Cancer

A quiet moment...

Written by Gerard on Saturday 27 March 2010

It's the end of a tough week here. The cancer situation continues to impact our lives in ways we'd never imagined.

Lisa's spending increasing amounts of time in Belfast looking after her mother. It's a life of shopping, doctor and hospital appointments and tending to her mother at home. She fits in work when she can, but it's difficult for her. And, as I know, when you're embroiled in a situation where a parent has cancer, your taste for other things in life tends to dry up. You become absorbed in the crisis.

Cancer everywhere

Written by Gerard on Wednesday 16 December 2009

Let's come straight out and say it: Lisa's mother has been diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer. The events that led up to this have been unfolding over the past month, and a fairly concrete diagnosis came something over a week or a fortnight ago.

Lisa, naturally, was devastated. She didn't help herself much by doing some web research into the survival rates and details of the disease. Seems Ovarian Cancer is dubbed the 'silent killer'...

One last letter...

Written by Gerard on Tuesday 14 July 2009

I don't think I've called you 'father' in years. I adopted the monkier of 'Chib' for you after years of cleaning chimneys together. It got shortened and distorted from 'chimney sweep', didn't it? But it stuck. My nicknames always stick.

The point is, you're gone now, and everything you are or were has been added up: father, friend, protector, provider, verbal sparring partner, simultaneously my biggest supporter and critic, grandfather to my children and so much more. And all that you were is suddenly taken away. For such an unassuming guy, the void you left behind is incredible.

I thought the worst of it was watching you in pain. Suffering, declining. Your legs and arms getting thinner until the skin wrinkled around your joints. Your hacking cough that would overtake speech and leave us unable to talk. And those dreadful, painful sores that covered your tongue because of the oxygen. One of your sisters put it brilliantly in the obituary column: "a short tragic death, suffered with dignity" or words to that effect.

And for a brief while after you died, we were consumed with arrangements: wakes, funerals and paperwork. Still are. I felt strangely disconnected from your body in the coffin. You looked overdressed in that suit. I could see discolouration starting to creep in. I often wonder that people find comfort in visiting graves when the person they loved is decaying beneath their feet. What strange customs we have. All of it reminded me that you were gone.

Deathbed scenes and false alarms

Written by Gerard on Wednesday 24 June 2009

To say that the last few weeks have been stressful would be pushing the art of the euphemism to its absolute limits.

My father’s condition has deteriorated (he has cancer) since his second round of chemotherapy. Suddenly, I’ve been dealing with some overwhelming emotions - intense grief and a sadness that I’ve never felt before. As the prospect of him dying becomes ever more real, feelings and memories have been jumping out at me, helping to crystallize my father’s role in my life.