I spend 19 hours away from your bedside.
.
It’s like you’re living with mummy and visiting us
our son said to me yesterday.
.
The kids are surrounded by family and friends, cloaked in love, busy as ever.
But because they know they’re losing one parent they can’t bear the feeing that both have gone missing.
.
So I return home for the evening.
It’s a wrench
leaving you.
But your sister takes up the vigil
so I go.
.
And as it turns out
you have a whale of a time.
.
Full of energy, apparently.
Hosting your visitors and nurses with characteristic charm.
Dancing in your bed.
You sleep well too.
Exhausted, possibly.
Or perhaps feeding off your sister’s feline ability to doze deeply through anything.
.
Back at home
I feel myself begin to unravel.
.
The normality of a Monday night shot through with your absence.
The gap at the table.
The empty space in our bed.
The hole running through the middle of me.
.
Like a competed jigsaw with a piece missing.
.
A vision of the future.
Marty McFly grasping a photo of a family fading slowly to transparency.
The crushing loneliness to come.
.
In the hospice
I’ve been with you every step of the way.
Adrenaline fuelled by each call for the nurse
any need of yours I can help fulfil.
I feed off your fight instinct
and top it up with endless cups of caffeine.
.
But here at home
I need to hold space for our children’s fear.
And confusion.
And sadness.
.
Together
we resist the pull to pave the way for the despair to come.
.
I listen to them read.
Refill their water.
Apply Vapourub.
And Bazuka.
Move the cat.
.
They take it in turns in our bed.
.
In the morning
driving back to the hospice
I cry in the car.
Listening to Coldplay.
Like a fucking Richard Curtis film or something.
.
Jesus.
.
When I arrive
you are ready for a trip to the garden.
.
So you lift yourself from the bed
put on your dressing gown
and walk
barefoot
one foot in front of the other
down the path from your room
a step at a time
into the garden
and onto the grass.
.
A mighty feat
.
You sit
turn your face to the sun
and smile.
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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.
Hi George, thank you so much for reaching out to school to share your story, experience and words with us all. I don’t know how you’ve done it but you’ve managed to capture the heartbreaking beauty amidst the pain. I’ve just started a journey with anticipatory grief with my mum and although it’s very different, i’ve found so much comfort in reading what you’ve written. Sending you all love and prayers, Abi
Hi George. I was also brought here through the school email. Your writing is beautiful and radiates so much love for your wife and family. My heart is breaking for you all. You are in my thoughts. Sending you love and strength. Susie x x