Explaining death to a four year old

Perth has been rocked by the tragic death of two year old Sam Trott today.

He went missing at 10:30am yesterday after slipping out of his house through a door that had been left open accidentally.

The community rallied. Hundreds drove and walked the streets calling his name. When they learned he might not respond to his name because of his Autism, they sang his favourite song, The Wheels On The Bus. As night fell, many residents left lights on to aid the search and left out blankets, food and water in the hope that a by now starving Sam would stumble upon them. Police said it was unprecedented in the metro area.

Landsdale locals left food, water & blankets out for missing toddler, search bolstered today #FindSam @abcnewsPerth pic.twitter.com/S3ktgQ5cgp
— Courtney Bembridge (@courtbembridge) December 10, 2014

By the time I could go out to help, he'd been missing for twelve hours and the police told me they didn't have enough SES members to escort the huge numbers of volunteers so I should stay home. I laid in bed and cried, then rang my dad and told him to re-check his garden and leave the lights on. I have no connection to the Trott family, but like so many others I was drawn to help, thinking of this poor boy wandering alone, a few kilometres from my house.

So many volunteers here, some being told to return later because not enough SES to escort them #FindSam @abcnewsPerth pic.twitter.com/CdfEuoXgEw
— Courtney Bembridge (@courtbembridge) December 10, 2014

I'm always surprised at how different tragedy feels now that I have children. It's no longer something sad that happens to "other people", because you can see your own child in the eyes of the one on the missing poster. It tears at your heart as you try, and fail, to fully comprehend the pain and torment the parents must be feeling.

Tricky caught wind of what was going on last night so we explained to him over dinner that a little boy was lost and that lots of people were trying to find him to take him home to his parents. He didn't say much then, but as I lay with him to put him to sleep last night he asked if we could go and look for Sam. He said we had to take our torches so that Sam would know we weren't monsters, then he'd come to us and we could take him home. He was very specific about which torches and batteries we should take, he had a plan and he was certain we would find him.

I managed to wipe away my silent tears and I cuddled in to him for a long time after he'd fallen asleep, not wanting to let go.

Today when I heard that a child's body had been found in the lake, my heart sank and I had a cry in the car. I didn't know how I would explain it to Tricks. He talks about death quite a lot, but he doesn't fully understand. I've tried to be straight forward with him but I never know what is appropriate. I knew I couldn't just sweep it under the carpet because he still asks about a neighbour's bloody bird that went missing almost a year ago.

When  I picked him up from school, I knew we were going to the beach so I thought I'd tell him before hand, thinking the frollick in the water would be a good distraction for after.

We sat in the car together and all I could think of was "don't fuck this up". I wanted him to hear it from me rather than overhearing a conversation. I cuddled him and held his hand.

"You remember we talked about that little boy Sam who was lost?"

He nodded.

"Well I have sad news, he died."

He looked completely shocked and audibly gasped. Then he frowned. "How did he die?"

"He wandered to the lake and he couldn't swim, so he drowned."

He contemplated this for a moment before continuing "What happens when you drown?"

Christ I knew this wouldn't be easy, but it's so much harder than I thought.

"If you go under water for too long, you can't breathe. If you can't breathe then you die. It's called drowning. It's very sad. How do you feel?"

His little lip pouted. "Sad. Can we go to the lake?"

"What for?"

"To get him so we can take him back to his mum."

"He's not there anymore, the police came and took him."

"Is he back alive now?"

"No, sweetheart. You can't come back alive after you've died."

He asked more questions about what happens after you die and I tried to answer them as best I could without scaring the shit out of him. He asked again to visit the lake so I said we could go and lay some flowers tomorrow if he wanted to.

"I'm going to die one day. But not until I'm really, really, really, really, really, really old" he chirped. And that was that. He wanted to go to the beach.

I don't know if he understands completely or not. He might forget the whole thing by tomorrow afternoon or he might insist on taking flowers to the lake. He is at a sleep over with my parents tonight and part of me hopes he asks to come home so I can cuddle up to both my babies and fall asleep tangled together with them as usual.

Hold your babies tight.

Rest in peace, Sam.

Robbed

This is my favourite photograph of my Nanna.

