Chapter 24
24
LOUISA
I had a bit of a wobble when I turned forty. I could no longer deny I was anything other than a grown-up, entering middle age. Holly had wanted us to have a joint ‘life begins’ party, but I was too desperate to hang on to being thirty-something to embrace the idea of shouting from the rooftops that I was now in my forties. It seems so ridiculous now, and I wish to God I’d given Holly that party. She had far more reason to feel the sting of starting her fifth decade than I did. The pending fade of fertility scared me merely because it signified the passing of time and an ageing process I couldn’t deny, but for Holly it must have brought a sharp sting of regret about the children she’d so desperately longed for. I was selfish and stupid, worrying about ageing, when now I know only too well it’s a gift and a privilege that’s going to be taken away from me.
I’m not going to see fifty, and there won’t be a chance to make things up to Holly and give her the huge celebration she deserves for her next milestone birthday. Now that life has taught me the most unbelievably hard lesson, I’d happily wear a ‘50 Today!’ badge as big as my head, an ‘Older and Bolder’ sash, and deely-boppers adorned with a five and a zero too. But I won’t be here. That’s still hard to get my head around, and my heart aches for all the things I won’t get to do. I’ve known from the start that my regrets aren’t about bucket-list moments, I don’t care about the fact that I’ve never made it to New Zealand, Hawaii or Indonesia, even though those were top of my must-visit list of places before my diagnosis. I don’t give a damn that I never got to do a parachute jump, or write a book, or climb Kilimanjaro. All the things I wish I’d had the chance to do are about sharing life-defining moments with the people I love most. I won’t be around to celebrate ten years of marriage to Tom in November, unless something amazing happens with the alternative chemo the oncology team are talking about, but my kidneys aren’t recovering enough for them to even try. I won’t get to be there when the kids receive their exam results and head off to university, I won’t even live long enough to see them go to secondary school. Right now, I’m scared I won’t make it until Stan has his first day at our little village school. I need to hold on for that and it’s so close I can almost touch it.
For all those other big moments, from end of school exams, to buying their first houses, getting married and having children of their own, all I can do is be there in the words I’m leaving behind. I hope the letters will help them, and I know writing them is helping me, because I can visualise those landmark days when I’m writing to my babies, and it’s the next best thing to being there. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, because it still hurts like hell and I cry every time I write one, but I can picture it so clearly, see Stan and Flo’s faces in those moments, and I know I’m there somehow. Who knows, it might just be the cocktail of medication I’m on, but I feel a tiny bit of weight lift from my chest with every letter I write and I’m so grateful to the stranger on the internet who helped me see what those letters could do.
I thought about Christmas today. It’s not even September yet, but someone on Facebook was ranting about having seen Christmas chocolates in the supermarket. Christmas has always been something Holly and I have gone all out for, especially since the children arrived. I think it’s because our Christmases as young children were so far removed from the images we saw on TV, or even the things we heard our friends talking about. The pub was always open and busy, with both Mum and Dad downstairs drinking with the regulars while we waited upstairs in the flat above, listening to the sound of raucous laughter and watching TV, while we worked our way through our selection boxes.
My grandparents would have loved to have us, but Mum always insisted we had to stay together as a family at Christmas, which meant us being at the pub and snatching a quick meal together in the small window of closure the day afforded us. That was why, when Flo came along, even though she was only four months old on her first Christmas, Holly booked the Santa Train, and arranged for us to go to the reindeer sanctuary, the first of a series of Christmas traditions that have grown with every passing year. Mum and Dad still prefer going to the pub, and that’s fine by us, because it’s almost certainly better for the children that way. But Holly always spends Christmas with us, and sometimes friends will join us too. It might still not be the stuff of TV movies – it’s too messy, noisy and chaotic for that – but it’s perfect in every way. I’m so glad I’ve cherished every one of those Christmases and never taken them for granted, because I had no way of knowing that last year was almost certainly my final one, and the realisation of that when I saw the Facebook post was like another stab to the heart.
I want to celebrate my tenth wedding anniversary, to have another Christmas, and to share a milestone birthday with my sister, but the chances are I won’t get to do any of those things and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it… Except maybe there is, maybe there’s a way of me being at all of those things, even if it means I have to play around with the space-time continuum in my own small way.
‘Lou, I don’t know what all of this is about, but it feels like an intervention. If it is, there’s no need, because I can give up the peanut butter cups, I promise.’ Holly laughs nervously as she looks from me, to Tom, then Kate and back again. I know she doesn’t really think the lay minister is here because of her addiction to Reese’s. She’s worried that there’s someone from the church here because I want to talk about my funeral and she’s not ready for that. But it’s okay, because I’m not either. So I lead with my own little joke to try and make that clear.
