I am a bit confused as to the new purpose of this blog. Prior to Keith's death it was about his illness and its effect on us, what am I to write about now? I don't want to write about our grief. Why would I do that? It seems pointless to me to go into detail about how awful things are. Not least because I am regularly told grief is a 'process' that I must 'go through'; great, none of this is special or different, I am merely ticking boxes of symptoms like everybody else. Google those then; that's how we are.
No part of me feels like an individual. No part of me feels special. I feel like one of millions exhibiting the same predictable behaviour as everyone else. Everybody has their own shit, and it doesn't make us individuals. There is no comfort in this. I don't want to know about other peoples experiences of losing people, it doesn't help one iota. In my world and my universe nothing can help, not any knowledge from anywhere, no experience of knowing 'it will pass'. No it won't, my husband died, nothing can help.
I'm special to my kids, I'm special to my mum but mostly I was special to my husband. Now he's gone, there is really nothing special left. I look at other families of strangers in the street, families of four and think, no, this is not fair. I imagine they look at me and they can tell and they breathe a sigh of relief to think it happened to someone else and not to them, and then the dads reach for their daughters' hands to cross the road, and I think this is not fair. I look other men and I think, my husband was a better father than you, he was a better man than you will ever be; this is not fair.
All this anger, all this pain it's 'normal', it 'will pass' and change into something 'different'. I don't care. I don't want to be normal if this is how it feels.
I am not looking forward to the build up to Christmas. People rush around me buying presents for loved ones. The intimacy of being given presents by one's partner is on the long list of things ripped away from me. The superficiality of making it all about the kids feels plastic like the very presents they will receive. I imagine I will do much the same as I did last night: drink too much wine and send attention seeking messages from the phone that is permanently glued to my hand, my desperate connection to the outside world. They should add that to the list of grief symptoms: gets drunk and posts stupid pictures on Facebook. Then people will just think, oh it's ok, she's a grieving widow...nothing to see here. It's normal.
x
Sunday, 23 November 2014
Thursday, 13 November 2014
Three weeks on
It is only three weeks since Keith died. It feels like an eternity. People tell me time helps, time heals, but I can't believe that. The more time passes by the further away my husband becomes: I don't want him further away. Time can't heal, it can help deal with the sadness, help build the armour to get from day to day, time can mend, but it can't heal.
Darcey in her six year old mind said to me yesterday "It is going to be a really hard life for us." She means, the pain of missing Daddy is going to be always with us. She sees it.
His ashes came home this week and that did feel wonderful. The girls have their silver keepsake hearts with a sprinkling of ashes sealed inside. You shake it, you hear him. They hold them, kiss them, take them to bed. They talk to them, show them things. They took them to school to show their teachers. It's good, it helps, but it brought with it another layer of rawness, another layer of realisation of never as a reality; the never coming back.
"I want Daddy."
"I wish he would come back."
I laughed when I carried the tube of ashes back into the house. It is so heavy! I never expected it to be so heavy. It has such weight, such presence, I was laughing to myself, it is so funny. So Keith, to be still so present. It makes me smile.
We drift along with our routine keeping us on the rails. Too much to think about, too much that distracts. But still many rules broken: more dancing til 9pm, more pizza in front of the TV, more newspapers, coffee and music. I crave space and solitude and sleep, then people and exercise and air. I don't sleep, not really. It is too quiet.
The mind wanders to dangerous places...what would I do to have him back for just a day, an hour? Could this possibly be just a terrible dream? Dangerous places, dark, hard places. There is no hope in those places.
The good things keep coming, the silver linings. Friendships are strengthened, enhanced: more confident, real and honest. Still the words about Keith keep coming, all of them powerful. He was a man of integrity, he had great energy, he brought such substance. Strong words.
We're alright though, really; we're a team, we're Bunkers, we always will be. The now is terrible, but some of it will pass. We carry on because we have to and because we can and because we want to. We will always stand for love and integrity and very good parties.
But we miss him, very, very, very much.
with love
XXXX
Darcey in her six year old mind said to me yesterday "It is going to be a really hard life for us." She means, the pain of missing Daddy is going to be always with us. She sees it.
His ashes came home this week and that did feel wonderful. The girls have their silver keepsake hearts with a sprinkling of ashes sealed inside. You shake it, you hear him. They hold them, kiss them, take them to bed. They talk to them, show them things. They took them to school to show their teachers. It's good, it helps, but it brought with it another layer of rawness, another layer of realisation of never as a reality; the never coming back.
