Yes, I can check one major item off my checklist: my book, The Candidate’s Daughter, is finally published and available. It’s taken some work. I’ve been fortunate enough to have a fantastic editor in Sara J. Henry (author of Learning to Swim, then A Cold and Lonely Place), and some fantastic support along the way from friends and family. If you’re interested, you’ll find my book here: The Candidate’s Daughter
The reason I mention it now is because I know this journey I’m on with my Girl is getting tougher. Last night she didn’t want her dinner. She complained of sore legs, sore arms, and ear ache again. I gave her Paracetamol, rubbed her arms and her legs, gave her Nilstat for oral thrush, and put her to bed. At 1 a.m., I heard her stir so I got up.
Her blood sugars were a staggering 1.8. So it was out with the midnight feast of jellybeans and Fortisip, a liquid meal replacement formula. I also have a diet variety but that doesn’t get her blood sugars up. Fortisip does. Two hours later, with her blood sugars at 6.2 and her “Hypo” sweats abated, I finally went back to bed.
This, I know, will not get easier. For some time now, I’ve been in somewhat of an emotional void. I haven’t known how I was “supposed” to feel. If that sounds weird, let me explain. Up until now, we’ve had our ups and downs. In between periods of apparent wellness, we’ve hit lows during which we’ve made panicked dashes into the hospital. All the while, I’ve kept at my writing. All the while, I’ve been totally focused on getting my work up online. Because that’s the only part of my life that isn’t about my Girl. It’s the last sliver of my existence that’s totally mine.
And very soon, that will disappear.
I’ve been told by the experts that this journey I’m on is not a sprint—it’s a marathon. Ahead of me are hills and valleys that will test my edurance, that will push me to the very edge and change the way I live.
We all have this romantic notion of the family sitting around the bed of the terminally ill patient, holding their hands until that final moment when their eyes blink momentarily open, and they say, “I love you all, and thank you.” There’s a moment of suspense, a faltering breath, and then they’re gone. A few sniffles over a peaceful passing.
That may happen, but during the time leading up to this point, it’s a totally different story. An emotional wrecking ball is swinging the carer from one extreme to the other, and with every swing, their emotional resolve wavers and their physical energy takes a hit. There are fits of rage at what’s happening to their loved one; there are moments when they’re pushed to their absolute limit, and the fatigue and exhaustion feels like a tsumani has crashed down on them, sweeping the very ground out from under their feet.
I guess I’m fortunate. I have the support of my family and a range of amazing services offered by organizations like the Hospice. I know what’s coming. I think I’m prepared for it. I also know I’m not.
But at least I can look back and know that I’ve completed the goal I set myself—I’ve got my work out there. I can put my toe to the starting line knowing I have some closure on that front.
Now it’s time to concentrate solely on my girl. It’s time to step up to take that first next step on that marathon. It’s time to throw everything into making the last moments of my Girl’s life the best they can be. It’s time to start saying goodbye.
Wish me luck.