New Year's Invitation

There is a sense in me that I should write something today. This is the time of year, is it not, to review that which the last twelve months has delivered us.

I am glad in a way of the timing of all this. I am glad I am able to close some parts of this story today, tonight, tomorrow. I intend to leave the remnants of his illness, the dying, behind me, and actually the more time that passes the easier it is to let those parts fade. I'll never forget it, I'll remember the pain, but I can see more clearly the man who was my husband before the cancer. I am grateful for this - I don't need to remember him dying. However it has meant the pain of his loss has intensified. I miss him, in every way, all the time. I miss him holding my hand, kissing my head, laughing, smiling, talking on the phone, sleeping, reading to his children. I miss talking about the news, the sport, our ideas, what to have for dinner, whether we need to buy more toilet rolls. I can't talk to him about our children, our precious children, about the pain they are suffering, the problems they are having, the things they are saying, feeling, thinking. It is a physical pain I feel and it is in every bone, muscle, sinew, nerve and vein. 

I write this from Sydney and it is clear to me now how much more I have lost than just my husband. Part of me, it is safe to say, died this year. Such melodrama! I don't care. It feels very real. There is a heaviness to me now that was never present, not even during his illness. A spark, a flame that has been extinguished. However: the space where the flame was has been filled with something else, something promising and different and surprising. There is a confidence and a maturity and a purpose. It is all about the health and happiness of me and my babies, the future, the promise of further adventure. Let me quote something he wrote in the wonderful book he left for his children:

One of the most remarkable things I've found is that since becoming ill, yes I have plummeted the depths and still do regularly and am finding the whole experience incredibly distressing, but I've also had some of the happiest times of my life, which sounds perverse. I've always thought that your ability to feel is like a symmetrical waveform and that to be able to feel intense highs you have to open yourself up emotionally, to make yourself capable of feeling those intense highs; but by opening yourself up emotionally to feel the highs you are also open to feeling terrible lows. Being sick has opened me up again to be able to feel, as well as the lowest possible points, also the highest possible points.

This is how the Bunker girls will approach 2015: turning the curves of our lows into highs, then we will hold hands as we hit the lows again. It promises to be as tough as it will be spectacular: but as Keith himself articulated so beautifully, you can't have one without the other.

So I suppose this is my invitation, from us to you, to be part of it. I would love to think that 2015 will be as much about harnessing your energy as much as it will ours. It won't be easy, it will be hard, but if it involves us Bunkers I can guarantee it will at least be interesting. Thanks so much for all your love, support, friendship and help this year. Who's in for the next?

How they are

Last night I dreamt I had cancer and merely weeks to live. The single feeling inside me was fear for my daughters, for their future, their wellbeing and their happiness, nothing else.

I am regularly asked how the girls are, how they are coping, feeling. They are suffering terribly. Both of them have separation anxiety, a need to know where I am all the time. They are sleeping badly, having bad dreams, dreams about me, about Daddy.

My five year old has regular bursts of real upset; she has surgically attached herself to the silver heart that contains Keith's ashes. She says, it's not fair that everyone at school has a dad and we don't. She says, I don't believe you, I think he is going to come back. She cries properly, real tears of sadness, and all she says is I want Daddy. I want him to come and give me a kiss before I go to sleep.

My six and a half year old is angry, very angry. At school and with others she is contained, controlled, comfortable. At home she takes it out on me. She is abusive, verbally and physically, hitting, screaming. I get her to hit pillows, rip up newspaper, shout. We read books about death and she soaks them up. I tell her it's alright, it won't last forever. She writes her feelings down and keeps the book under her pillow. She made worry dolls from plasticine and talks to them at night. Then she tells me, she says, I am worried about four things. I am worried I will get sick and die, that Daddy will never come back, that great-grandma will die, that we will never go home. She means Sydney, she is desperate to go 'home', to the place where we were last where everything was OK. 

I have to be careful to not attribute difficult behaviour solely to the loss of their father: they are for the most part normal five and six year old siblings, delightful and infuriating in equal measure. However I am furious that part of the innocence has already been chipped away. Isn't that the greatest sadness in the world? When children have hope and love and safety ripped from them. Mine are a bit broken at the moment, but with time they will be stitched back together, and as Bunkers, they will be stronger as a result.

People ask how to be with them; be normal. Treat them like kids. Try not to overcompensate with things like sugar and presents (don't tell them I said that) and don't worry, they'll be ok, in time, I'm sure. 

Import

Last week I uploaded all the photos from my iPhone for the first time since I acquired it in August. As I sat and watched the contents flick through on my screen it occurred to me how accurately the photos illustrate much of the last four months. So I've stuck them together and here you have it, a snapshot of the Bunkers from 2nd August 2014 to 26th November; the time we returned to the UK up to my birthday last Wednesday. Keith died on 23rd October. Big love X

https://vimeo.com/113439416