‘I called you all here today because someone in this room is the murderer.’ Shaking my head at the expression on their faces, I smile. ‘It’s all right, I haven’t completely lost the plot, but I always wanted to be like Miss Marple when I got old, cycling around the village and sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted, and maybe solving the odd mystery along the way. Except I’m not going to get the chance.’
‘Lou—’ Holly looks like she’s about to protest, but I hold up my hand. We’re past the denial stage now, it’s time for action.
‘It’s what this is about, doing some of the things I really want to do now, because I won’t get the chance to do them later, and I need all of you to help me with that.’
‘What do you want to do? Whatever it is, we can make it happen.’ Tom takes my hand and I almost forget why I’m here and start telling him how lucky I feel – despite the fact I’m dying – that I got to share my life and my family with him. All of that can wait for another day, though, a special day, and that’s exactly why I need their help.
‘I want to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary by renewing our vows, to have a Christmas with all our family and friends, and to throw the all-out milestone birthday party for mine and Holly’s fiftieth that we should have had for our fortieth, if I hadn’t been so pathetic about it.’
‘Lou, it’s great that you want to make so many plans…’ Tom can’t even finish the sentence, his eyes filling with tears, because he knows I probably won’t get to do any of those things, but he doesn’t understand.
‘It’s okay, I know I’m not going to make it to fifty, we all know that and there’s no point pretending that I am. But I think I might be able to hobble across the line of forty-three, and what’s more of a milestone birthday than your final one?’ I try to smile, but it goes a bit wobbly, and Tom squeezes my hand while I try to regain my composure. ‘Loads of people celebrate Christmas in July, so why not September? And it’s the year of our tenth wedding anniversary, so that’s got to count. It doesn’t have to be the same day; it falls on a Monday this year anyway, and who wants to have a party on a Monday?’
‘We can do them all, we can make them all happen.’ Holly is already on her feet, as if she wants to start straight away, but Kate sounds a note of caution.
‘I think they’re all wonderful ideas, but it’ll be a lot for you; have you thought about the order that might be the most important to you? In case you find you can’t do them all?’ Kate bites her lip. That must have been hard for her – to say out loud that I might not make it through three separate celebrations – but I’m grateful to her for her honesty and she’s right.
‘I want to do them all together, I want to have a Christmas-themed milestone birthday party, with a wedding renewal anniversary celebration thrown in for good measure. I thought maybe we could use the church and have a marquee in the grounds next door, and I wondered if you might be able to speak to someone about whether that’s possible.’
‘You can definitely use the church. I’ll see what dates are available and the rest will be easy. At least when it comes to the venue. Depending on how soon you want to do it, we might just need to rope lots of people in to help.’ Kate looks towards Tom, and I follow her gaze, wondering if I’m asking too much, but he’s nodding and so is Holly.
‘People keep asking me what they can do to help.’ Tom strokes a thumb across the back of my hand. ‘This is their chance.’
Holly pulls her phone from her pocket. ‘I’ll make some calls, while you two work out a date.’
‘We need to make sure the date works for you too.’ I lock eyes with my sister, and she pulls the same expression I saw a thousand times when we were teenagers and she thought I was saying something ridiculous.
‘As if there’s any date in existence that I wouldn’t be free to do this.’ Crossing the room, she hugs me close for a moment, then steps back, putting her other arm around Tom. Our team of three are back in business for one magnificent last hurrah. I’m not going to let cancer beat me, even if it is going to kill me. I’m going to be at all the events it’s trying to steal from me, one way or another, and there’s not a damn thing that bastard disease can do to stop me.
I was on a high after outlining my plans to Tom, Holly and Kate, but that was six hours ago and now I just feel exhausted. Maybe I have bitten off more than any of us can chew; there’s so much to organise in such a short time, and I still have Stan’s first day of school to prepare for and more letters to write. It just feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day, but the truth is there aren’t enough hours left full stop.
I had a video call from my oncologist saying he wants me to go in for some more tests and a discussion about what happens if we can’t start another kind of chemo without it presenting more risk of harm than helping. He talked about the chemo we tried being the gold star treatment for my kind of cancer and how frustrating it had been that it hadn’t worked. I can think of another word beginning with F that I would have used instead, but I just nodded along like he was talking about not being able to fix a problem with the engine of my car, rather than not being able to prolong my life. I’m getting quite good at disassociation some of the time, and it’s much easier when I’m not talking to people I love. That’s when the tears come all too readily, but with the medical staff, I pretend they’re talking about someone else as a way of coping with it. And, whoever the consultant was talking about this afternoon, they clearly haven’t got long, poor thing. He might not have spelt it out exactly, but the cancer hasn’t been contained by anything they’ve tried so far, and whatever else they have in their arsenal has almost no chance of doing anything other than killing me with friendly fire. Every hour that ticks by feels so much more significant now, but I just don’t have the energy to make the most of them the way I want to. Instead, I waste far too much time scrolling on my phone. At least when I go on The Grapevine site I might see something useful, or read the posts from people who I feel genuinely understand.
