Dedicated to the best dog ever...........my angel with whiskers

When I close my eyes I see you, when I open my eyes I miss you.

This blog comes to you from deep inside my heart – a heart that broke exactly 1 year ago today on the lounge room floor as I cradled my almost 14 year old golden retriever Murphy in my arms and felt her fall heavily onto my chest.  I looked up at John sitting next to me and saw him silently weeping as he hugged Murphy too and I watched Evan, Murphy’s vet, lift the stethoscope from her still chest and respectfully whisper that she was gone.  

Murphy hadn’t been well for a number of weeks, renal failure, which had escalated from her being a bit droopy to her refusing food and having to have regular fluid therapy in order to function.  Although we delayed for as long as we could eventually we had to accept that keeping her alive was more about us and our needs than it was about what Murphy needed.  We knew it was time.  

Without question Murphy deserves a blog all of her own and I need to acknowledge straight up that any loving dog owner will tell you that their dog is the best.  The absolute best.  No really, THE best.  And the fact that millions of dogs around the world in all shapes and sizes, varying ages, quirky behaviours and breeds still manage to be the best dog the family has ever owned, is a testament to the perfection of a dog.  And Murphy was no exception this rule.

Murph played a significant role in supporting me during the hardest days of my treatment.  She gave me a reason to stick a cap on my bald head and sit in the sun while I watched her wade around hopelessly chasing the small fish in the shallow water hour after hour.  She helped me remember that it’s the simple things that make you the happiest and that it was perfectly acceptable to sleep in the daytime.  When I was banned from the gym due to infection risk, she was my silent (and very inactive) training partner as I pumped weight in the lounge room to thumping music.  She was a willing listener to my spoken thoughts and I trusted her discretion for non disclosure when I confided in her about how I was feeling on some of the harder days.  She was always there – the blonde four legged heart beat at my feet, under my chair, by the couch or on the daybed always ready to nuzzle into my lap and wait for my hand to fall on her little blonde head for a reassuring pat. The reassurance was reciprocal.

Murphy was my companion as I counted the treatments down, sitting with me on the back deck sharing the changing summer months as they faded into a much cooler Autumn.  She made me laugh often.  She was my silent critique on most things.  Life was simple from Murphy’s perspective. She loved her food and hated thunderstorms, birds and toddlers dressed up in batman outfits. She was unwaveringly loyal and even at her sickest always attempted to be in the same room even if that meant a creaky and arthritically painful rise to her feet to plod 10 metres from lounge to kitchen.  And if it was necessary, she would willingly do it all in reverse. Twice.  Remarkably, if we were separated for a period of time, no matter whether it was 5 weeks such as for a holiday or for 5 seconds retrieving something from the car, Murphy always always always grabbed a stuffed toy in her mouth and met me wiggling her bottom at the front door.  In 13.5 years that greeting never grew old and I can tell you a year later, my heart falls every time I unlock my front door and she’s not there.  

We got Murphy as a 9 week old rollie pollie ball of fluff.  She wasn’t the wriggly energetic face licking bite your nose puppy type.  Quite the opposite in fact.  She was kind of floppy and cuddly and let you cradle her like a baby, content to be carried around on her back, all four fat paws up.  Essentially in 13.5 years that never changed so that at 35 plus kilos in the peak of her adult life, Murphy still preferred the human crane to any kind of self propelled jumping which included in and out of the car and the bed.  Yes, it’s true, both John and I were guilty of climbing out of the bed in order to lift Murphy into the bed having woken up to her brown eyes blinking at you, chin resting on the bed edge 3 inches from yours.  If you didn’t wake quickly enough, she would kind of snort a little bit of dog juice from her nose with enough gentle force that it would hit you in the face but miraculously never felt like it was deliberate.  Worked every time.  Lifting her in was a tricky manoeuvre that required lightening speed in order to reinstate your position before Murph settled back down – risking your own personal space and any decent sleep for the remainder of the night.  

