Poor Air Quality

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It is mid-Spring here in Sydney. Summer is still six weeks away and yet there are over sixty bushfires burning around our state. The worst is uncontained and only an hour’s drive west. Over two hundred homes have been lost so far, fifty in my friend Shelley’s street. Her house is OK, but many of her neighbours who lost theirs, were uninsured. Their trauma and grief must be overwhelming.

I heard of one dear woman, with young children, who had recently lost her husband to cancer. Her house and all possessions were destroyed by fire. Every item, image, gift, note or piece of clothing that I still have the time to ponder, caress and treasure in my loss, has been taken from her and her children in the most terrifying of circumstances.

Where I live, the air smells of the burning; there is a heavy, smoke haze over the city, and the sun is an orange ball. Emergency reports are broadcast every half-hour on the radio – more in high-danger periods – and the weather reports end with, “The Weather Bureau warns of poor air quality; all those with asthma or lung conditions should stay indoors.”

Of course, when I first heard that, in this recent spate of fires, my immediate response, as I was driving, was to reach for the phone to warn Ngaire to keep the windows shut. Now, I expect it at the end of the news bulletin, but each time I hear it, it is like a fresh wound.

You see, that was my role: to care, look out for and protect my girl, more and more as the years rolled on. I realised that the pain in hearing this weather warning, however, was not in the reminder, but in the revelation that my ability to demonstrate my love in care and protection, which was so central for so long, has been taken from me. I weep as a write this, because this loss leaves me not only bereft of what was my most important role, but also of a place to put that which I have had prepared for so many years: my perpetual love, care, devotion, consideration and tenderness.

Like the mother whose children are gone, who lovingly prepares meals and waits, like the old man who has been suddenly retrenched after a lifetime of devotion to his job, I wait; I stare; I ponder; I search for that warm place where all this love can find its perfect resting place, but it has gone.

Obviously, the old man, if not beyond it, can be retrained, or find a new direction in retirement; the mother can receive her friends to help share her loss and her meals. But these things are all different shapes.

I am grateful for my friends and my boys, who daily help and receive help themselves, for I am far from alone in my loss. I am grateful, too, for this blog and those who, going through similar things, find comfort, solace and – dare I say – even enlightenment through it, especially those who are struggling to find the words for how they feel themselves.

As I said a couple of blogs ago, this process is all about being in and going through. Because of that understanding and the fact that I am gradually feeling stronger and healthier, I have an almost perverse gratitude for these confronting realities that, almost daily, present me with a different aspect of loss that I can then “gird up my loins” and begin to walk through. There is a strange wholeness in it and, deep within me a growing peace. I don’t expect that I will ever “get over it”, but nor do I want to.

Another poem to sign off:

Upon Retiring 

The guests have gone,

My children in bed;

The echoes of laughter

And conversation are suddenly

Stilled; their shadows,

Like those of silent undertakers,

Skulk on the periphery as,

Teeth done, ablutions done,

Pyjamas assumed,

I stand surveying the bed

That we once shared.

All is silent as I reach

For the lamp-switch, then

Pause before I flick on the radio;

In my memory, I strain to hear

The sound of your breathing,

Your voice, reach to feel your warmth,

The touch of your face, your hand,

See the grace in your eyes,

Your countenance, feel

The love in your presence,

An anchor-point for my soul

Now adrift. Like a storm-swell,

My need arcs up and towers over

The loss and vulnerability

Of my prostrate spirit

And face, misshapen in grief

And tears at your absence:

The queen, who ruled my heart,

Now lost to a kingdom

Beyond my reach as

The radio’s vacant banter

Takes your place.

P1010020

Associations

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Perhaps I’ve touched on this before, but it follows on from last time. I was driving to work the other day when “Georgia” by Boz Scaggs came on the radio. Within a few bars I was a blubbering mess, not because the song held any special significance for Ngaire’s and my relationship, but because it was a song from an album that evoked the era in which we established our love for each other. In fact, the album was released that very year. They were the years of our late teens, full of passion and life, with the world and our destinies before us.

The first night that we went out together – May 3rd, 1976 – I brought her back to my parents’ place for coffee (they were overseas at the time). As we sat at the kitchen table, I recall so clearly that we both felt that a sudden shift had taken place in our reality and we were each staring into the eyes of the one we would spend the rest of our lives with. It was an amazing, profound evening.

