Thinking Ahead

Some of you aren't going to like this. 

I'm going to talk about death. Not dying, just death, so that might make it a bit easier. 
But really, if you are Irish, or maybe just human, you won't like this kind of talk. At All. 

Because we all know that if you talk about a bad thing you'll make it happen. So not talking about death guarantees that it will never happen to anyone, ever. 

That's been working out well for the 30,000 Irish people per year who pop their clogs. 

So let's just say, hypothetically like, that maybe we might die all right, but like not for ages and ages and ages. 

And let's just say, just speculating like, that we might have an opinion about what would happen when we did die. Would we have a funeral? I guess that's inevitable. Would we care what that was like? Should it be up to the people left behind? In fairness, the one person you can guarantee won't be at your funeral is yourself, so why should it matter to you what goes on? 

I used to avoid funerals. I was so uncomfortable about knowing what to say, whose hand to shake, when to stand up and kneel down and say Amen (Ay-men? Ah-men?).

The first funeral I remember is my grandfather's, on a lovely sunny day in late summer. Everyone was so warm and kind and friendly. 
My grandmother was buried four months later, on a miserable December day. My birthday. I could see the handles of previous coffins jutting into the hole they had dug for her. 
I didn't know that she was being lowered into the hallowed ground of the Republican plot, that her proximity to the great patriots was a measure of the esteem in which her family was held. I just saw a load of people in black, carrying umbrellas and sniffing. I played with my new Sindy doll in the car while various theatrical types hugged my mother. 

A young man died when I was at school, and his friends sang at his funeral. I have never seen or heard grief so emotionally raw, so honest, so uninhibited. I saw them turn from boys to men that day. 

I have been at funerals where people are afraid to speak up because of years and layers and depths of half-truths and cover-ups. There are so many elephants in so many Irish rooms you wonder how anybody else fits in there. 

Wouldn't it be nice to think that, on a pretty big day in your life - well, death obviously - that people could meet up, say nice things about you, eat nice food, hear good music, cry as much or as little as they want, stay as long as they like. Sounds like a top quality party. 

But we usually put a bit of effort into planning parties like that. We arrange the seats, count out the napkins, buy back-up beer, eat all the Doritos while waiting for everyone to arrive. We wouldn't just hope that, say, our spouse will suddenly know how to do all this, particularly when they've just been stricken down with a fairly acute case of grief.

So I am suggesting that maybe this is something we should talk about in advance. 
Again, just on the very remote chance that we may actually cack it someday. 

You could fill this in.

Or, you could talk to someone close to you about what to do when you're dead. 


I know. 
I'm a crazy witch-person who is going to make us all die right now this minute by even mentioning such heresy.
Sorry lads.





Addendum: Here's something to watch. It's about dying well. I just thought you might like a bit of a video.

Unravelling

The defences are being breached. The armour is beginning to split at the seams.

There's a crack in the roof where the rain pours through. 
That's the place you always decide to sit. 
Yeah I know I'm there for hours the water falling down my face. 
Do you really think you keep it all that well hid? 
No, but I travel light.

My skin is bubbling, pimpling, burning, peeling, cracking. 
My head is fogging, filling, thumping, stuttering.
My stomach is churning, bubbling, eructating. 
[Borborygmi - best word ever. After fysigunkus.]

It was always going to get harder. 

And then it gets easier. 

And then I go back again for more. 


Halfway now. 


Hup now lady, you can do it. 

Fine!

How are things? How are you? How ARE you? How are YOU? How are you doing?

Fine thanks!

Not too bad.

Erra okay.

Getting there.

Good now thanks.

Great!

It's a bit hard for people to know what to say to a person who is having chemotherapy. Mostly because they don't really expect to see you. 
You should be at home in bed with a bald head, wrapped in a cosy crocheted rug, with a pale watery smile on your face. 
They shouldn't have to meet you at work, or at a party, or doing the shopping. 
They should be coming to you, with caring faces and the shoulder-drop of pity, bearing cake and sympathy. Then they'd know what to say. But a non-sick sick person is a bit of a head-scratcher.

And of course, the sick person is actually a bit sick all right. She has pain and aches in most places. She has a headache and a dry mouth and sore skin. She has unpredictable stomach cramps and dodgy bowels. But she's not going to get into that in the corridor or supermarket aisle. So she'll say she's fine in a range of ways which, if you listen closely, will tell you where she's really at on the symptom spectrum. 

I'm in today for my second cycle of chemo. It seems like longer than two weeks since I was last here. We've been busy. I have had some new side effects that unsettled me a bit, but they may also have come from trying to learn to cycle. (Yes people, laugh all you like, this 39-year-old can't ride a bike.)

The side effects are going to get worse, and I might have to stop working, or I might have to spend more time in bed. My skin is going to go pustular. My hair will thin, but there's so much of it it's very unlikely anyone will notice. (I will have to start vacuuming the house more often to scoop up all the hair. But the steroids make me clean maniacally anyway so it's all good.)

I still won't look very sick in the classic TV-cancer way. 
I think some people may be beginning to think I'm making it all up. My godmother thinks the doctors have got it all wrong. 
She pretty much always thinks this about doctors. And she's generally right. 
She is nearly 90 years old and has not changed in any way in the nearly forty years I have known her. (Although sometimes, now, she doesn't whitewash the house and paint the kitchen ceiling on the same day.) She digs her potatoes, manhandles various farm animals, makes a three-course meal for anyone who arrives at her door. She has an iron spirit and a heart of fluffy marshmallows. She pays no attention to ill-health or ageing. 
She is my hero and I want to be like her. 

So when you ask, I will say, "I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now, where's that paintbrush?"