Murphy quickly became a focal point of our lives – I guess that’s what children do in expanding families but having made a conscious decision not to have children, it was inevitable that Murphy was going to fulfil that role.  And she loved it.  No amount of attention was ever too much for this girl. And the idea that she was a pet; a dog; an animal to be disciplined and trained - well forget about it.  Murphy was a princess; a diva; the supermodel of the golden retriever world and I just need to say it, Murphy was the boss.  And it wasn’t just us she commanded attention from.  Murphy quickly bossed mates and visitors, next door neighbours (sorry Aunty Lyn and Uncle Ash!) and anyone willing to baby sit her.  She was the ultimate strategist and knew to establish the most superb back up plan possible by enlisting the heart of her Fairy Godmother that lasted an entire lifetime.  She was the gentlest dog with an amazing capacity to always get what she wanted.  The girl was special.  

I made a decision at the start of this blog to always write from my perspective only and so I won’t break that rule now by writing how much both John and I loved and now miss Murphy.  But what I can write with confidence is how as a third party I witnessed the growing bond and depth of love that Murphy clearly had for John.  He was her life and she adored him.  In Murphy’s eyes, I was cool but John was a superstar.  Maybe it’s because he walked her more often.  Maybe it’s because I wasn’t around as much in the later years of her life.  Could it have been the cooking thing?  Maybe it’s because John rode out the majority of thunder storms on the kitchen floor nestling her shaking body as he sung James Taylor ‘You’ve Got a Friend’ on repeat at 3am during the summer months.  Perhaps it was the canine version of the father / daughter thing.  Whatever it was, Murphy had cemented her paw print on John’s heart and she wasn’t going to give that up for anyone.  

And then I got sick.

And somehow Murphy knew that she needed to share her love and her loyalty with me.  She knew that she needed to show me how to seize the moment and to realise that life is not limitless.  She applauded my decision to slow down and be at home with her more often and she showed me why it was important to take time to quietly watch a sunset over the water or enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass at the cricket oval.  She secretly celebrated when I shed more hair on the floor than her and she showed me that no matter how sick and unattractive I looked on the outside, that she could still see the real me and that she loved me - so others would too.  

Above all I think Murphy taught me optimism in the face of adversity.  She was suffering from her own debilitating illness, an unfortunate spiralling of her health due to a spreading infection and aging vital organs in an arthritic wobbly body.  Despite this, Murphy continued to sit at my feet and support me as I completed my treatment plan.  She waited every day for the six weeks of radiotherapy for me to walk back in through the front door so she could present me with one of her stuffed pals and remind me that in the right moment, a simple gesture of love can be more effective and valuable than any words.  And on my last day of treatment, she was right by my side as we very carefully (so it could not be misconstrued with a fire cracker) popped the cork from the Bollinger and celebrated together.

Sadly, around late November last year, Murphy’s health moved into palliative care status and we knew we literally only had days left.  It was never a debate about how we would do it, having the vet come to the house and Murphy being held by both of us as the needle was inserted was always an agreed approach.  The decision about when however came with much debate and many tears.  And eventually a date and time.  

And so, exactly a year ago today, we gave Murphy the best morning we could possibly muster given our heavy hearts which included carrying her down to the waters edge at the beach and throwing her a few last sand balls so she could make a feeble attempt at chasing them – which in an incredible final sign of resilience she did. We carried out all the historic ceremonies that become critical when you know it’s the ‘last one’ like towel downs and hand delivered treats and a nice snooze with her favourite stuffed pal, Webbie.  

And then we waited for the sound of the vet’s car pulling into the driveway.  It was one of the longest mornings of my life that in an instant became all too short.  There are so many heartfelt delightful moments wrapped up in remembering this beautiful soul packaged in 35 kilos of blonde hair and expressive brown eyes – this blog cannot possibly do her justice.  I am so incredibly grateful for her friendship and love.

And so it was, a year ago today, that in the final moments of her life I had the honour and privilege of holding Murphy in my arms;  I had the intimate time to lean down and kiss her on her little grey face and I had one last opportunity to tell her she was THE BEST DOG EVER.   

Shine on your special star Murphy. xxx               

Pawprints Left By You

You no longer greet me,
As I walk through the door.
You're not there to make me smile,
To make me laugh anymore.
Life seems quiet without you,
You were far more than a pet.
You were a family member, a friend
. . . a loving soul I'll never forget.
It will take time to heal -
For the silence to go away.
I still listen for you,
And miss you every day.
You were such a great companion,
Constant, loyal and true.
My heart will always wear,
the pawprints left by you.

-Teri Harrison

Celebrating The Sadness......