It was also a time of powerful emotions forging the foundations of our lives together, and a time of great music. I did a bit of a web search and compiled a far-from-exhaustive list of artists from that era. When I saw the names and remembered the great music, it kind of made me understand why so many of us old-timers are a little underwhelmed at the general state of music these days. Look at these names of the ‘70’s:

Bob Marley, The Pretenders, Roxy Music, The Doobie Brothers, Boston, Neil Young, Carly Simon, John Lennon, George Harrison, Elvis Costello, Elton John, Thin Lizzy, Queen, Fleetwood Mac, Santana, Blondie, Deep Purple, Rolling Stones – in their 2nd decade, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Rod Stewart, Marvin Gaye, Led Zeppelin, B-52’s, Abba, David Bowie, AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Pink Floyd, Talking Heads, Wings, Michael Jackson, The Ramones, Donna Summer, James Taylor, The Knack, Jackson Browne, Billy Joel.

As I sobbed my way through the traffic, it didn’t help to drift in my mind from song to song of that era that I won’t be able to hear again without the associations of that love, passion and life that put their indelible stamp on so many great tunes that we listened to over and over. Now that she is gone, the intimacy of those associations is no longer shared; the memories that each evokes are now mine alone, and it underscores the loneliness and loss.

Of course, music has an incredible ability to evoke memories. My parents’ “song” was Moon River and even now, many years after they have gone, I find myself drifting into melancholy whenever I hear it.

Smells are the same. Ngaire had a favourite expensive Estée Lauder perfume that she wore on our first date. I bought it for her from that time on; she never ran out. Someone wore it the other day in a shop in North Sydney and I made a hasty exit, choking back an involuntary sob.

I must sound like I’m crying all the time, but it’s only these moments now, although they do have a way of hitting when I least expect it. And I’m sure that these associations will be the things that will make getting over losing Ngaire that much harder and yet, they are a tie that we alone shared and I don’t want to ever find that they become just another memory.

I bought the Santana album, Amigos right around the time that we first went out; our “song” was an instrumental, a powerful, majestic lead guitar break from the album called, Europa – Earth’s Cry, Heaven’s Smile. Strangely fitting……

 

 

In and Through

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I went to dinner with some dear friends last night and, as we were leaving, Gary asked me when the next installment of this blog would appear. I said that I didn’t have anything to write about at the moment. As I drove home, I began to realise that it wasn’t true.

For people walking the road of grief and loss, I suspect the issue is not that there may be times when you have nothing to say, rather that you actually have a lot to say, but not the words. This surely is an aspect of the deep pain.

I went to sleep reasonably early but woke just before 2.00 a.m. This is not entirely uncommon, but I was hoping for more rest than three and a half hours. As I tried to get comfortable, I made a small, gentle movement with my hand to draw the sheet closer to my chest. I suddenly became aware of it being a “Ngaire” movement. Maybe this sounds odd, but I felt it to be one of those “the-two-shall-become-one” moments that I have talked about before. When such things happen, I find that I am instantly undone, hence sitting writing this now at 3.33 a.m., after too long of trying to get back to sleep.

You see, what I am finding about grief is more along the lines of what C.S. Lewis said in A Grief Observed: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear”.

In the dark hours particularly, the loss feels like a deep, penetrative disturbance in my being that has no ready connection to the rational. I become anxious, a little unsettled in the stomach – like Lewis, I keep on swallowing – I have to get up; to try to sleep is utterly pointless. I quote from my journal of September last year:

“In terms of my identity and the things that drive me, my compass has her as north. I live to please her, to make her happy, to have her respond to me. For that to be gone would be to lose my reason to exist. I suspect that that is why grief feels like fear, because it is; and it is a dark, unholy place.”

Such moments have become less over the last while. Strangely, they were more common in the year before Ngaire died. Her condition was so perpetually confronting that no matter how brave I appeared on the outside, within was a soup of confusion, dread and fear mixed with hope and, of course, love. The grieving began long before she went.

In contemplating the vast ocean of humanity that has suffered in grief as I, my boys and Ngaire’s close family and friends are now, I feel quite insignificant in the context of history. Despite what the humanistic self-theorists say, despite what the preacher may tell us about our importance, there is a vital understanding in this “insignificance.”

