watching his favourite comedy, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and the next day he will say, “Where have you been for so long?”

On the other hand, whenever I am on the fly and in a rush, Ants remembers my visit – the rush of it, the urgency of me having to be somewhere else. Sometimes that ‘somewhere else’ is a volunteer commitment, a get-together with friends, a dentist’s appointment, but sometimes this is my excuse to go home.

The other day, when I was leaving Anthony after a lightning visit, I apologised to him and he said, “Don’t be sorry, Jules. You are so sweet.”

Okay so I am not particularly fond of the word ‘sweet’ because it’s just too sweet, but it reminded me of when Anthony was wrestling with the idea of us getting married. He was so worried about our 23-year age difference and kept saying that I was too sweet.

I remember that moment vividly.

Lightning

 

 

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