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart – and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight – Kahlil Gibran

It seems to be that the longer I distance myself from my cancer and the more that time passes, the greater difficulty I am having in writing these blogs.  In the past 6 months I have managed only two blogs, one of which was never published publicly, – a private moment that was deeply personal with a depth of intimacy I never wanted to share beyond the purpose of the blog and the expressions I needed so importantly to make at that time.  It was raw and real and wrapped in both celebration and sadness that the months have managed to slowly dissipate but never completely left me. 

And the second blog is now.

This blog I have to confess has been started over countless times.  But it seems that I have struggled with every attempt at this particular journal entry simply because the words I type never seem to reflect or capture the depth of love and heartache and loss adequately.  My ramblings don’t live up to the significance of the events.  But here goes…

From the outset I need to acknowledge that many of my blogs have in fact exposed personal details of important people in my life that formed part of my story.  Blogs dedicated to grandparents, a little brother, beautiful friends and even a stranger named Francy – just to name a few.  And I have at times worried that in the process of describing something meaningful to me in my attempt to illustrate the story, I inadvertently disclose something private of others.  I truly hope that this has not been the case. 

But what has been a lovely flow on affect of mentioning significant people in my blogs is that along the way I have had readers specifically ask me about the welfare of someone I’ve described or they’ve sent me personal sayings / quotes knowing it will mean something to me based on an event embedded in my writings.  I can’t tell you the number of times individuals have stopped and asked me about my beautiful Murphy, having never met her but simply because they have identified the strength of our bond through my countless Murphy anecdotes and my clothes covered in dog hair.  Murphy deserves a blog of her own and sometime soon that one will be posted.

And the blog from earlier this year, about my step mum Yvonne, is also no exception to this rule.  That blog posted on 7 April 2013 described the heart wrenching decision that Yvonne made, supported by my dad, to cease her chemotherapy treatment. 

To just stop.

And so it was, less than a month later, on 1 May 2013, in her bed at home as was her wish, Yvonne’s fight with cancer finally came to a close.   It was a long and hard fought battle spanning just over 20 years and boy, the lady in red gave it a good hard kick in the guts before she finally reached a personal agreement with her cancer and lay down to rest.  Her funeral was beautiful, a fine tribute to one foxy lady.  And although the months have passed since that time, my dad’s heart breaks daily and her loss is felt by many.   

Understandably this was not an easy decision and I know my dad agonised over the unenviable balance of what might prolong Yvonne’s life, even by a week or two, against the painfully immobile and highly dependent existence that had become her life.  It was not a question of Dad’s capacity to continue the care required or of maintaining resilience, love and support from Yvonne’s family that tipped this difficult decision.  And I don’t think until you are in it, debating the weighty issues and having to communicate the implications to the person you adore, can you ever really know just how hideous and stressful it can be.  But eventually, driven by overriding love that holds greater force than the self driven love that needs more time, counts more days, just wants to say one more thing, the scales are tipped to finally let go.

Watching someone that you love die is terrible.  Watching someone that you love die from the same disease that you are battling, is equally terrible but holds an additional element of ‘terrifying’ to what is already an emotionally confronting time.  I’m quick to say to those I have discussed this with that ‘I know it’s not my story’ or ‘I’m lucky because my cancer is different / better / more positive for me’ and every time I say it I truly mean it.  But this would not be an honest account of this journey if I didn’t also admit that my armour of resilience has taken the occasional blow, and Yvonne’s death was one of them.

If my resilience was a shop display item there would be a sign saying “discounted by 10% due to minor damage” – pock mark dents or little chips that stop it from being sold as shiny and new.  And every now and then, when I am alone, I find myself focusing on the dents in my armour just for a moment, staring at them, touching them, pushing my finger into the ridges and wondering if they’ve gotten any bigger or if there is a way I can press them back without making it worse. Possibly, for me, an even greater fear is having someone else notice the flaws.  It’s a vulnerability I work hard to resist but that despite all of my efforts somehow sneaks its way into my psyche when I am not looking. 