The reality is that, in this world of seven billion people, we are very small; beyond our family and the worlds of those who love us, we are, most of us, of little consequence. The author, Henri Nouwen calls it “smallness”. I like that because it is in this smallness that help arrives, if we ask for it. He goes on to say that only when we invite God in to the pain can we live fully through it. That is one of the reasons I write this blog: to engage with God in the pain to find the right way through it. As Nouwen says, “The way out of grief is in and through.”ı

In our western world, we have highly developed systems and processes designed to help us avoid pain. Consequently, our learned tendency is to deny, avoid, suppress and medicate. Sadly, all we have ended up with is a society that is largely unprepared for many aspects of life; unpleasantness and the tough stuff of relationships are often ignored or left unresolved until the pile of crap becomes too high. Then, we decide, it’s time to move on. “I don’t love you anymore” or “you’re not the person I married” are some of the ways we speak out our justification for not engaging in life.

We also “medicate”. Believe me, I know about this one. Sadly, we think that all we are doing when we use medication is numbing the pain. But, as social researcher and speaker, Brené Brown says, you don’t just numb the pain; you numb everything2: your ability to love, experience joy, build caring relationships and empathise. Whatever your drug of choice is, from alcohol, through to prescription drugs and even food, you numb your ability to be in life.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not being a wowser. Those of you who know me will know that’s definitely not the case. All I’m saying, from bitter experience, is when you use anything as a means of numbing the pain, you also numb your ability to engage in life, with all of its beauty and ashes.

Anyway, that was a very protracted way of saying that I am discovering that the best way out of this pain is in and through. Of course, I’ve had times of drinking too much, as a means of escape, but it is not my ongoing mode of operation. I want to get this right. Maybe what this whole thing is saying is, we only get one shot at this life, so for our sake and the sakes of those who love us, let’s do it right.

Thus endeth the sermon. One thing I wanted to add for those of you who might be going through something similar, is that because of the long period of grieving over the last couple of years, I feel that the grief itself is diminishing somewhat; the dark times are not so regular, and now the issue for me is one of loss. My precious one is gone.

I have started making a list of things that I miss about Ngaire and have found it difficult, poignant, beautiful, funny and heart-rending. I want to share some with you:

Things I miss about you

 

–             Seeing you in the morning sun, looking out on the beauty from our bedroom window

–                    Watching you paint in your studio, while I write

–                    Making you cups of tea that you never finish

–                    Standing, holding you

–                    Finding things that you mislaid

–                   Making you fresh bread and mortadella sandwiches with tomato sauce and you, every time saying, “Oooh, my favourite!”

–                    Your beautiful thoughtfulness

–                    Praying for our boys together

–                Ringing or texting whenever I see something that I know you would love or be interested in.

–                    Your cute sketches of things that you’re trying to describe.

–                    Sharing chocolate-covered aniseed rings

–                   Putting my hand on your leg while driving, and you putting your hand on mine

–                    Looking into your beautiful eyes

I don’t suppose the list will ever end.

ı Henri Nouwen, Turn my Mourning into Dancing

2 Brené Brown, The Power of Vulnerability

How much is me?

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Walking through the markets yesterday morning, I spotted some beautiful waratahs at a flower stall. Up until a few years ago they were a protected species – possibly still are – and weren’t readily available. So seeing them at market stalls for a reasonable price is a whole new experience.

The point for me, though, was when I was walking away with my waratahs and began thinking, “When did I become a guy who appreciates beautiful flowers?” (In fact, I stood for a while pondering whether or not to buy some stunning dusky-pink roses; I decided against them but I have to say, without good reason).

So as I cradled my purchase in my arms and wandered amongst the hand-crafted breads, fresh produce, coffee, home-made cakes, and meat from almost any creature you could think of – including alpaca – I thought back to how I was, in what seemed like my two-dimensional-days before I met Ngaire. I found it hard to remember.

You see, I always had an appreciation for beauty, but she had a passion for it. I think I could safely say that, thanks to that passion, I now love good art, architecture, design, and the stunning extravagance of nature in sky, landscape, plants, creatures and all their individual elements: clouds, mountains, leaves, feathers….  and flowers. She was also my muse, the one who was my great encourager, inspiration and sounding-board for all of my creative pursuits.

