Cancer2.0

Judith Ann Saunders, passed 28 September 2018 at home and in a toasty warm bed in Glen Iris. This is my last blog post about my super spunk, my angel, my princess, my soulmate, who is gone but will never be forgotten.

Jude's idiosyncrasies were almost all gorgeous, and needed no defence or deflection whatsoever. I honestly feel like a bit of a dick over some of mine.

When you've got loads of angry tumours out of control and nibbling quickly and dangerously at your beautiful bits, chemo is clearly the weapon of choice. Being nasty stuff, it's gloves on all round with some types.

Many years ago, reacting to her initial cancer diagnosis in the first few weeks so long ago now, Judy entered a period of marrying me off again to another. It made my skin crawl.

A recipe is supposed to be a plan to follow, but with risotto all rules of engagement get tossed in the bin. A boat load of love is needed, too, and a little help from your friends.

I don't buy art, so this is surprising new behaviour. I bought a Lou-Brice Léonard sculpture, called Doris. The artist, who is a Frenchman, is clearly skilled at celebrating the gorgeous female form.

I dread that more stories will fail to come, one day in the future. I dread a dulling of memory, as seems to happen when time beats forward.

There is a big difference between solitude and feeling all alone. Solitude is often good for your head, but feeling all alone implies that you'd rather not be all alone.

I hated booking a "table for one". Making the telephone call reinforced that my Jude is gone, and that she should be experiencing with me all that these wonderful Greeks have to offer the world.

Whatever happens on this largely unplanned big trip away, my princess will be travelling alongside me in my heart.

So many things around the house evoke so many memories, thoughts and feelings. The memories are cool, the thoughts are special, but it is hard to describe how precious the feelings are.

Happy 55th birthday, my super spunk. There is not a day passing that goes by escaping a moment of combined elation and ache in my heart.

It has been precisely six months today since Judy left us. I miss her daily pearls of knowledge, and wisdom, and remembering, her laughter, and zest for life, her positivity, and optimism, always looking to the future. And I also miss her risotto.

Shortly after Judy died, one of our first jobs was to pick an outfit for her to wear forever. A tale of matching jackets and freaky pants followed.

As a bloke in an inseparable couple I always hung out at functions attached to Judy, often literally, entertaining and being entertained as a couple. We were a single loved up unit, but then all that changed.

I have been feeling the loss of my soul mate as a physical tightness in my chest at times. It is a yearning feeling, I guess, of being on edge, of needing. It's somewhat akin to one who is addicted and being in withdrawal.

It was a big day today, seemingly filled with one simple act. I changed my Facebook status to 'widowed'. As I did so, there was a flash of vividly clear remembering, and a return of grief.

Judy slipped away this morning after a big and peaceful sleep, on her way to an even longer one.

Home visits by Dr Rob are apparently a rarity. Given the long working hours that he keeps at the hospital, it's easy to see why - there is simply no more time in the day to squeeze in any more care. We love it that he cared to visit Judy.

The Number, called "cancer poo" by me in the past, is the cancer antigen evidence shit out by this type of cancer as it actively grows somewhere in Judy's body. It has been rocketing skywards for weeks.

Writing down a bunch of notes in an admittedly drunken late night moment of despair, I unwittingly released my latent poet within. I'm not really one for any poetry. It's not me. My English teacher definitely said so.

As probably the best diagnostic indicators of where Judy is at right now, it's been three consecutive days without red lipstick, plus we weren't able go to our beloved Italian on Friday night.

Princess ditched her wheelchair today for something with the same number of wheels, but something that made a lot more noise than can come out of me while pushing her chair.

Life's small stories are as important as the big ones. When those small ones are passing, hold tight to them, and never forget, because they're far more important than you can imagine.

This slow motion cancer business is a drawn out game of second guessing how long to put off so much that is confronting and challenging and heart rending, but necessary.