one flick...

2011 was supposed to be different. "No more death," I said, "please."

Well, not literally no more death - that's a little unrealistic. Just no more death of people I know. (Please) There were too many last year - too many deaths, too many widows, too many fatherless children. So full of vitality and life, and then (some in an instant, unexpectedly): dead. I wept for them all as I struggled to find space for the pieces of sadness inside of me.

Frank tells me I'm addicted to the internet, something I try and deny, but it must be true. Why else did I check in with facebook, email and the news just as I was walking out the door at twelve? "Tasmanian hiker falls to his death in NZ" blared ABC Online, and I never can resist clicking through, just in case I might know them.

And it turns out (sickeningly, distressingly) I did. So full of vitality. Hiking, climbing, relishing the scenery and life, and then (in an instant, unexpectedly): dead. That loping walk, his laconic humour and cheeky grin, the assuredness (but understated) with which he carried himself: gone. (And I'm supposed to see him next week, at a training day)

Appointments made me move, but I phoned Frank and shed a tear or two as I told him the news. Between the lines my heart whispered (as it convulsed and froze in turn), "Be careful my love. It could happen in an instant, unexpectedly - don't you be dying too." And as I rode through town I muttered to myself, "Be careful girl. It could happen in an instant, unexpectedly..."

And then I realised that mixed in amongst the shock and sadness and dazed incomprehension, was fear. Some of these men had no chance to say goodbye. Life was ripped from them by a tree, a cliff (so rude). We none of us know what lies around the corner... death could be but a flick away, but we'll never know it until it happens.

The city dazzled me with its amazing technicolour as I rode to my meetings. Sky of azure blue, reeds and grasses along the river levee the perfect foil. My legs flowed with power and strength as they carried me forward. A headwind made me focused and determined. I loved being alive today. I cherished it. I thanked God for life. My life. And as I revelled in the wonder of it all, I laughed at death and vowed no matter how thin the veil to the other side might be, I wouldn't let it cow me. Death might come at any time, but I won't (I can't) hide at home and try to beat it by avoiding every risk. And I won't fuss over Frank at every moment.

No. I shall embrace life. Not as if every minute is my last, but conscious that it could be. Not protectively warding off 'that moment' for as long as I can, but fully aware I can't control my destiny. And if I can't control my destiny, I may as well lay my anxiety aside and rest. Why waste energy on what I can't change? Instead, be at peace, live well within each day. Enjoy the good life, and leave my earthly end with God.

goodbye grandpa

It had all the necessary ingredients for turning into a disastrous affair - ex-husband and wife rubbing shoulders for first time in nearly three years, mentally ill daughter on day release, unforgiving in-laws, granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic. To be honest I was dreading it, and if the last funerals I attended were anything to go by, with good reason.

Take my father-in-law's affair. Old and new families sat in strained silence on opposite sides of the funeral chapel, one nursing memories of an angry, violent man, the other recalling a kindly soul who loved dancing and always remembered their birthdays. The two extremes of experience were revealed in heartfelt eulogies and the tension was palpable. As we stood around the grave and threw down the obligatory flower my heart ached for the losses of the first family - the loving relationships that had never been and now never could be. It was painful, awkward and all together tragic.

Then there was the funeral Frank and I attended almost a year ago for the son of church friends. He had committed suicide following the breakdown of his marriage. Six young children sat fatherless and crying, yet all his friends could offer to one another by way of comfort were memories of a hard drinking man who loved a good party. Despite the best efforts of the minister it was a bleak affair that matched the grey sky and blustery wind outside, devoid of hope and comfort. He was gone and I could not shake the sense of it all being a tragic waste.

Finally in May, there was the funeral for our young neighbour who drank himself into an early grave. As his two year old daughter danced around the coffin, oblivious to her loss and the sadness of those around her I felt overwhelmed. Another life thrown away, another soul unable to cope with life's pain, lost forever.

It is probably not too surprising then that the thought of another funeral was less than inspiring. Never mind that he was my grandfather, that he had lived a long, full life and made it to 95 - the potential for uncomfortable family confrontation overshadowed all else in my thinking. Of course, me being the granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic, I rather played up the possibility of disaster for the sake of a good story. Nevertheless, the potential was real. My mother decided to travel from Adelaide to say her goodbyes despite her recent divorce from my father. I do have an aunt with schizophrenia and I don't like to predict how she might have responded. My other aunt and another uncle have had no contact with my mother since the divorce and the aunt once deliberately told me not to visit before cutting me off in her letter writing. Who knew how the relationships might all play out in one room together?