I don’t know that anything of me had as much influence on her, perhaps some. I think degree of influence relates to mutual love, respect, and familiarity – even admiration. I remember, as a small boy watching my father, that I thought to myself, “I really like the jaunty way he moves when he’s walking.” So I began to emulate him. The older I get, the more I remind myself of him. Likewise, I see in my boys some of my own characteristics – and sometimes they annoy me.

The next question that follows is, “How much of who I am, is me?” Now obviously, I am entirely me; but we are all, to an incredible extent, an agglomeration of the influences of our friends, teachers, parents, partners; even our children can have a profound influence on the shape of who we are. This doesn’t even account for the trauma that so many suffer which also goes into the mix.

But when so much of who I am has been shaped by her in an almost-ongoing symbiosis for so many years, how do I find the me who functions and has sole thoughts and individual purpose without her? This may seem unnecessarily existential but bear with me.

It occurred to me in my pondering, that so many of my choices in the past were fashioned out of a desire to bring her joy, please her, or engage her more. Now, without that impetus, I cling to tenuous frameworks like going to work, cooking dinner or doing the washing; even looking after my boys is fading as they are now all older and making their own way, as it should be. Suddenly, irrevocably, it is no longer Matt and Ngaire – the unit. It is just Matt. And, as I said in a recent poem, “[The grace and love of her] presence, [was] an anchor-point for my soul, now adrift.”

You see, while I wondered at the mystery, I think that deep down I had an idea that this whole “the two shall become one” thing, was just a metaphor. It is clear to me now that it is not. In fact, to add to it, I would say that it seems to me there is an ongoing imperative when two spirits are united – that they will continue becoming one while they live.

It is as though the house that was Ngaire and Matt has been half-demolished, and I stand in my half, amongst rubble and torn plaster looking into the void. Within the half that remains there is strong evidence of her everywhere, for the house was as much hers as mine. So, almost feeling like a squatter now that she is gone, I contemplate the rebuild. In being exposed to the elements so, the stuff of life becomes more tedious and difficult. But, I have many who love and support me to help with that “project”.

However, in the midst of this, I think of those who are refugees or destitute on our own streets who have suffered unbearable loss through persecution, war or personal trauma – whole families in many cases – and it can be seen on their faces: a tragic empty pain that only love and time may help to heal. It angers and saddens me that many in our society have forsaken compassion and mercy for the “first world values” of hedonism, selfishness and misguided self-protection. But I digress.

For me, of course, there is truth in the line, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all”. It comes from a very long poem of Tennyson’s, written over a period of many years, after the death of a close friend, and is to be ventured into at your peril, for it delves into the dark places of the soul. Having said that, one of the central themes in the poem is the ongoing search for hope after loss:

 

O living will that shalt endure

When all that seems shall suffer shock,

Rise in the spiritual rock,

Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure

 

That we may lift from out of dust

A voice as unto him that hears,

A cry above the conquer’d years

To one that with us works, and trust,

 

With faith that comes of self-control,

The truths that never can be proved

Until we close with all we loved,

And all we flow from, soul in soul.

 

– Stanza 131, In Memoriam – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

This is a worthy journey.

I think, therefore I blog

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Dear Reader,

I crave your indulgence. It has occurred to me over the last year or so, that a blog could be many things:

a) An opportunity to flaunt one’s ideas or opinions,

b) A conversation,

c) A place to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve,

d) A place to purge oneself (but why in public?),

e) A forum to share things that may interest others.

The list could go on, but the truth is that I have been feeling a little self-conscious at times, that the depth at which I have “bared my soul” in recent posts, could be considered self-indulgent, too private, or even egomaniacal. Maybe it is all three to some degree, but something compels me. To me, that something is twofold:

Firstly, I have always written poetry. It is a – possibly the – way in which I process my life. It enables me to examine, evaluate and allot a place in my consciousness to the events, people, emotions and circumstances that are part of my life.

To write poetry requires me to dig deep, as it were, to lift up  the said event, person, etc, and look at its roots, how it works in my life – how it affects me.