She wasn't one for smiling in photos and for her happiness to be captured on film at my wedding meant so much to me.

We had a memorial slideshow at her funeral today. On Monday I had gone with my Dad and Uncle to the production office to drop off photos to be scanned and received confirmation that yes, my photo had been received via email and would be included.

Today I watched the screen and through my tears I saw my Nanna as a beautiful young bride cutting her wedding cake; as a mother with my Dad in her arms; as a grandmother with a chubby Aunty Penny in her lap; as an old lady with curlers in her hair.

Then it ended. And my photo was nowhere to be seen.

I keep trying to tell myself it's just a photo, but I'm so sad and angry that it was forgotten.

Her time in the nursing home, where Tricky and I would visit her every few weeks or so, has robbed me of my memories. I don't want to remember her like that, I don't want anyone to remember her like that, and yet visions of her wasting away in there are all I can recall right now. Today it's all I see when I close my eyes, as if it's been burned in to the back of my eyelids.

I need to be able to think of her and see this photo, smiling and happy on a special day, not the 26kg shell of a woman she was in her last few days.

As with life, there is no do-over of a funeral. There is no "sorry we fucked up, here's another slideshow". And I feel robbed all over again.

So after being let down by a company that took a sizable chunk of money from my family and didn't deliver, I'll use my crappy little corner of the interwebz to immortalize her. I'm pretty sure it's not in the "How to be a Mummy Blogger handbook" but right now I don't care.

The Homecoming

A dramatic scene unfolded at Casa de Glow yesterday afternoon. Like a lot of important events in my life (such as my own engagement) it started with me being woken up from a nap. What? Isn’t everyone woken up from a nap to be proposed to? No? Awkward. Righty-o, moving on.

“Glow, there’s an injured bird in the yard. I need your help so Sprocket doesn’t eat it”

Map Guy produced a big black shoe box and told me the bird was inside. I peeked in. It was so small and fragile. It had long scrawny legs and fluffy grey wings that stood out at awkward angles.

But it wasn't injured, it was just a baby. Something inside me stirred. It was only a bird, sure, but I felt an intense urge to protect it. To make sure it got home safe. Reunited with its family.

We put the dog inside and placed the baby bird on our weedy lawn with a lid of water in front of it and stood back to see if it would try to move. It didn’t.

I thought it might already be too late.

But then it blinked, opened its mouth wide and cheeped.

What we can only assume were the parents started flitting around anxiously watching us. The Google Gods tell me they were White-cheeked Honeyeaters. After a few minutes the mama bird swooped down to feed it. I wanted to take a photo but I didn’t want to go any closer and scare it. Plus I’ve not had much luck with wild animals recently and had visions of the mama bird swooping me and becoming lodged in my eyeball. So I stayed well back.

Image: Ralph Green

She flew off and landed on the fence near her peers, all of them watching closely, never straying far from the baby. My heart broke and I cursed evolution for not giving them arms or hands or an Ergo.

We studied the trees around us and the five or six other identical birds swooping in and out of our neighbour’s tree that overhangs our fence provided a useful clue as to the whereabouts of the nest though we couldn’t actually see through the dense branches.

I ducked inside to call to the vet to find out exactly what we should do while MG kept guard. The receptionist said as long as the parents were still fretting and trying to feed it then we could put it on any branch in the tree and it would be helped back. If they weren’t? Well it was likely the little dude had been pushed and would just be pushed out again. Darwinism at it's finest.

By the time I came back the previously motionless bird had flapped it’s wings and managed to half fly half jump a few metres. A definite improvement on its previous movement record of blinking. We took it as an excellent sign that it was in fact not on death's door.

Map Guy put the bird back in the shoebox, made all the more difficult now that it had decided to attempt this ass-bumping half fly half jump routine and lifted it in to the tree. Then the most amazing thing happened... the whole tree, full of Honeyeaters we hadn't even seen, erupted in tweets.

As in the cheep cheep kind, not the @MamaHoneyeater: “OMG @BabyHoneyeater is being lifted in to the tree by @MapGuy83 while @Glowless looks on holding that kid with the cheeks” kind.