"I want Daddy."
"I wish he would come back."
I laughed when I carried the tube of ashes back into the house. It is so heavy! I never expected it to be so heavy. It has such weight, such presence, I was laughing to myself, it is so funny. So Keith, to be still so present. It makes me smile.
We drift along with our routine keeping us on the rails. Too much to think about, too much that distracts. But still many rules broken: more dancing til 9pm, more pizza in front of the TV, more newspapers, coffee and music. I crave space and solitude and sleep, then people and exercise and air. I don't sleep, not really. It is too quiet.
The mind wanders to dangerous places...what would I do to have him back for just a day, an hour? Could this possibly be just a terrible dream? Dangerous places, dark, hard places. There is no hope in those places.
The good things keep coming, the silver linings. Friendships are strengthened, enhanced: more confident, real and honest. Still the words about Keith keep coming, all of them powerful. He was a man of integrity, he had great energy, he brought such substance. Strong words.
We're alright though, really; we're a team, we're Bunkers, we always will be. The now is terrible, but some of it will pass. We carry on because we have to and because we can and because we want to. We will always stand for love and integrity and very good parties.
But we miss him, very, very, very much.
with love
XXXX
Sunday, 26 October 2014
The final ABC interview
Keith died on Thursday 23rd October. Here is a radio interview I had with James O'Loghlin at ABC702 Sydney which ties up the series of conversations with Keith.
Big love xxxxx
https://soundcloud.com/bunkertron/abc702-sydney-26102014
Big love xxxxx
https://soundcloud.com/bunkertron/abc702-sydney-26102014
Monday, 20 October 2014
Where we are
When one of our many nurses visited us on Saturday she quietly gave me a gentle, but very salient reminder: every day is precious. This is where we are now. We are in Keith's final days.
It was not just the physical changes that made this clear, there was a subtle restructuring of the support around us, gently, quietly. A couple of nurses coming every day, regular phone calls, extra medication to have in "just in case". A nudge to me that I might need more help soon, can you have some extra help with the girls perhaps?
The deterioration over the last week has been swift and destructive. No longer is Keith able to come downstairs, he is too weak. He has oxygen to help him breathe. He struggles to walk from room to room, we've started using a wheelchair. His weakness is intensified by the weight of his legs and abdomen, full of fluid and hard to move. I can encircle his upper arm with one hand now, the muscles almost seem to disintegrate beneath my fingers. He has fallen twice; he can't be left alone for fear he falls again.
Yet physical deterioration is relatively easy to deal with compared to watching him lose his mental capabilities. This is the saddest part. He has become confused and unable to communicate properly. His thoughts are for the most part jumbled, surprising, remarkable. It makes him angry sometimes, scared sometimes, but for the most part it is OK if I tell him it is. It is quite fun sometimes, too, the randomness of the confused brain. He can still talk about football with complete clarity, as if that part of the brain is unaffected. His love of sport is quite clearly going to be with him until the end. Is it that at the very end of our days, we will all show our true colours in this way, when we are reduced to knowing only the things that matter most? I see Keith now stripped of the outer levels of his mind, reduced to his very core, and for him it is made of love, humour and football. He is immensely affectionate, still very funny, and still desperate to see Manchester United lose.
The underlying thread to all this is not lost on him though. Take yesterday: he was telling me that if you want to survive riding into a Western town with cowboys you have to be the fourth rider because that one never gets shot. All well and good, I thought, I'll bear that in mind for next time. Then in a heartbeat, in the next breath, the cloud lifted for a moment and he said:
"Sometimes I think I see things, here. Sometimes I think I see my soul trying to leave the room." He started crying, he hasn't cried in a while, I had begun to think he was unaware of what is happening to him. But no.
"I wonder if that's what it'll be like. I'd settle for that, my soul just leaving the room. That sounds nice."
He says he loves his Mum, his girls. He says he loves me.
I am sorry if this is hard to hear or if it is too much information. I have never experienced death before and so really I am just telling it how I see it, right now, at this moment. All I can be is here for him now, gently absorbing the confusion, giving the randomness of his self a safe place to be. We are doing it to the soundtrack of 5Live Sport, Match Of The Day and 6Music. We are doing it together, all the way, to the end.