In recent weeks there have been times when to dig so deep was very painful and difficult, so I journalled instead. At times, even this was a challenge; obviously, because of Ngaire’s death, much of my writing of late has been touching the profoundly emotional. If there are those who have found this difficult, I apologise. The great thing about a blog is that you don’t have to read it. This brings me to my second point:

I do believe that, in my compulsion to write, there is an element that relates to filling a need in others. As a poet, it has always been my desire to help people see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Interestingly, I think that was also one of Ngaire’s great strengths in her art. But beyond that too, is the narrative of the journey of Ngaire’s last months and the time since, where I have touched things that I haven’t read in other places, possibly because of our society’s unwillingness to go there: the western social paradigm that if we avoid death, it will avoid us.

I have had a great deal of feedback from people who have been deeply moved, touched and helped greatly by the things that they have read in this blog. Some are friends of mine and Ngaire’s; some, I have never met or heard from before. Because of this, I keep blogging. Slowly, more people are subscribing, which of course, flatters the ego, but more than that, I think that people are being helped. I hope so.

A footnote on this subject: WordPress, who publish this blog, also give a lot of statistics and allow comments, as does Facebook. One of the things that I have noticed amongst all who have commented or “liked” any given blog, is that the vast majority are female – a ratio of about 10: 1, in fact. This gives me pause.

It could mean a lot of things. Maybe men don’t read blogs or use social networks as much as women. That’s probably true, however, not in that ratio. I suspect that it relates more to the innate “maleness” that says we blokes need to keep it together: we have jobs to do, support to give, problems to solve, buildings to build, holes to dig; and to dare to go deeper and engage in the things that may expose us and make us vulnerable is too dangerous.

I understand that; I get it. But, along the path I have also learnt that unless we become vulnerable, we will never know the true strength that lies within us. But that’s for another time…..

 

Condolences

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Condolence – noun – an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune or grief.

It’s a strange word and one that you don’t usually hear at any other time. That’s one of the things that I love about English; you can have a hundred words that are nuances of basically the same thing, but, usually, if you really need it, there is also a word that means exactly what you’re looking for.

“My sincere condolences….”

It sounds so formal and unnatural, probably because everything about death and loss is so foreign to how our lives are structured. I have had many different expressions of sympathy from many people over recent weeks. All have been appreciated. It’s interesting, though, that the ones that “touch” deepest are the simple ones. A mate said to me the other night, “I really have no idea how you must be feeling. I cannot comprehend it, but I am so sorry.” Oddly enough, that meant so much more to me than someone who may be offering comfort from a philosophical/ideological/spiritual viewpoint. Not that those aren’t appreciated, it’s just that, before Ngaire died, I had my own viewpoint, which would, in many ways, have looked or sounded just like many of the expressions that I have received. But really, my mate was right.

Along this road, I have experienced a lot of death. The ones that touched deepest were, of course, those closest: my mother, father, and before Ngaire, my brother’s death was the most devastating. However, though Ngaire’s passing was a possibility that was never far from my thoughts over much of the last few years, there is no comparison with anything that I have experienced before.

“….and the two shall become one flesh.”

There’s the difference; the other losses were just that: tragic losses. But this is like a disembowelment of the soul, the sundering of a union formed at the deepest level of being, so there are not many words that can come close to easing that. I also feel ashamed that I have been oblivious to the pain that those friends and loved ones who have lost partners must have endured. Then again, how could I possibly have known?

I am honoured that people have bravely ventured into that territory with us, though. Some have written letters, cards, sent emails, flowers, boxes of fruit, delivered meals, invited us for meals – so many expressions of love, for which I am immeasurably grateful and which have been a balm. In fact, without them, this journey would be bleak and dark indeed. Thank you.

As time draws the slow separation which gradually begins to make the loss manageable, the staggering and daunting realisation is that there is no going back; everything is new, and life – lives – must be rebuilt. I left a friend’s place last night, after dinner and, as I went over the evening’s conversation, began to fashion in my mind how I would tell Ngaire about it when she came home……but that will have to wait.

Here’s a poem about another aspect of life now:

The Estate

  Apparently now you have an estate,

Or so some letters are addressed.

They want to tidy things up

While I want to keep things going.

But when I read your name on other dispatches

From The Chamber Orchestra, the Art Gallery

Or even the bank, it tells me that you are

Still here, still interested and full of life.