Now it might be my hormones or the fact that my rellies are here from interstate for their own reunion to see their dying mum, my Nanna, but the loud and frenzied cheeping heralding his homecoming pulled at my heartstrings with its unmistakably triumphant chorus. They were overjoyed at the little guy's return and all I could think about was how my Nanna would have felt that same joy in these last few days, seeing her five children at her bedside.

We stood and watched the baby bird hop from branch to branch until he was deep inside the protective arms of the tree. He was home. Safe and sound.

And it was all I could do not to weep.

Postscript: I wrote this at 4pm on the 7th of October and set it to publish for the morning. Just after 9pm my Nanna died after a long illness. I'm sure she chose to go then because she was finally secure in the knowledge that her five children were home. Safe and sound.

Grieving

Grief is a strange beast. It sneaks up on you. Sometimes, when you think it has weakened with the passing of the years you turn to find it just as ferocious as ever. Just when it appears that it's grown old and frail like the person you are grieving never could, it catches you unawares and leaves you struggling to breathe and see through a burning sea of tears...

Today marks thirty years since my parents laid to rest their second born daughter, Jo-Anne. She was just shy of 18 months old when she passed away and I still grieve for her fiercely, despite the fact that I don't remember her, having only being a couple of months old when she died. Many a therapist have tried to find out why I have such a strong connection to her, and they have all, after a while, shook their heads and placed me in the too hard basket.

How can you grieve for someone you didn't know? How can it hurt so much and feel like something is missing when you never really knew what it was like to have it in the first place?

I spoke to my dad about her today. Though as a family we never not spoke of her, my Dad and I have spoken more about her in the last two years than all the other times put together and I've learned more about her and who she was as a child as opposed to my previous, childhood thoughts of her just being "the dead sister".

"I've been thinking about Jo-Anne a lot lately, would you mind if I wrote about her?"

"Of course you can, baby, she was your sister. I've been thinking about her a lot lately too... you know it's been thirty years?" he says as his eyes go glossy and he swallows hard.

As my dad has marveled over each of Tricky's milestones, when we're alone there is always an underlying melancholy of "Jo-Anne never did that" (I can only assume that the experience wasn't the same when I was a baby because he was too consumed by his grief to be noticing what I was doing). He tells me, like he has before, that she never learned to walk, never really talked, and only weighed a little bit more than newborn-me when she passed away... but that she had the most beautiful, infectious giggle. 

I break down and sob on his shoulder. He hugs me tight. I'm sure though, that he likes when I ask about her, even though it always ends this way. That he finds comfort in the fact that I still think of her.

My grief has changed over the years from a selfish young girl's want to have another sister to play with, to a mother's empathy and compassion. My grief now is just as much for the loss of my sister as it is an overwhelming heartache for the loss of my parents' daughter and the loss of any chance of a normal life for them.

There are some things that I think you can't fully understand and appreciate about parenting until you become one yourself... and then there are some things, awful things like this, that become so much harder to grasp when you finally have that insider knowledge.

I cannot fathom how hard it must have been for my parents when Jo-Anne went in to heart failure when I was three days old. How difficult it would have been to leave their newborn to focus on their fragile second born and take her overseas for life saving surgery. How earth shattering it was for them to watch her die on the plane ride there and bring her home in a goddamn box in the cargo hold instead of safe in their arms.

My mind cannot cope with the thought of that much pain and suffering.

So tonight, I hug Tricky a little closer and a little longer than usual. I look past the screaming, tantrum filled evening of a child exerting his independence and testing boundaries, and take solace in this amazing gift that is a healthy, happy child, knowing full well that there are some people who would give anything, truly anything, to experience this frustration.

A very rare photo of Jo-Anne, me and Aunty Penny on my
Christening day, a week before Jo-Jo passed away
(cropped to remove people who don't wish to be blogged about)

5 Reasons Shark Culls Are Bullshit

I promised my next Cranky Pants post would be Why I Don't Comment On Your Blog (after comments galore on Why I Don't Read Your Blog) but I've shoved it back in my drafts folder for a week because can't let this one go. So, with new Cranky Pants button, I give you my latest rant.

There has been an "unprecedented increase" in fatal shark attacks off the WA coast lately. Three in two months. With it has come an outcry for these "man hunters" to be killed because they pose a threat to human life, and today the Western Australian government, in all their infinite wisdom, has decided that yes, these sharks should be killed.