Clicking on the forum’s app, I spot some notifications of further replies to my posts. There’s also a notification of some private messages from other forum users. The idea of those weirded me out a bit at first. It felt like I might lose my anonymity and in turn the space I’d found for myself, where I can be completely honest about how shit all of this is. But it’s actually given me a space where I can be even more honest. I’ve had messages from people with similar concerns about what might happen to their children when they’re gone. One lovely lady, @ameliasmummy, has already lost her husband to another form of cancer, and now she’s been given an incurable diagnosis too. She’s got a daughter of five and no other close family. She’d probably give the world to be in my shoes, and it’s funny how something like that can still make me feel lucky when I’m facing my own death head on.
Scrolling through the messages, I decide to read them all through before choosing which to reply to straight away. Even typing out responses uses energy that’s in limited supply these days, especially the emotional kind, and some will warrant a longer response than others. Those that are just a quick, ‘Checking in that you’re okay?’, or ‘Wondered how you were doing?’ can wait a while, but if there’s something from @ameliasmummy I’ll respond straight away. She doesn’t have people to lean on in real life to the extent that I do, and I don’t want to leave her waiting if she wants to talk, especially as there’s no guarantee either of us will be here if we leave it too long. Today there are no messages from her, but there is one from a user whose advice I’ve come to value, and I wanted to thank her for suggesting the letter writing to me and to tell her where it’s led. The message from @itsnotalloveryet2 is as thoughtful as always.
Hi there, I hope you don’t mind the private message. I just wanted to say thank you for the support you’re giving other users on their posts. I had a message from one of the forum users yesterday to say that talking to you is really helping her feel less alone. I hope the forum is doing the same for you, and that now we’ve blocked the person sending unkind messages, that you feel like this is a place where you can say whatever you need to say. I hope, too, that if you decided to write the letters, it’s going the way you want it to. There are lots of charities, including Winston’s Wish, that can help with supporting children when a parent is very ill, and I’ve put some links below. Don’t ever hesitate to reach out to me if there’s anything I can do to put you in touch with someone from one of the charities we work with xx
I’ve looked at some of the charities recommend by @itsnotalloveryet2 and other users of the forum, but I don’t feel like I need to draw on their resources. As @ameliasmummy has shown me, I’m so lucky with the people I have around me, and if the children ever need someone to talk to, and don’t feel like they can talk to Tom, I know Holly will be there for them. Even though I won’t take her up on her offer, I want to thank @itsnotalloveryet2 for her support.
Of course I don’t mind you getting in touch. You’ve been so incredibly kind and generous with your time. I was going to thank you for encouraging me to write letters to my children, it’s making so much difference to me feeling like I’m not completely missing out on those milestone moments, and also knowing they’ll feel that they have a part of me with them on those special days. I just wish I had more time, so I could say all the things I need to say to everyone I love. My husband and my twin sister are both going to have milestone moments and special days without me too, but those are much harder to anticipate and write about than my children’s letters for some reason. You might remember my original post worrying about my husband meeting someone else, and I wonder if I should write him a letter for when he does eventually do that, letting him know that it’s okay and that I want him to be happy. There’s so much that I want to say and not enough time to do it all or to see everyone I want to see. I’m planning to try to address that last one at least, by throwing the mother of all parties to celebrate a big anniversary, as well as mine and my sister’s birthdays and Christmas all rolled into one. It was your suggestion that helped me see I could still be at events I won’t be around to experience, at least in some small way, and I’m so very grateful for your wisdom xx
It’s a long response, but I need her to know that what she said made a difference. It means a lot to me that other forum users have said the same about me, because sometimes I feel like I’m not much good for anything these days. I don’t expect her to respond any time soon, she probably has hundreds of messages as a site admin, so it’s a surprise to see a reply pop up within the time it takes me to write responses to three of the other messages I’ve received.
Wow, that sounds like quite the party, what an amazing thing to do and I hope you have the best time. I think the letters to your other loved ones sound like a wonderful idea too, but I can understand why trying to predict the milestone moments might feel overwhelming. Maybe you shouldn’t try, and perhaps instead write them something less specific, something where you say the things you feel it would be most important to say to them in any situation: that you love them, that you wish them happiness, or whatever you feel you’d most regret not saying if it was left unsaid. You’re an amazing woman @worriedmum1982 and I’m sure the people you love would value any kind of letter you are able to write xx
She’s a wise woman, and she’s right. There’s no way I can cover every base for Tom, Holly and my parents, or even for the children. But I can make sure that the most important things aren’t left unsaid, and that they all know just how much I love them and wish I didn’t have to go.