The Art Store, the Fabric Store tell me

That you are still creating, flowing in love

Living in all that meant so much to you

And others, not silenced

But juvenescent, absorbing journals

And how-to mags, always thinking

How to bless, honour, bring joy

Through word, gift or effort.

Those who received show where

Your true estate lies; those whose

Lives were changed, enlightened,

Warmed are those who, part of the larger

Domain of grace and light, walk now on land

Reclaimed, with hearts imbued

With hope and worth, who feel the loss,

Not as that to be tidied, but as a precious seed.  

Image

 

“There is no normal….”

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That’s what my friend, Ian, said to me about grief. That is a great relief.

On Monday, it will be one month since Ngaire died. I now understand why people use euphemisms for “died”. It is a solid, confronting word to use of one whom you loved intensely. Even using the past tense, “loved” is a slim wedge in the door of that delicate  room of volatile emotions which, mostly now, only make themselves felt on occasion.

There is no set of rules for when that may be, however; just this morning as I washed my hands in my bathroom, I realised that the soap I was using was nearly spent. A great sense of loss enveloped me, because Ngaire had used that same soap. Tears filled my eyes and a feeling of hopelessness at the impracticality of keeping this slender shard, which really had no intrinsic value. But it had been touched – no,virtually cosseted – by her, and in that, I imagined that I felt her.

Many years ago I went to my father’s brother’s funeral. He had died a couple of years after my dad and was a very old man. On the way to the cemetery, the cortége left me at a red light, and I didn’t find them all again until the burial was over. In between I went on a default driving tour of the suburb that is Rookwood Cemetery in Sydney – a necropolis indeed. I saw so many vignettes of loss, that I wrote a poem of the experience. There is a line that resonates with me now:

“In the sudden loss, the dead don’t go; instead, we leave what was and start again.”

It is a new framework, a new world, in which I and my boys, along with those who loved her dearly, will have to operate without her, though everything within us is screaming that our framework only works if she is in it!

One thing that I have contemplated during this time, is the vast ocean of humanity that has experienced everything that I/we are experiencing now. We are all terminal. Grief is a part of daily life for hundreds, maybe thousands of people within a few kilometres of where we are right now. Within this context of history and humanity we, individually, become very small. It is this smallness – this vulnerability – which enables one to allow the Larger Heart into the pain. Herein lies the comfort and the strange peace that has been my and my boy’s reality for these past few weeks.

“There is no normal; there are no rules.” That’s about the size of it. I see her now and then – in my dreams, in my spirit; a dream the other morning prompted this:

Looking Ahead

I was tucking in your feet;

Early morning, still time to sleep;

I wrapped those feet carefully,

Lovingly, as you made sounds

Of pleasure, receiving the love

With the joy that only warmth

Brought you.

“There are only a few more winter

mornings to come, my darling,” I said,

As I left to make your tea.

 

Then I awoke to the sounds

Of the magpies’ gentle warble

That was your favourite way

To be greeted by the day.

 

It’s been a warm winter –

Warmest on record, they say –

And you’re not here to tell,

To see the early blossom,

Plan the summer,

Plan our lives.

But there is still love to give,

Hope to share,

Reason to explore

 

That we may help bring

This Kingdom that has parted us briefly,

You there, me here.

Slipping Away

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The nurse said that she had never seen a more peaceful passing in her whole career, nor had she ever seen such a beautiful expression left on someone’s face.

Ngaire’s last day here was an eternity in itself. Her exhausted, depleted body had nothing left with which to fight on Thursday afternoon, and she begged to be sedated and intubated, in the hope that when she awoke, she would have new lungs.

The lungs didn’t arrive soon enough as the exhaustion took its toll on Ngaire’s ability to keep going. The oxygen was on maximum as her heart struggled to pump its vital payload around her tiny, depleted body. Doctors had a balancing act to perform: sedation – which lowered her already low blood pressure, adrenaline – to help increase blood pressure to satisfactory levels, and, of course, oxygen.

At 3.00 a.m. on Friday, the doctor informed me that her heart wasn’t able to  do the job; as hard as it was working, her kidneys hadn’t produced anything in nearly twelve hours. He said that even if lungs arrived at that moment, she would be too sick to survive the transplant. Slowly, her other body systems were succumbing to the final throes of the battle that she had fought so bravely and hopefully for so many years. She was now, in effect, on life support.

