What’s left in the end is a big green plastic jar with a lot of light grey ash in it. The ash is surprisingly heavy & dense. JD did always like her food but I doubt that is what makes her remains so heavy.
I picked them up yesterday afternoon from Leamington Spa. Ironically, the funeral director is only a few doors down from where we used to live. We used to walk past their shop when we walked in to town. I found that the hardest part. That we walked there every day but I never thought I would have to go inside to pick up her remains.
Don’t really know what to do with them. Her mother wants some. I want some in a lovely chain around my neck. I want to scatter some in various places that mattered to JD and me. Actually, that sounds like I know exactly what I want to do with them…
We lived in Leamington Spa for nearly 3 years. They were the happiest times. JD had surgery when we had lived together for only a few months but after the surgery, the tumour remained stable for a long time. So our time there was mainly a happy time, mostly free of worry.
Walking around town today, I felt really close to JD. Like it was her “spiritual home”. Or better said, OUR spiritual home. We only left because I got a job elsewhere but I realised today I don’t like Northampton nearly as much as I like Leamington Spa. Maybe because I like walking around a place that has so many memories.
So I am considering moving back. Nothing wrong with admitting I like to be close to whatever I have left of JD. The question is of course: where to apply to uni. If I live in Leam, it makes sense to go to Coventry University instead of Northampton. And what about the fact that I now have close friends in both places? The friends in Northampton are mainly my friends who also knew JD. The friends in Leam are Mostly Jane’s friends whom I got to know as well (apart from the rugby girls) So although I love them all, I do feel differently about both sets of friends.
Maybe my friends want to come and live in Leam too?
I know I said this blog would be dormant but so many people have said they think my current emotions should be part of this blog. I shall copy a few posts from my personal blog here as well as they deal with the aftermath of Jane’s death.
Going through Jane’s things, I found the little notebook we kept with her treatment diary. In this notebook, we wrote all her appointments, what the doctors said etc. That way, when the doctor would ask how long ago her last scan was for example, or what her last known symptom was, we just looked in the diary.
And in the middle of the notebook, I found this note that Jane scribbled in December 2010.
I can only guess what was happening in her head.
“Piri Piri sauce – mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm no – totally randommm. Totally random sauce thoughts. It was v. stupid to put your toenail and………….”
She wrote this, I assume, after we ate some fish from Sainsbury’s that was marinated in PiriPiri sauce. Not sure what the toenail refers to though. Perhaps I did something stupid? Or perhaps she did? Basically, is shows that Jane was really living in the present. She responded to things that were happening right there and then. If you asked her to write down what she did during the day, she would write something about what was going on around her at the moment she was writing.
It is both sweet and devastating to read it. To realise that for a long time, I had no idea what was really going on in her head. Or what made her tick. I just hope I did the right things most of the time.
After keeping a 6 year record of Jane’s brain tumour, this blog has come to an end. I will leave it up here for the future in the hope it can help others who are going through the same thing.
If you want to keep in touch with whatever else is going on in my life without Jane (starting with funeral etc), please visit my personal blog Bunnyfactor10 at http://www.bunnyfactor10.com.
When I moved to the UK in March 2004, we did not move in together until August. So in the end, Jane and I only had 4 months of worry-free living together. And then, in January 2005, our lives changed forever. I knew Jane and I would not get old together. I read all the statistics of an average 6-year survival. But 6 years feels just so far away. We married a year after Jane’s surgery. She died almost exactly 6 years after her surgery. If I could do it again, I would marry her again. Even with the brain tumour and the immense pain and emptiness I feel with her loss, I would still do it again. Because the time we had together was more beautiful than anything I ever imagined. My life has been filled with more meaning, with more love and more tenderness than I ever imagined to get in my life. I thought I loved Jane as much as I could. But when she trusted me to care for her in the last 9 months of her life, I learned about a whole new, deeper level of love. One that I can confidently say you can only reach by going through trauma together. I would have been happy with the love we had before. But it seems the price we have to pay for reaching that all-consuming, deep level of love, of dedication, of trust, of humility, the price for that is death.
Jane flying our kite in Cornwall in July 2007
I went to see Jane yesterday. She looks peaceful but I felt uncomfortable and stayed only 30 seconds. I saw her on Monday in the hospice of course but then she was Jane who is dead. Yesterday, she seemed to be a dead body that used to be Jane. Big, big difference.
I shuffled around the table but I could not bring myself to look at her face. I wanted to but I was afraid I would be unable to see her in any other way in my memory. And so my memories of her were more important than my immediate emotions. I decided that the memories will be with me forever so if they were somehow spoiled by the need to take once last look, I would forever regret it.
So I closed the door and left her for the very last time.
…it was peaceful. On Sunday morning, JD had trouble breathing and her skin turned a strange shade of blue, nearly purple. The nurses said this was a sign death was a mere hours away. JD’s mother came and went. And the waiting continued. Every once so often, JD’s breathing changed, became more shallow, more like snoring, then less like snoring. Her face returned to the normal pink colour, perhaps a little more grey than normal.
Our friends R&K arrived in the afternoon, all set up for the long wait. Ipads, beer, food, crisps. The hospice staff were fantastic in leaving us alone as much as possible whilst still checking JD was ok. As the day turned in to night, JD’s breathing changed a number of times. Looking back, I think she died a little every time that happened.
Around 10.30, I lifted JD’s left eyelid and saw her pupil had blown. And half an hour later, so did her right one. I knew she was no longer with us then. We held her hand, I crawled onto the bed and held her. And waited.
At 2am, R&K went home to sleep as JD’s breathing seemed very regular. I slept on the camping bed next to JD. The silence woke me up at 7. No sound of breathing. As I put my head on JD’s chest, I just caught her last few heartbeats. I got the nurses who confirmed JD was gone. Then they left me alone for a while and I cried. Relief. Pain. Anger. Sadness. Loss. Emptiness. Numbness. All of that.
They asked if I wanted to help wash JD but I felt unable to do that. I called JD’s mother, my parents and R&K came back to support me through the morning. It was all very calm & peaceful. I cried a bit more and we cleared out the room. After saying a final goodbye to JD, we went for a massive breakfast.
And so began my life as a widow.
Jane passed away at 7 this morning. She went in her sleep whilst I held her hand. Goodbye my angel.