I have a few problems with this.

1. They are not "man hunters" they are hunters and people sometimes get in the way. Now I'm no marine biologist but I will hazard a guess that Mr Shark doesn't go along and think "hrmmm I feel like killing a human today" rather he swims along and sees a bit of a slow swimming seal-like creature and thinks it's  lunch time
2. If you go to someone else's home, you obey their rules. With humans it's more likely to cover things like not swearing in front of kids, taking your shoes off at the door or always bringing wine. The ocean is a shark's home, the same rules apply - you do as they wish which sometimes, sadly, includes being eaten
3. When entering the ocean you know the risks. Jelly fish, stone fish, blue ring octopi and sharks all pose a hazard... if you want to swim without the possibility of becoming an hors d'oeuvres then go to the local pool where you can dodge screaming children who really should be wearing swim nappies - they are just as scary as sharks but their bites are generally not fatal
4. How can you be sure the shark you're tracking down as a "man hunter" is the right one? Do you interview it? Do you have to read a shark it's rights before the interview? What if they lawyer up, what then? No, it's kill, check stomach, oops we got the wrong one... or maybe it's the right one but it's already digested it's meal so really there is no way of telling since, you know, grey with fins and lots of fucking teeth kinda describes them all
5. So lets assume for a second they do kill the shark that killed a human... do you think it's a deterrent to the other sharks? Do you think they sit there and go "Shit man, Billy killed that bloke and they shot him. I've told my kids to stick to krill because I don't even wanna chance that happening to them. You can never be too careful". No!! So what is the point?!

So you can probably tell I don't think the sharks should be killed. I'm also pretty damn sure I would think the exact same way were it one of my friends or family members who were tragically taken in what I can only imagine as one of the most terrifying and painful ways to die. It's still not the shark's fault, there is no malice, just a drive to survive.

And so we're clear, if a shark came in to my house, I would reserve the right to eat it, especially if he brought some chips with him and a couple of dim sims.

What do you think of the Western Australian government decision to kill the sharks?

The Perfect Mother: The Perfect Fraud

I went to my friend's funeral yesterday. She was 29. But I can't say it without thinking twenty-fucking-nine. I'm 29. A beautiful, bright light has gone out and  my head is all over the place so forgive my emo rambles.

You know, I've never been a fan of posts that are scarily similar to what someone else has written. It's happened to me too often to believe it's just some cosmic coincidence that words I've written or images I have created just pop up elsewhere ever so slightly tweaked. Not actually plagiarism but just a half a baby step away.

And then I read part of a post that looks so much like something I have written. Contains almost an identical sentence... but I have not yet published it... and I freak out a bit. Can I now not say what I was going to say? Will they think I've copied them? If the shoe was on the other foot I would think that. So I scrapped it and I'm just going to start again, referencing Her Edenness because she said it first. Bitch.

I read New Eyes at Edenland the other day and it smacked me hard in the face. So hard I felt that tingle before the pain registers. Is it strange that I can physically feel words? I wonder if anyone else can? I've never asked.

There were, of course, major differences between what Eden wrote in her first few lines and what I had sitting here, unpublished, lurking behind the scenes. For starters she can actually write whereas I just blog. But self depreciation aside, that reconnecting she spoke about, without even knowing she was missing. Yeah that.

I knew I wasn't being a great mother to Tricky. I knew I was distant and just not fully present the way I should have been. You wouldn't have seen it, though. I still did everything I was meant to do... and I did it so bloody well that it didn't just fool you, it fooled me too. Now that I'm coming back though, I can see that I was so much farther away than I thought.

I was the perfect mother; babywearing, breastfeeding, homecooking, reading, singing, teaching. I was the perfect fraud.

When he would cry I would pick him up, cuddle him and say it would all be OK but on the inside, more often than not, I was screaming "FUCKING SHUT UP! I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!" And no one would have ever guessed. Not Map Guy (who knew, but didn't know just how deep it went). Not even Tricky who would still smile at me with bright, loving eyes.