Thanks for listening, thanks for the comments, for being there: you're awesome. Kisses xxxxx
It was not just the physical changes that made this clear, there was a subtle restructuring of the support around us, gently, quietly. A couple of nurses coming every day, regular phone calls, extra medication to have in "just in case". A nudge to me that I might need more help soon, can you have some extra help with the girls perhaps?
The deterioration over the last week has been swift and destructive. No longer is Keith able to come downstairs, he is too weak. He has oxygen to help him breathe. He struggles to walk from room to room, we've started using a wheelchair. His weakness is intensified by the weight of his legs and abdomen, full of fluid and hard to move. I can encircle his upper arm with one hand now, the muscles almost seem to disintegrate beneath my fingers. He has fallen twice; he can't be left alone for fear he falls again.
Yet physical deterioration is relatively easy to deal with compared to watching him lose his mental capabilities. This is the saddest part. He has become confused and unable to communicate properly. His thoughts are for the most part jumbled, surprising, remarkable. It makes him angry sometimes, scared sometimes, but for the most part it is OK if I tell him it is. It is quite fun sometimes, too, the randomness of the confused brain. He can still talk about football with complete clarity, as if that part of the brain is unaffected. His love of sport is quite clearly going to be with him until the end. Is it that at the very end of our days, we will all show our true colours in this way, when we are reduced to knowing only the things that matter most? I see Keith now stripped of the outer levels of his mind, reduced to his very core, and for him it is made of love, humour and football. He is immensely affectionate, still very funny, and still desperate to see Manchester United lose.
The underlying thread to all this is not lost on him though. Take yesterday: he was telling me that if you want to survive riding into a Western town with cowboys you have to be the fourth rider because that one never gets shot. All well and good, I thought, I'll bear that in mind for next time. Then in a heartbeat, in the next breath, the cloud lifted for a moment and he said:
"Sometimes I think I see things, here. Sometimes I think I see my soul trying to leave the room." He started crying, he hasn't cried in a while, I had begun to think he was unaware of what is happening to him. But no.
"I wonder if that's what it'll be like. I'd settle for that, my soul just leaving the room. That sounds nice."
He says he loves his Mum, his girls. He says he loves me.
I am sorry if this is hard to hear or if it is too much information. I have never experienced death before and so really I am just telling it how I see it, right now, at this moment. All I can be is here for him now, gently absorbing the confusion, giving the randomness of his self a safe place to be. We are doing it to the soundtrack of 5Live Sport, Match Of The Day and 6Music. We are doing it together, all the way, to the end.
Thanks for listening, thanks for the comments, for being there: you're awesome. Kisses xxxxx
Monday, 15 September 2014
What he says
This is how it goes.
I say, I think I've changed my mind, I think I want an indoor palm tree instead of a suit of armour. He says, get two. He says, this house, it feels good to be in this house. He says, I can move from room to room, be in each one so easily: there are high ceilings, big windows. I can be in this house, it's a good house, it's good we're in this house.
He reads messages, emails, from old friends, new friends, friends he hasn't seen for a long time. He cries when he reads them. He says, I always wanted to be that person, who changes a room when they walk into it. I never thought I was, I never believed I was that man. He says, I realise now I changed peoples lives. I see how much of an impact I had on some people, they tell me I made that impact, they tell me I changed them. He says, I feel really proud of that: that's what I achieved, that's what I did and I am really proud of myself.
Outwardly he shows little self pity; inside he crumbles. He says, why me, why my lungs? He never smoked - never drugs, no cigarettes. His breathing is becoming more laboured, he struggles for breath. When he sleeps it is shallow, older. The cancer, it is talking hold of his lungs. Stairs are hard, walking a struggle. He doesn't go out, much. He stays in, he moves from room to room. It's too hard.
He says, what happened to me, what happened to my body? His abdomen is distended, inflated, his legs and feet swollen, painful. His clothes don't fit, his beautiful shirts, all too small, too tight. His liver has been taken over by tumours, it is dying, it can't cope. He says, I wish I had taken more risk. He means physically, he means more than just driving too fast and riding horses in Patagonia. He means, when I had a good body, a functioning body, why didn't I take more risks? He says, I see people doing that in photos and on television and I envy them their ability to take that risk. He looks in a mirror and he is disgusted, distraught. His dying body.
We talk about his funeral. He says, make it for the girls. He says, make sure there is no black, don't scare the girls, absolutely no black. He tells me who he doesn't want to come. We joke about his funeral. He thinks about it, he is producing it, he cries. He cries a lot.
