Denial as the best defence

Things are getting personal. I realise that. And I will sometimes dump very personal stuff here. I don't write about these things anywhere else. And most of my thoughts on all of this I do not formalise. They're just in my head. But sometimes I need to get it ouf of my system. Written down somewhere. And I want people to know how I am. People who might read this blog. Friends. Because I do not write about it that much in e-mailes or messages. Because as you can see, I'm denying it all. And who knows, maybe someone else in a similar, horrible, nightmare'ish position will read this and know they're not alone. We're all in this together. Fighting this monster.

It's terrifying. Absolutely terrifying, to think of the death of a parent. We all know it will happen. It's how it's meant to be. People have children. The children grow up while the parents grow old. Then the children have children. And the parents become the grandparents. And then the grandchildren grow up, while the parents get even older. And then they pass away. At the age of 80 or 90, or sometimes 100. Like my grandfather. My amazing, beautiful knight in shining armor He died the year he was going to turn 90. And he was only sick the last six months of his long and wonderful life. That's how it's meant to be. While the death of a parent must be horrible, and terrifying even at that stage, it's somehow manageable. Because you've been prepared for it your whole life without realising. It sounds horrible. But it's true. And it gives you peace and hope to know that they lived a happy, long life.

My mum will most likely not get that ending. My mum is 54 years old. And she is the most amazing, wonderful, strong person I know. She is my hero. And right now she is fighting an incurable disease. An alien has taken root in her body, in her stomach, and is slowly fighting its way through her body. It's reached her pancreas. Her lungs. Her skeleton. And her liver. She is doing chemotheropy. We are going to halt it. So we get more time. Because according to the doctors that's all we can hope for. And that is all we want, isn't it? Everyone? We all want time with the people that we love.

I moved back to Sweden so that I could be closer to my family. It wasn't the only reason. But it certainly put things in perspective. What's very strange though is how I felt more aware of the cancer when I was in London than I am now. In London I would get panic attacks. I would fall apart completely. I didn't sleep. I would sit in my room, with the lights out and hug myself while crying hysterically. Maybe it was partly because it then was so much fresher. It was new. I was in shock. I was in the first stage. It didn't seem real and I would work myself up by not being able to see my mum every day. I didn't know how she was doing. And I would imagine her ill and weak and sad.

Now I'm home. And while I sometimes question what I've done. Changed my entire life around because of this. I wonder if I was stupid giving up a good job, with great colleagues. Leaving some of my closest friends behind, whom I now miss terribly. Was it the right decision? Of course it was. But it all almost seems more unreal now. I wake up in the mornings. I have breakfast with my mum. We chat. We get on with our days. And she's mum. She sleeps more than she used to. She takes slower walks than before. But she's mum. It's impossible to get it through my head that she is so sick. I just can't do it. And I don't want to do it.

I want to keep living in this wonderful state of denial. Where everything is still okay. Where the events of the 20th of June 2013 doesn't exist. Because in this world it's me and my mum. Spending wonderful quality time together. Like a lovely long vacation. I'm not unemployed living off my parents. And she does not have a giant tumour in her stomach. It's just us. Like normal. Because everything else is too hard. It is too painful. And it is too terrifying. I cannot picture a world without my mum. I do not know how that world would look like. It would be a cold, lonely and dark place. A place I cannot go. That's not an option. So I live in this world of denial. Because right now it is the best I got. It's the only thing I have.

I'm worried that I will get ripped out of this world soon though. Because we are getting eerily close to the end of chemo. Fifth round tomorrow and Thursday. And then one more round two weeks later. And then we'll get to know if it worked or not. If it's halted, or if it's continued spreading.

I hope it worked. I really really really realy hope it worked. But I'm scared. I'm absolutely terrified.