Mr Birks has gone.

I didn't really want to write this post and have been putting it off for ages but I feel I must finish our cancer story which ends pretty much in the way you'd expect.  Mr Birks has gone.  'Gone' is a pretty rubbish way to put it considering my last post which mentioned the language of cancer but there's no easy way to say that someone has died.  6 months after diagnosis and 6 weeks after writing my previous blog post, Jonathan Birks, the funniest man in the world, died in the Tapping House Hospice, Norfolk.

We never did get our pain free time in the end.  Although Jon always claimed it was more discomfort than pain, he wasn't able to sit properly or sleep or eat, it completely restricted his life and took the joy out of everything.  He went from being relatively mobile to unable to get out of bed by himself very quickly and his final deterioration was shockingly quick.  If you've never seen death close up, like I hadn't, every little change comes as a huge shock - I guess because even though you've heard the diagnosis, you never give up hope that there might be some miracle cure.  The moments where you see things getting worse remind you of what's coming and at those times, you can't pretend it's not happening.

I was worried about his death. I knew it was coming, despite trying to convince myself it wasn't.  I was worried that he would be in pain and what kind of thoughts he might have whilst on the strongest of pain medication.  I meant to ask the palliative team but in the end, I didn't get time.  When it came to it, I am told it was very peaceful.  In fact, I wasn't there at the very end.  Having stayed the night at the hospice, I popped home to shower and change and see the children.  When I got back he was gone. The nurses said that maybe he was waiting until I wasn't there - apparently it is something they see quite often.  I think he was trying to protect me, right to the very end.  I wasn't sad that I missed his last moments, I had already said my goodbye and he wasn't alone, which was the most important thing.

I had not seen a dead body before Jon.  What struck me was that all those zombie films had got the make up pretty spot on.  Obviously, Jon didn't look like an extra from The Walking Dead but his face didn't really look like his own.  Without breath to animate it, his face suddenly looked thinner and older and just very, very ill.  I guess when you see someone everyday, you get used to how they look.  They might be thin and have lost their hair but they are still the person you love and you still find them beautiful.  When you stop worrying about them because there is nothing more that can be done, the true horror of what they have been through starts to hit.  You can see it on their face and that is just so, so sad.   I spent a lot of time holding his hand and his hands were just as I remembered them.  If I'd looked closely I would have seen the evidence of cannulas and chemotherapy but his lovely long fingers and smooth skin were hard to let go of.  Slightly blue at the finger tips but lovely.  We used to hold hands a lot.  Even when I was going to sleep at night, I would often reach out and take his hand.

I was well looked after by the hospice.  When I was ready, they washed and dressed him in clothes I had chosen (odd socks as was usual), then called the undertakers to take him to the funeral home.  I went home and told the children and spent the afternoon either crying or in a general fog of disbelief.  The funeral arrangements helped to distract me - doing something practical felt empowering.  I got on with things pretty quickly because it was the Easter Bank Holiday and the idea of waiting over the long weekend seemed like torture.

And that is how I have spent the last 4 months more or less.  I have had friends and family around me to help and I am very grateful for that but I miss Jon more than I can say.  His voice, his company, his humour, his view on the world, his relationship with our children.  Everything.  I just miss him.

I could say much more about grief but maybe I will save that for another cheery post and for another time when I feel like I understand it better.  I just wanted to take this chance to say huge thank you to everyone who has supported us and the many different ways you've found to help us.  I know it's difficult to know what to say to someone who has been bereaved.  Thank you for braving the awkwardness and doing what you can for me and my children.