As it was I am glad I went. I do not feel overly sad Grandpa is gone. Throughout much of my life we lived far apart and I never really knew him. (What was it like in World War II? What did he think about my parents divorce and my father's consequent remarriage?! What wisdom from such a long life could he pass on to me as I make my own way through the world?) During brief childhood visits I remember the unmistakable smell of their home, but my memory is of an austere man intent on disciplining rather than enjoying his grandchildren. Later, as an adult I visited whenever I was in Melbourne and wrote from time to time. Grandpa always replied immediately to my letters and assured me of his love and prayers before tucking in a little snippet of encouragement from a church newsletter or magazine. He had mellowed in his old age into a gentle man who loved nothing better than to talk about his latest readings on God.

It was impossible not to notice Grandpa's increasing frailty - between broken hips, skin disorders and problems with his gastrointestinal tract he felt his age and was ready to go. For some time he had been voicing his desire to join Jesus and my grandmother in the next world. Death was a release. I feel the loss of his love and prayers for my well being, but I am happy Grandpa is now where he wanted to be, no longer struggling with an old body that could barely do what he wanted it to.

And the funeral? Mum and Dad were perfectly civil and polite and I enjoyed spending time with them and one of my brothers on the drive across the city. My mentally ill aunt did not attend. Due to my need to return to Tasmania for an evening appointment, I missed seeing the other aunt. My uncle struggled to look at or speak to me or my mother, but that is his burden to bear. I loved catching up with my other aunt - and my cousins who I have not seen for more than ten years were delightful company.

Despite all my misgivings it was a good day - a fitting tribute to my grandfather from whom we all came.

oh what a night

Disclaimer: Please stop reading now if you don't deal well with death or have lost a loved one recently. There is probably another blog more suited to your needs right now and I urge you to visit them rather than linger here.

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Call me good or (philosophical debates aside) call it luck, but in my twelve years as a nurse I've never had a patient die unexpectedly while under my care. Of course various patients have died along the way, but their deaths were relatively peaceful and anticipated and I was able to offer comfort and dignity in their last moments. I find these ministrations rewarding and meaningful and I don't shy away from them. For me it is an honour to be there in a person's final hours.

Still, it came as something of a shock to find a patient obviously dead at 4am last night. I knew the moment I stepped behind the curtain, but as she was still listed for resuscitation I had to respond to the emergency and call a code. She'd been unwell for some time and we could not revive her. As we pulled up the sheet and recorded the time of death our heads were spinning. Night shifts run on skeleton staff so there was no chance to sit with the patient and pay our respects. It was immediately on to the tasks left undone during the emergency.

At 5am I helped turn a patient and was not happy with her condition. She had deteriorated significantly during the course of the night so I asked the doctor to come and review her. At 6:15am we called another code. After 15 minutes this patient too was declared deceased, in the bed right next to the first patient. Again there was no time to contemplate, reflect, or honour the long, full life of this patient. We had little choice but to madly try to complete our duties before the morning staff arrived.

The whole episode seemed quite surreal. Two patients in one night, right next to each other? Unheard of, at least in this small place. Then there was the automatic defibrillator that kept telling us in a mechanical voice to stop CPR while it analysed a heart rhythm we knew did not exist. As I shut the lid to silence it, the strident voice called out 'open lid to continue CPR' and we couldn't help but laugh wryly at the incongruity of the situation. Then there was the nurse on another ward, who could not have failed to hear the code called over the hospital PA, but still kept phoning and asking for assistance with a relatively minor problem they had. Things became more absurd when other patients, oblivious to the mayhem, buzzed for blankets, bed pans, clean sheets, panadol. I stared at them dazedly - blankets, bedpans, clean sheets and panadol in the midst of pandemonium as we attempted to cheat death? I dished out requests quickly and quietly, asking for patience as we sought to recover from each crisis.

When the night finally ended we four nurses ducked down to the local cafe for a drink and debrief before heading home to sleep and do it all again tonight.

Only I'm not doing it again tonight, because as it turns out I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing the dead, pondering what we did, wondering if we could have done more as my heart raced. Calm balm, soothing music, reading to tire me out... nothing worked. I repeatedly dropped off to sleep for a few minutes before waking with a start and returning to the night's events in my mind.

So while I seemed to cope at the time and accept the patient's deaths (they were old, unwell, one can't keep people alive forever), the emotional toll played out in my head today. What a terrible way to die. What an indignity. What a miserable end. And what of the families, rudely awoken with the sad news? And the other patients in the room who endured the events behind rustling curtains? Unpleasant. Disturbing.

Twelve years code free, but what a horrible way to end the run. Miserable. Unpleasant. Hideous. I know it had to happen some time, but I'd like another twelve years event free please.