And then it hit me...

It seems the law of averages is not my family's friend. With the number of friends that have died prematurely in recent times we should be secure in the knowledge that all those we hold dear will continue to walk safely amongst us. Sadly, cancer plays no heed to maths or rules of any kind and another friend, with everything to live for, has been given a death sentence. He has a rare form of inoperable lung cancer and, no, he has never been a smoker. He is a father of four, a loving husband and a cheery, entertaining and steadfast friend. He is 48 and he is dying. A week ago we were bemoaning that fact that he and his family were packing up and moving to Darwin, and planning trips to visit them, now that move may never happen and the only trips are those to the hospital.

And so we look into the face of a woman about to become a widow, into the eyes of children about to lose a father and try to avoid looking into the faces of friends who are as lost as we are. Grief is a strange beast, today as I stepped out the shower, I burst into tears, and even though I was thinking of mundane things clearly thoughts of our friend were swirling just below the surface.

Last night I found myself having a conversation with his wife who told me she was worried about Rob. How was he coping with the news? How strong she is to put her grief aside and worry about how her  friends are dealing with the news. She is a doctor so she knows only too well what horrors await her husband in the coming days and weeks. She asked how my children were coping and sympathised with how it hard it must have been for them to hear the news that more of their young friends are struggling with the new reality of a sick and dying parent. Yet her kindness and her warmth didn't hide the raw quality of her voice, nor did her black humour convince me that she was ok. We joked about averages, macabre really as in the back of our minds we were both thinking about a mutual friend no longer with us. And then we spoke about stuff that really doesn't matter because sometimes that is what you need - normality in a world that has ceased to be normal.

Rob has been away at camp this week and so when the news broke I was alone. I decided not to tell him until he returned today, it seemed cruel to send an email or sms to break such terrible news. I was relying on the fact that his contact with the outside world was limited and that references on facebook were oblique. I felt that his knowing would make getting through camp so much harder. But life is not simple or controllable and one of the other teachers broke the news to him as she had received an email. And so Rob was left to process his thoughts and manage his grief while caring for a group of kids who were oblivious to his pain.

I guess we all process things differently. I've noticed that when someone speaks of having a friend or relative diagnosed with cancer the natural reaction of the group is to tell their cancer story. Sometimes I wish people would just stop and listen and offer sympathy without advice, or wise counsel without personifying the event. But they rarely do and I'm as guilty as the next person. So that's why I've created this post... to process my thoughts free of the impediments that go with social interaction, to be free to express sadness and sorrow and then slip back to reality still with a heavy heart but a clearer head.

Thanks for stopping by.