When you keep everything on the inside, with Oscar-worthy acting, no one knows. No one knows you don't want to be there. That you don't want to spend time with your child. That you immerse yourself in social media in an effort to distract yourself from how much you truly despise yourself and your inability to connect with your son.

I was so far from being a 'good' mother that I didn't even quite make mediocre... and I can only see that now as the veil of anxiety lifts thanks to going back on medication.

I feel terrible for not having really been there for him. I tried many times in the proceeding months to go back on medication but the crippling anxiety stopped me from picking up the phone and making the appointment. Even now, I've not been back for my follow up... I cannot make the call. Not yet. Ahh irony, you are a bitch.

It rips my heart apart that I really don't know how long I've subjected him to such pathetic parenting... in a haze of sleep deprivation (we had a few months of sleeping through but not any more) this is all I remember. But it couldn't have been long... could it? How many months? Was I ever there? I just don't know. I am so used to pretending that the lines of reality have blurred.

We're connecting now, though. He seems the same but my smiles are genuine now. My patience is real and without sighs. My cuddles, once obligatory are now fierce and protective and I try to hold them longer until he squirms to go and do more important things like play blocks. I'm no longer just going through the motions. I want to be with him so much that I've been sneaking in to watch him sleep. I'm not feeling fantastic, but I'm feeling. And that has to be a good thing.

Comments are off for this emo post. Sorry.

R U OK? R U On Time?

This morning I was meant to attend the Perth R U OK? Day event at Gloria Jeans and live blog it, but there was a slight problem (other than me not prepared to share the ins and outs of my own story)...

According to the event invite I was sent, the whole thing was starting at 6:30am and there was buckley's chance I was going to get there that early so I checked if it would be OK if I could get there around 8:30-9:00am. Yes that's fine, they said, but could you please be available til it ends? No problems. Let's rock and roll.

It took me a whole hour to get there so I was ten minutes later than I expected. Being late is one of my major fears. I pride myself on being reliable and on time, so if I'm late for anything (including flights) I freak out. I walked in to find the dregs of a crowd milling round and having a chat. It was all over. Panic stations.

I walked up to the roped off area and was looked up and down by the manager. I smiled nervously. She completely ignored me and continued talking to who ever it was that was standing next to her. I asked if I could please get through and she looked at me like I was just there to try and score a free coffee, and took a half step to the side so I could squeeze through.

The few people left were chatting in their own little groups so I stood there alone feeling like a third wheel. I started having a bit of a panic attack. People with R U OK? Day shirts looked at me and with my body language and face saying "help me", they quickly looked away. Did I have something on my face? Was there spinach in my teeth or something?

Standing there, very obviously not OK at an R U OK? Day event and no one gave a shit, too consumed in their own conversations. The irony is not lost on me.

Only one person came up to me - Will, a Gloria Jeans employee. He asked if he could help me and after telling him I was late and I'd missed it he asked if I'd like a drink. I considered asking for vodka but settled on a hot chocolate which he went and got for me. One bloody person spoke to me because they were being paid to.

I was really aware that I'd said I would be there and blog it and that I was letting people down. So I sat down, drank my hot chocolate while blinking away my tears (sending texts to Map Guy telling him what was happening) and calmed myself down before asking a volunteer why it was over so early. She said that it was always going to be 8:00-9:00am. Right.

So why was I told turning up at 9:00-11:00am would be fine? I was no longer sad... I was angry. I organized a babysitter and drove for an hour to do this. All for nothing.

I decided to get proof that I'd at least gone so I had a paparazzi moment and a quick chat with Hockeyroo Rachael Lynch who was lovely and not only knew what a blog was but has one herself and asked what I blogged about.

Rachael Lynch looking gorgeous and me with puffy eyes from nearly crying

I looked around and everyone was packing up so I saw no point in staying around any longer so I left. I'd been there fifteen minutes. So much for an 11:00am finish.

Overall, I was really disappointed. If you want someone to live blog your event an accurate time would be helpful. And if you see someone trying not to cry at your event about depression, maybe you could start practicing what you preach.

My bad experience aside, I still believe whole heartedly in the concept and the meaning behind the day, even if it is somewhat lacking in tangible ways to finish or continue the conversation they're asking us to start. So ask someone. Start that conversation. Do it today and keep doing it.

