Two cockatoos
There was blue as far as the eye can see. Cushions, bed spreads, tablecloth, electric "gopher". Incense sticks had left the small, cozy room smelling of vanilla. She was all but asleep when we knocked gently on the door, lulled by the busy day she'd had and the pain patch affixed to her chest. Half-lidded eyes snapped to full attention as that oh-so familiar smile beckoned us inside.
Nan is home; back in the nursing home she loves so much, where she worked as a volunteer and cared for others until needing care herself. Her youngest son, my uncle, offered to set her up in a house on the beachfront with a rotating roster of family members as carers. She politely declined, wanting to be where she has long felt most comfortable. Her room, resplendent in her favour colour, has been converted into a palliative care suite. After some false starts, her medication regime and routine have been finalised.
There was no blockage in her colon. There is a cluster of tumours strangling off her colon, and another seventeen growths in her stomach. They're lymphomas and so are, medically speaking, treatable... should one be willing to suffer six months of chemotherapy and nausea for a 50 per cent chance of remission (and a 50 per cent chance of internal ruptures). Nan thanked the oncologist for his kind offer of a follow-up appointment and stood by her original decision, just as we knew she would. At best we have three months with her; at worst, four weeks. Either way, she'll be in no pain.
stareyednight and I arrived just after 6pm. Nan didn't feel up to having dinner; we tricked her into eating by stealing her cashew nuts and offering her cheese and crackers instead. She polished them off and tucked into a green jelly as we talked about work, impending elections and memories of the old days out on the farm. Nan told stories about the pair of sulphur-crested cockatoos she and my grandfather had owned. "Your Pop always said we'd come back as a pair of cockies," she smiled, "so if some birds start landing on your balcony after I'm gone, don't shoo them away."
I asked how it felt, knowing you were going to die. The question horrified my wife but didn't faze Nan - never has there been a question I can't ask her. "I saw something on TV that really helped," she remembered. "It was all about how we talk so much about our past, and we focus so much on our future, but we don't stop to think about our deaths - and we really should. I'm actually lucky to know, more or less, when I'm going to die so I can have everything in order. I'm going to miss all of you, and I wish I wasn't leaving you, but that's my only regret. And we can't change it, so why be upset?"
As right as she is, I'll still be upset. I am now. Because sometime soon, there'll be questions I can't ask her anymore.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF
Nan is home; back in the nursing home she loves so much, where she worked as a volunteer and cared for others until needing care herself. Her youngest son, my uncle, offered to set her up in a house on the beachfront with a rotating roster of family members as carers. She politely declined, wanting to be where she has long felt most comfortable. Her room, resplendent in her favour colour, has been converted into a palliative care suite. After some false starts, her medication regime and routine have been finalised.
There was no blockage in her colon. There is a cluster of tumours strangling off her colon, and another seventeen growths in her stomach. They're lymphomas and so are, medically speaking, treatable... should one be willing to suffer six months of chemotherapy and nausea for a 50 per cent chance of remission (and a 50 per cent chance of internal ruptures). Nan thanked the oncologist for his kind offer of a follow-up appointment and stood by her original decision, just as we knew she would. At best we have three months with her; at worst, four weeks. Either way, she'll be in no pain.
stareyednight and I arrived just after 6pm. Nan didn't feel up to having dinner; we tricked her into eating by stealing her cashew nuts and offering her cheese and crackers instead. She polished them off and tucked into a green jelly as we talked about work, impending elections and memories of the old days out on the farm. Nan told stories about the pair of sulphur-crested cockatoos she and my grandfather had owned. "Your Pop always said we'd come back as a pair of cockies," she smiled, "so if some birds start landing on your balcony after I'm gone, don't shoo them away."
I asked how it felt, knowing you were going to die. The question horrified my wife but didn't faze Nan - never has there been a question I can't ask her. "I saw something on TV that really helped," she remembered. "It was all about how we talk so much about our past, and we focus so much on our future, but we don't stop to think about our deaths - and we really should. I'm actually lucky to know, more or less, when I'm going to die so I can have everything in order. I'm going to miss all of you, and I wish I wasn't leaving you, but that's my only regret. And we can't change it, so why be upset?"
As right as she is, I'll still be upset. I am now. Because sometime soon, there'll be questions I can't ask her anymore.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF