It has been a long year, running alongside the difficulties in Cardiff has been the deteriorating state of my Aunt, Delia. She has suffered from Schizophrenia and after many complicated years and campaigning by my father, she had found herself in sheltered housing in Essex. In her final eighteen months she began to turn into herself again, enjoying walks on the beach, all the soaps on TV and going to lunch with my mum. With this development, the relationships she had once had with family began to heal, she took a special interest in my sister and I’s education.
Unfortunately, all the progress was halted when in early April Delia was diagnosed with stage four gallbladder cancer. We were told that nothing could be done and that she didn’t have long left. They were reluctant to give us any estimate, but my Dad guessed 4-12 weeks. We always knew that an illness would creep up on Delia, she smoked like a chimney and had not had a good diet for many years now. But we weren’t expecting it yet. My mum was also quite ill when the news hit so the family was under a lot of stress.
When I returned to Cardiff after being at home I wasn’t able to see her due to time constraints. It turns out the family dinner was my final opportunity. My time at home had really improved my mood and anxiety levels, and I coped better than I had before the Easter holiday. However, whenever I spoke to my parents I asked how she was, and found myself asking if we had any idea how long yet. Waiting for the news became worse than the news itself for me, and I was always looking out for that phone call.
Delia got an infection at the beginning of May and spent the first weekend in hospital. We were told she wasn’t going to make it. At the time I was working to reach the pile of deadlines I discussed in my previous post, I had one, maybe two, essays left to complete. The possibility that she may survive didn’t really cross my mind and I began to mourn her. Again, the bad news didn’t come and I became comfortable again with the situation. I had asked my mum to write her a card, as I had failed to do so due to work stress, and was glad I had. I wanted to be sure she knew I was thinking of her.
She was in hospital for a few weeks before being discharged. It took a little longer than expected as her dependency level increased and they had difficulty sourcing nurses. Once home, she stopped eating and my parents began to plan for the worst.
On the 27th of May she passed away. She had just seen my parents and her sister was present at the time. She was at home and had access to her cigarettes. She died surrounded by family, knowing she was loved. I found out while visiting a friend and struggled to enjoy the remainder of the trip.
Once back in Cardiff I spent all my time with friends, and tried to take my mind off it. I struggled to sleep, and if left alone with my thoughts too long I found myself breathing heavily. Coping with death is different for all, but for me it became physical. My chest was tight, a feeling I had became familiar with, and my shoulders felt heavy. But I didn’t cry. I’d cried in May. During that difficult weekend, and the days that followed, I think I’d done much of my grieving.
The funeral was arranged for the 10th of June, and I spent the week leading up to it at home. I was glad to be home. I’d finished university several weeks ago and without my friends in Cardiff I wouldn’t have coped well with the news.
I became very anxious the night before, unable to sleep, and the feeling followed the next day. There was only a small number of us present for the service, making it feel incredibly personal. Although seeing someone I went to school with carry the coffin into the chapel was very odd. All the music choices were fitting, particularly the White Horses theme song performed by Jackie Lee. My Dad was unable to complete his reading, and that was perhaps the hardest part of the ceremony for me. I had seen him cry before, only a year ago at my Grandmothers, his mothers, funeral. There’s something very vulnerable about seeing your father cry.
The service was wonderful though, and the Three Counties Crematorium did a great job. Maybe better is the wrong word, but I felt at peace with the situation when we returned home. A peace I still feel now.