The girls say, is Daddy going to die today? When is Daddy going to die? What will happen when Daddy dies? Darcey asks, does Daddy have to die? Florence says, I don't want to talk about Daddy dying.
I say, I think I've changed my mind, I think I want an indoor palm tree instead of a suit of armour. He says, get two. He says, this house, it feels good to be in this house. He says, I can move from room to room, be in each one so easily: there are high ceilings, big windows. I can be in this house, it's a good house, it's good we're in this house.
He reads messages, emails, from old friends, new friends, friends he hasn't seen for a long time. He cries when he reads them. He says, I always wanted to be that person, who changes a room when they walk into it. I never thought I was, I never believed I was that man. He says, I realise now I changed peoples lives. I see how much of an impact I had on some people, they tell me I made that impact, they tell me I changed them. He says, I feel really proud of that: that's what I achieved, that's what I did and I am really proud of myself.
Outwardly he shows little self pity; inside he crumbles. He says, why me, why my lungs? He never smoked - never drugs, no cigarettes. His breathing is becoming more laboured, he struggles for breath. When he sleeps it is shallow, older. The cancer, it is talking hold of his lungs. Stairs are hard, walking a struggle. He doesn't go out, much. He stays in, he moves from room to room. It's too hard.
He says, what happened to me, what happened to my body? His abdomen is distended, inflated, his legs and feet swollen, painful. His clothes don't fit, his beautiful shirts, all too small, too tight. His liver has been taken over by tumours, it is dying, it can't cope. He says, I wish I had taken more risk. He means physically, he means more than just driving too fast and riding horses in Patagonia. He means, when I had a good body, a functioning body, why didn't I take more risks? He says, I see people doing that in photos and on television and I envy them their ability to take that risk. He looks in a mirror and he is disgusted, distraught. His dying body.
We talk about his funeral. He says, make it for the girls. He says, make sure there is no black, don't scare the girls, absolutely no black. He tells me who he doesn't want to come. We joke about his funeral. He thinks about it, he is producing it, he cries. He cries a lot.
The girls say, is Daddy going to die today? When is Daddy going to die? What will happen when Daddy dies? Darcey asks, does Daddy have to die? Florence says, I don't want to talk about Daddy dying.
He says, when I'm gone you're going to have to be strong, and when you're not feeling strong, put on a suit of armour, and pretend to be strong. He says, you can do anything, you have so much opportunity. He says, you are amazing.
He says, when I am gone, you must teach the girls, you must show them there is so much good in the world. There is so much beauty, so much wonder. He says to me, don't be scared of being happy. Don't be afraid to be happy. Seek happiness. He says, celebrate the good. Strive to be happy. He says, it will be hard to be happy but there is so much to be happy for. He says you have so much of your life to live, so many wonderful people around you. Don't be scared of being happy. Be happy. He says, celebrate the good, you and the girls, seek happiness.
I say, I will, I will do that. I will celebrate the good. I will strive to be happy. We will do that. We will do it for us, and we will do it for you.
That is how it goes.
X
Monday, 1 September 2014
Keith's latest radio interview
Keith's been giving regular interviews to ABC Sydney and here is his latest, in his own words.
https://soundcloud.com/bunkertron/keith-bunker-abc-31814
xxxxx
https://soundcloud.com/bunkertron/keith-bunker-abc-31814
xxxxx
Thursday, 21 August 2014
Some bad news
Hello friends. A difficult one, this. Keith's condition has begun to deteriorate quite rapidly and yesterday the oncologist told us he is looking at having only weeks left. Whilst not a surprise that we would reach to this point it was still very much a kick to the stomach. We're OK though sort of: desperate to move into our new house next week when our furniture arrives.
We of course expected this would happen one day but I must admit I didn't think it would happen so soon. Still, the signs have been there over the last week and we both knew something had changed. Now I suppose we are very much operating day to day.
For your records our new address will be:
Moray Place
Edinburgh
EH3 6DS
Visitors are always welcome.
I would have preferred to impart this information to many of you in person; be assured I feel your love.
Peace out friends
xxxxx
We of course expected this would happen one day but I must admit I didn't think it would happen so soon. Still, the signs have been there over the last week and we both knew something had changed. Now I suppose we are very much operating day to day.
For your records our new address will be:
Moray Place
Edinburgh
EH3 6DS
Visitors are always welcome.
I would have preferred to impart this information to many of you in person; be assured I feel your love.
Peace out friends
xxxxx
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