EDIT: I'm thinking that they never received my email checking that I could come at 8:30-9:00am and only the original one when I was talking about arriving at 8:00am. I have to believe that. Otherwise I feel too let down. Still would have been nice to know that an event with a four hour time span according to the invite was actually only one hour.

Waiting and Dying

Last Tuesday I was having lunch with my Dad. His phone rang and I don't know why or how, but I just knew that it would be my Uncle saying that my Grandfather was dying or dead. For almost a week now we have been waiting for the inevitable.

Yesterday it happened again. I had a missed call while I was on the phone to someone else. I heard the familiar beep beep of the other line and then again for the voice message. I didn't even have to listen to it to know. It was time. The family was being summoned to the hospital to say their final goodbyes to my Grandfather. The wait was almost over.

I run to the bathroom and furiously rub away my makeup. Bright red lips are too perky for ICU. Tricky and I jump in the car and make our way to the hospital. Partly to say goodbye, but mostly to support my Dad.

Since having his operation last week, my Grandfather never regained consciousness. He would show some signs of improvement but with each step forward he would take two back. His body was failing, even with so much intervention. The decision was made to remove life support.

We gather around his bed. His wife, his five children, two of their partners (one is my Mum), three of his grandchildren and one sweet little Tricky boy who senses that something is up. He is unusually calm and happy to be held. All these people, most of whom Tricky hasn't met before, smile at him with sad eyes and he smiles back. He never smiles at strangers. Maybe he knows they are family?

It has been years since all the children were in the same room and we are all aware that this morose family reunion should not have happened this way. Not like this. There should be food and wine not ventilators and catheters.

We hug and we cry. And we wait for it all to happen. For the show to begin. For the show to end. For death to come.

My Dad holds his father's hand. They have the same hands and it's difficult to tell which is which. I look around and notice that they all have the same hands.

The Priest arrives. All the identical hands join in a circle around the bed and the Last Rites are read. Tricky decides now would be a good time to giggle. I cringe and apologize and everyone else just smiles at him... he is a welcome distraction. A bundle of life in stark contrast to the shell of a man who lays upon the bed.

The nurse, an absolute angel, stops the medication. One by one we go to him and say a few words. When it is my turn I walk to his side with Tricky on my hip. I hold my Pop's hand and lean in to kiss his forehead, mumbling some last words in his ear. I call him mate and then immediately wonder why I said it. It's sounds stupid and foreign and I hope that no one else has heard me.

I stand back up and without any prompting Tricky looks at his Great Grandfather and waves bye bye. He knows. My Dad crumples and his body is racked with heaving sobs. My Mum holds him and weeps, memories of a much earlier time haunting her.

We wait. We share memories of happy times, practical jokes and a warped sense of humour. I have forgotten that he was once funny, it seems so long ago. I mention the Easter, when I was only young, that he handed me a large, heavy, gift wrapped box that had me so excited... only to find a tiny egg and a brick inside.

The sobs of "what a great man" and "I'll miss him so much" anger me. These are the people who complained loudly when it was their turn to finally help out when my Dad couldn't do it any more. The people who hated helping so much they rang my Dad five short days after his open heart surgery, when he was still in hospital, to ask when he could drive again so desperate were they to be rid of the old man. Who after only six months of helping him have forgotten who it was that took care of it all for years. But now is not the time for bitterness... that will come, I just know it.

After almost an hour he is ready to go, he is ashen. The nurse asks if we'd like the breathing tube removed for the final few minutes. Everyone solemnly nods. Take it away, let him have his last few minutes on earth with as few tubes as possible.

The wait is almost over. The final drabs of life drain from his face and he is gone. A doctor quietly comes in to confirm it. She warms her hands before feeling for a pulse and apologizes to him, by name, for their iciness. If it wasn't so sad I would laugh. Warming your hands to touch a corpse has to be the height of compassion.

The formalities of death are over and the time is noted. 1:20pm. I stroke his tattooed arm and kiss his forehead. Still warm. I wonder how long it takes for a body to go cold and panic that I might have asked out loud.

