I have returned...

Yes, I'm back folks. Older, wiser, sadder. How do I write this blog appropriately? Well, I suppose I will just write simple facts, and you can read them if you wish.
  I received an email from my father on 1st February simply saying that my step-mother had cancer and that tests were being done. I broke the news to my daughters, telling them to prepare themselves. The next weekend I asked my father for an update, and was told that they would be seeing a specialist the following Tuesday to see what treatment options there were. Tuesday came and went, and what with not wanting to bug my father, plus the time difference, I was anxious for news. I always have Facebook on at work in case my daughters are about and want a quick chat, and suddenly a new page caught my eye. It was a tribute page for my stepmother, and it hit me like a punch to my stomach. Shocking though this was; unfeeling you may think...it seems that everyone's life is there for all to see on social media these days, but this was in fact the quickest way to let everyone know that my stepmother had been given only weeks to live, and while she was cognizant enough this was everyone's chance to share their photos, memories and love while she could still see and enjoy them. This was February 12th, and by Valentine's Day I was on a hastily booked flight (one of three, there is no direct route) to the UK. Strangely enough, despite the horrific reason for travelling, I found the journey a fairly pleasant one- I always enjoy a spot of people watching, and overhearing a conversation a man was having on his mobile phone with his wife reminded me why: Man "let me talk to her" then "so your Mom tells me you have a bit of an attitude this morning? You did? No, well, I don't think that getting snow in your shoe was a good enough reason to play Mom up; now I want you to be good and help your Mom look after your little brother until I get home".....cute.
Although Fate obviously cares not a fig about inflicting cancer on whomever she so desires, at least she saw to it that my journey went smoothly; no delays, no bad weather, no cancellations- I even arrived 30 minutes early.
I spoke to my father on the phone, then my stepmother. She sounded loud and vibrant as always, saying she'd see me on Wednesday as arranged, and was looking forward to it. I couldn't reconcile the cheerful voice on the other end of the phone with the horror of the prognosis.
On Wednesday I drove my two fabulous but apprehensive daughters to my father's house in my little shiny hire car. When we arrived my father burst out of the doorway and threw himself at me saying that he was so glad we were there and he felt she had been hanging on until I arrived, then he simply burst into tears. I had never seen my father cry, like many I suppose, and this raw moment of grief and helplessness almost undid me.
We went in to a changed house to the one I remembered, a one where my stepmother was huddled under a child's quilt decorated with teddy bears; ironically the same quilt she had lovingly tucked my youngest brother under, some 25 years before. She lay in the sitting room in a hospital bed provided by a local hospice, her weight loss all too obvious despite the thick quilt. She was on constant medication which made her sleep for most of the time, hallucinate a little in her dreams, and she could only speak in an exhausted whisper. My two brothers and their wives and children were there, and the hours passed with us all taking turns to sit by the bed and have small whispered conversations with the lady who was usually flitting about, preparing food, handing out wedges of her famous home made chocolate fudge cake, having a little gossip and playing with the children.
My father had met her when he was 31, divorced and staying in a motel. There was a Valentine's Day dinner dance and he had asked his cousin and her husband to bring someone along to make up the numbers so he didn't feel awkward. No romance he stressed, just making up the numbers. And then he saw her and forgot what he had said. He danced with her all evening, barely remembering to say hello to the other two in their party, and drove her home once the evening was over. She said she was free the next day if he wanted to meet her again, and he did. Not only did they meet up again the next day, but he carved their names in a heart on a tree and asked her to marry him. She accepted. He was 31 and divorced with two small girls, and she was 19- I often wonder what her parents must have thought when they found out, but they must have seen the same thing their youngest daughter had seen in my father. Six months later they were married, and this August would have been their Ruby Wedding Anniversary; my brothers had been busily collecting embarrassing old photos (those clothes and hairstyles!!) to display at their anniversary party, but they ended up being posted on the tribute page on facebook instead.
When we left the house, late in the evening, my daughters and I were very careful with our words; each trying to say the right words for what we knew would be our final conversations with my stepmother; their Grandma. The girls cried all the way home; I called into a petrol station for two large bottles of wine and several packets of tissues. When we got back to my friend's house where I was staying, we each had a huge glass of wine and talked and cried together; we had woken my friend up and he joined us, for the wine, the memories, the tears and the occasional laughs.
My stepmother did not die that night as my father had feared. She lasted another 17 days, by which time I had returned "home" and was back at work and in my usual routine. I was over 4000 miles away, and 9 hours behind the UK. When my brother messaged me to call my father, who told me she was gone and we both struggled to maintain our composure, I remember thinking that although in the UK she had died in the early hours of Saturday morning, for me it was still Friday night and therefore she was still alive......
I couldn't afford to fly back for the funeral; if I had known it would be so quick I probably would have just stayed in the UK for a few more weeks, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, as they say.
I struggled with my grief, my worries for my father, my anger over my stepmother dying when she was only 59, not even seeing Mother's Day at the end of that month. A painful, awful death inflicted on a woman who had spent her whole life giving to others. She had been a childminder and the walls of their home were covered in photos of her with her extended family; but she was so much more than that....she looked after everyone she met and everybody loved her. This is not a cliché ridden tribute, this is an honest account of what a warm, generous and amazing lady she was, and my father adored her.
Naturally the crematorium was packed with tearful people in brightly coloured clothes, no black she said. Although she could not have any choice in the timing and manner of her death, she could at least say what she wanted afterwards. NO black, NO lilies, all were welcome especially children, and there MUST be toys put out at the village hall afterwards for the children to play with. If anyone wished to make a donation, she chose a children's cancer charity, her reasoning being that she would hate to think of a child suffering what she herself had gone through. They were hoping for a few donations at the funeral; they got ten times more than that.
My two daughters have decided to do a parachute jump to raise even more, and I will put the link on here if anybody wishes to make a donation. I appreciate that although none of you knew my stepmother, there is a very good chance that you will have either gone through something similar yourself, or someone close to you has. There will sadly be many of us who feel angry and helpless; I remember the disbelief, brushing my teeth one evening and thinking my father was thousands of miles away doing the same thing, and probably looking at the toothpaste in the cupboard with the sickening realization that it would most likely outlast his beloved wife of almost 40 years. How the next time their favourite tv series returned, he would be watching it alone. http://www.justgiving.com/Heather-Baker4?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=socspondesktop&utm_content=Heather-Baker4&utm_campaign=post-sponsorship-donation-desktop
If you click on this link and make a donation, I thank you.
If you read this blog, I thank you.
If you are going through a similar experience, I send you my love.