These entries begin shortly after Anna’s death in June 2016. They are based on text messages, email and journal entries written at the time. Anna and Conal had been together since 1978.
FROZEN LIKE A STATUE: Grief can feel like you are going nowhere fast.
FOR months, years really, I had been writing, charting Anna’s cancer journey. (How I now hate that term.) There were emails, text messages, Facebook postings, all charting the rollercoaster that had been Anna’s final years.
Anna had kept a journal, more of a sketch pad, from that first dance with cancer (in 2014). She lost interest in expressing how she was feeling and concentrated on getting through the marathon that is cancer treatment. It was lung cancer, then breast cancer and killer punch came with brain cancers.
It fell to me to log the medical appointments, note the daily meds and to record the triumphs and tears.
I was the bearer of news, good and bad. I had written tens of thousands of words in those three years. Sentences about what would ultimately be a death sentence. For Anna, but not me.
Anna was gone. I was alive and left to miss her.
***
Now (weeks after her death) I stared at the blank page of my journal, pen in hand.
My mind was screaming.
But I was speechless. Feelings escaped me. I was literally lost for words.
Words. Emotions. Pain. Loss.
They were all fighting to find form.
To take shape. Demanding to be expressed.
Words. Emotions. Pain. Loss. They were all fighting to find form. To take shape. Demanding to be expressed.
Conal Healy, Grief Survivor
Asking to find release. On paper.
Tears were forming in my eyes. My lips were dry.
My heart was racing. My hand trembled.
The weight on my chest was growing heavier. This was the start of a panic attack.
The start of yet another panic attack, this was the third day in a row I had tried to release the mental maelstrom. And I was failing.
Now the fight had developed into a battle between my body and my mind. The panic attack was proof that my physical self was revolting against the violence wracking my brain.
This day the body won. I put down the pen. Closed the journal. And walked away.
Soon there would be a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
The writing could wait another day.
***
Those days after the funeral were a blur. I became an almost-functioning zombie. For weeks I wore – and slept in – the same set of clothes. Showering was forgotten.
***
July 9: I go for a walk on the beach. Clear out Anna’s medicine box – keep the Endone (for emergencies), drop all the other meds to the chemist. “Time is returning to normal. Anna’s funeral was only five days ago, but already it seems so far away.” (As her carer in her final months of her life, it was my daily job to administer her insulin, her anticoagulant Clexane and other medications.)
July 11: I am back to work three days a week: Monday, Wednesday and Friday. We have family dinners together. There were tears and hugs. We have photos of Anna on the corkboard near the kitchen, I say good night to her every night before going to bed. We have a seat at the table – that’s “Mum’s seat”.
July 12: So much has happened, so little has happened. I am not crying as much, or as long. This is my first No-Cry day in days. I feel the tears well up, but they didn’t escape.
Again, I am fine as long as I don’t think about Anna. Think about Anna? I cry.
I am having ‘crying headaches’. I just wanted to crawl up in a ball and go asleep. Rather than cook an evening meal – I got takeaway pizza. I really wanted to have drink tonight, but I resisted. I know I would have overdone it. And I am working tomorrow too.
July 14: This afternoon was bad for me. I dropped into Anna’s radiotherapy clinic (at John Flynn, Tugun) at lunchtime (to hand over a Medicare cheque), the receptionist recognized me and said excitedly: “Here’s Mr Anna!” The girls at the clinic knew Anna well.
I had to tell them the bad news. They were shocked – they had known Anna since 2014, the clinic had treated her for lung, breast and finally brain cancers. They believed Anna would beat this latest cancer and recover.
(When I told Anna’s chemist, about the funeral, he was close to tears – “She was my favourite customer”, he told me.)
Then I had to go to the x-ray centre, to collect Anna’s last set of scans (from May) and I had to tell them to close her account. And why. I fight back the tears.
Then I had to go to a local second-hand store, where Anna bought and sold clothes … and tell them the bad news (and hand over some of her clothes).
Had to go to the car mechanic – they had heard the news about Anna and offered me condolences. I got home and there was the letter in the post about Anna’s will.
Another letter told Anna she had to go for a medical … or lose her driving licence. I feel like writing back and telling them: “If Anna comes back to life I will get a doctor to give her a full check-up”.
I am having ‘crying headaches’. I just wanted to crawl up in a ball and go asleep.
Conal Healy
July 16: Ben – the funeral director – rang about Anna’s remains. He has the ashes and will divide them into two urns for us: One for Ireland and one for Australia. He will also give us a letter about ashes – so we can get them on board a plane. He rang to apologise, he thought we might be “sweating” about the no sign of the ashes. We weren’t. I told him that we figured they needed super-tough rollers to break Anna’s extra-strong bones.
July 17: In the morning I walk. I ride my bike hard – almost to the point where I am vomiting. I am pushing everything away. I wander around the local shopping centre, but it is all opaque. This is my life now.
July 18: Walk, shop … have my first shower in weeks. I had been wearing the same clothes for weeks. I slept in them, wore them all day and go back to bed. What is the point in getting dressed?
Am getting my attention span back. Last week I caught myself staring into space … for minutes. I could only work at something for 10 minutes, then I would lose interest in that job, walk away and look for something else to do, look for another job … and leave the first job unfinished. These days I persevere with that first job – to see it through. And I succeed most of the times. I am restless, I cannot sit for long.
(In the weeks after Anna’s death, my children, family and friends kept me company. They took me for walks – so I couldn’t sit and stare at the walls at home. The walks helped.)
Tears of grief
Crying is the body’s natural response to emotions (like grief) that can be mentally and physically draining. Sadness triggers stress, which causes the body to release hormones such as cortisol. Scientists are still trying to understand the exact link between crying and headaches.
Treatment: Rest in a calm, dark room, with the eyes closed, apply a heat or cold pack to the neck, eyes, or forehead, take a painkiller, massage the neck or shoulders to help alleviate tension.
Source: medicalnewstoday.com