My fear from last week has eventuated. I have watched someone die. Witnessed their soul leave their body. I am overwhelmed and it is hard to process. I am the first to leave the room, making my excuses that Tricky needs to go and I head straight for the bathrooms where I scrub at my hands as if the stench of death is on them.

And now we wait again. We all know it won't be long before we are back here, going through the same motions, with the wife he has left behind.

Four Generations: My Grandparents, my Dad and I with a two day old Tricky

Of Death, Census and Resources

At this moment, my grandfather lies in an induced coma in intensive care.

On Tuesday we got a phone call saying he had only a few hours left to live, and that if we wanted to say goodbye it was time. It happened so quickly, the day before he appeared fine.

I have never been close to him. I honestly could not say that I love him, I've never had the opportunity to. But still, hearing that someone you have known your entire life, your Father's Father, is about to draw their last breath is confronting to say the least.

His diagnosis? Pancreatitis. Necrosis. Septicemia. They're ugly words. Ugly to read, ugly to hear. Though far worse to experience them, I can tell you.

You know it's serious when you are escorted through a packed triage to a resus alcove of the emergency room with a sign on the door that says one visitor at a time and they let in three adult children, one adult grandchild and one great grandchild in a massive pram. The rules don't count at times like that.

I go over, kiss him hello and squeeze his shoulder, the only place that doesn't seem to have tubes or wires coming out.

"Hello, Glow, you're looking good"

"Hey Pop, Yeah I'm real good. Got a few tubes going on there, don't ya?"

Stilted, pathetic conversation. I don't know what to say. What can you say? I only came because you're dying? He knows that anyway, I'm sure.

I stand back and watch the scene unfold, not wanting to get in the way. I thank some unknown deity that Tricky is managing to sleep through all the chaos. A screaming toddler is not a welcome addition in a room thick with tension.

His heart rate and blood pressure are wildly erratic. They soar and bells chime, then moments later they plummet and yet more buzzers go off, this time with more urgency. I watch the numbers drop, drop, dropping and he blacks out. I've never been in a situation like this before, and it occurs to me that I might be about to witness someone die.

The medical team aren't rushing about like you see in the movies or the reality emergency room shows. It's so obvious, even though they are amazingly supportive and empathetic, that they are certain of how the events are about to unfold. Why rush? They are doing a slow, perfectly choreographed waltz of death.

Death Invites the Old Man for a Last Dance - Frans Franken 1635

It's bizarre how your mind works when the Grim Reaper himself is in the room, looming in the shadows. As the machines alarm announcing his heart failing, I find myself wondering if he's filled out his census form yet... if he dies will they still hand that one in or fill out a new one? My cheeks burn, and I flush with shame that I let my mind go there.

He is in and out of consciousness but when he is there, he is lucid. He knows exactly what is happening and it tears at my insides like a rake dragging across flesh. How bizarre must it be to hear people talking in hushed tones about you? Whispering "he's a very ill man... he doesn't have much time left" and knowing that it's about to all end. Laying there wondering what's on the other side. Praying? Cursing? Regretting?

He grasps my aunt's hand, "Look after your mum. Don't put her in a home."

My grandmother, so small and weak and fragile, holds his hand silently. I can see her heart breaking. For a couple who seemed to never smile, never laugh, never show any signs of affection to anyone... here they are, showing me that there is love there. I am surprised, joyful and saddened at the same time.

He chooses to have surgery, with only a 20% chance of surviving. For her. A 20% chance to get better, go home, and care for her. It's all for her. 

And all I can think, even as I watch it happening to my own family; my grandmother broken, my aunt openly weeping for her 'Papa', my father and uncle steeling themselves with arms folded across their chests; is what a waste of resources. 

He is an old man, not just knocking at death's door but stepping over the threshold. How many thousands of dollars are being spent to prolong his life? And for what? A few extra days in a coma?

Where do we draw the line? Where does quality of life come in? And whose quality is more important; the person about to die or the people they leave behind to pick up the pieces? Who gets to decide that?

EDIT: Thank you all for your lovely comments. I have replied to those that left a story and an email address. I find it really hard to reply to comments like these, my usual sarcastic self doesn't quite know what to do. 

My grandfather passed away at 1:20pm on Monday 15th August with his wife, five children, two of their partners, three grandchildren and one great grandchild by his side.