Then began the process of calling dear friends and family, to tell them that our precious one was slipping away. Some came immediately, others when they could; some travelled many hundreds of kilometres to say their farewells. My dear boys and I sat in the hospital cafe, bewildered that we were losing the one who had had the complete attention of our hearts for so long. We united and went to her room together to tell her that we would stand with each other, would be there and support each other for the rest of our lives – that she would not have to worry, because we would honour her love for each of us in how we lived for each other in the days ahead.

There were many visitors, many tears and much love throughout the course of that day. Whether or not she heard us, we don’t know for sure; we do know that she seemed to grow more peaceful as the time slipped by.

She had told us that if she was on life support and there was no hope, that she wanted to be let go, so that she would not be a burden to those left behind. At this point, after years of hope, all that was keeping her body going were drugs.

Shortly before 11.00 p.m., after the last of us had said our final words and we had committed her into God’s hands, they gradually reduced the adrenaline that was keeping her heart going. Slowly, peacefully, she cast off her mooring line to this planet and slipped gracefully into eternity.

A week later, hundreds gathered to confirm, over and over, what I already knew: that she was totally unique, a woman of priceless quality, utmost integrity and overpowering honesty. Thousands of messages from around the world echoed the impact that she had had on so many lives.

Ngaire Susan, the richness of your short life is beyond compare as, no doubt, is the honour that you have received on your arrival:

“Well done good and faithful servant. Well done honest, loyal and compassionate friend; well done sacrificial, loving and thoughtful mother; well done beautiful, bubbly, warm-hearted soul-mate; well done Queen of my Heart. Well done.”

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No longer waiting

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I will post the story later, but here is a poem that I wrote five days ago. She was the greatest treasure….

 

Bruises

 

Beside her bed, I hold her hand,

See her arm in purple shades like

Menacing clouds, that she –

The artist – would likely

Call Payne’s Grey;

Her other arm in venal relief

Equally shaded, like an ironic gauntlet

For the life-enhancing nutrients

On their journey from bag to body.

 

When we were young

We never bruised – our perfect

Bodies, mistreated by youth,

Resilient and impervious.

Now we have seen and walked

The years which teach and,

Though hesitant to call them friends,

Have learnt through wound and bruise,

A way of love and care

That is slower, deeper

Than those young hearts dreamt.

 

We did dream

Of growing old together,

Of walks and conversations

And grandchildren; of miracles,

Transformations and freedom,

Never thinking of the depth

That the bruises would plumb in us –

Never conceiving that the path of love

Is hard won, that the wounds shared

Would be anchor points of joy

As our hearts strengthened

And deepened.

 

The eyes that once held wonder

And promises unknown, now

Are known wells of grace from which

I draw daily my familiar unspoken

Blessing, with always the richness

Of something far deeper.

 

Beside her bed, I hold her hand

And caress the bruises that

I wish I could share.

Waiting for a transplant 6 – Twilight Zone

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I’m sitting in the San Cafe with Remy and Ed; Jordy is on his way. After a beautiful start to yesterday, with Ngaire out of bed and starting to eat solids again, today has taken a horrible turn. Since this morning her oxygen levels didn’t get above 80%. Normally, this could be weathered with rest and proper breathing technique – but not today.
The doctor did some tests and discovered a pneumothorax – one of the tiny pockets in her left lung had burst, leaking air into the pleura (the sac surrounding the lungs). This meant that a portion of her left lung wasn’t working properly.
After a procedure to release the air, it was thought that her levels would improve. Sadly, after two hours, they hadn’t, and Ngaire was fighting for every breath. In the end, through sheer exhaustion and with her oxygen still in the mid-70’s, Ngaire begged to be intubated. She was distressed and spent.
She jotted a couple of shaky notes to those of us closest, then the team moved in.
In Ngaire’s situation, intubation is basically life-support. Once on, they can’t take take her off until transplant. She is also heavily sedated – unconscious – and may or may not hear us.
After the procedure, the doctor informed me that it was an extremely difficult process and she wasn’t happy with the balance of oxygenation, blood pressure and sedation. She said that if she could keep Ngaire alive through the night, she would be overjoyed.
So we sit in this cafe, contemplating this door to the Twilight Zone. We have all had tears, but we all cling to the hope that still resides in that precious girl. Please join with us.