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer I had many of my cancer colleagues say to me “welcome to the club Kym”.  It was not articulated negatively – in fact it was said in a way that made you feel like you’d just been handed the special keys into an exclusive girly club with unspoken codes to the secrets of love and life.  And maybe it is.  Because without doubt there is a special bond that intrinsically links you to your sisters in this fight.  And the bond is real. Recently I sat at a table in Paris sharing a very special lunch with someone incredibly important to me, a sister in this journey, and my left breast ached.  It physically throbbed.  And when I shared this event with another beautiful cancer sister and friend back home several weeks later, I discovered that my diagnosis almost 2 years ago had caused the same aches and discomfort for her but that she had never felt like she could tell me.  Welcome to the club.  Empathy, compassion, understanding, fear.  It’s all part of the membership.  And what comes with it is a need to slip on that armour of resilience and just get walking – the dents and scratches will happen but they are merely a distraction as you start the climb to the top of the hill.  Or if I stick to the same theme running as all of my blogs, you armour up as you take to the field for the game of your life.      

         

The good news is that these feelings and concerns don’t last long and for the most part I, like my sisters, stride on confidently further and further away from the cancer diagnosis.  I guess thinking about this as I write it – it’s not a bad thing to slow the urgent pace I have set for myself every now and then.  Better to take small and reflective steps in order to have the strength and capacity to actually go the distance.  After all, any decent gym instructor out there will tell you that you must enjoy the occasional lull in the music and the workout before you push yourself into a frenzied finish that smashes you over the line. 

And whether I am taking timid steps forward or striding it out with my head held high – I am still making my way closer to ticking over another cancer free year.  Yeah baby. 

And I’m here to tell you that at the top of the mountain where there are no clouds and the air is clear and fresh, my armour even with the occasional dent looks awfully bright and sparkly reflecting in that sunshine.         

Sweet dreams Yvie with lots of love always xxxKym.Langill@facs.nsw.gov.au

Better late than never maybe???

I dedicate this blog to my courageous Step mum Yvonne and her pillow, my beautiful dad, Lloyd
.............'When tough times come, it is particularly important to offset them with much gentle softness. Be a pillow'........... ~ Vera Nazarene


Okay okay - I accept you may have good reason to assume I'd abandoned this blogging game - that I had hyped you all up into a home run and a victory dance and blah and blah and then just nicked off home without saying goodbye.  Wrong!  I'm still here and in order to wrap this cancer journey up, I feel I have a few blogs left in me.  Because there have been a number of significant related events that have happened since early August last year (yes I know) and I'm not a fan of having unfinished business.  Besides which, I need to keep my dad happy and he has been on my case for sometime.  So clearly this one is for you dad :)

My last blog alluded to the fact that I had to make a decision to go through with having ovaries and tubes removed to ensure no oestrogen production occurred in this body of mine. I neglected to mention that along with that decision now comes frequent and uncontrollable hot sweats which for all my mates that are a good decade behind me on this one - be warned - enjoy your dry moments with gay abandon I say!  I love a good sweat up don't get me wrong but I prefer that this happens in a sauna or at the gym and not when I am in the middle of a meeting at work and all of a sudden I am the colleague melting at the end of the table.  It hadn't occurred to me just how uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing the profusely sweating world can be.  Thanks cancer - you took a good swipe at me with that outcome.  Still it was destined to happen at some stage in my life anyway and I will be an expert in ventilation techniques for my girlfriends down the track.  Always a silver lining!  

I neglected to mention in the previous blog that I had literally just returned from an amazing holiday in Bali (July 2012) in which my gorgeous friend and cancer coordinator Dr Julia Maclean ( you know, woman of science / crazy lady) and I boarded a plane destined for detox!  Yup, that's right we voluntarily flew 9 hours plus a road trip to Ubud to undertake a week of detoxification (just to be clear - NO COCKTAILS or DUDE FOOD or SUNSET SESSIONS) in the beautiful mountains of Bali.  We left our two hairy children (Murphy and Barney) in the capable hands of John who funnily enough considered a holiday in Bali with no cold beer or food for that matter to not be his idea of a fun time away.  Go figure?

It had been a promise I had made to myself (one of many) that when the chemo / nuclear blasting was over - that I would go somewhere and completely cleanse myself in order to feel healthy and whole again.  And that's exactly what happened.  Mind you, the detox started several weeks BEFORE departure as you are encouraged to 'pre-detox' for your detox I assume so that you don't arrive and start convulsing by 10pm when you haven't had your daily dose of nicotine, caffeine and alcohol (or whatever your said vice might be).  So Julia and I spent a good couple of weeks prior to leaving texting each other to ensure that we hadn't broken and ordered a triple shot latte with 8 sugars.  We were good to go!

The resort (Como Shambhala) was simply stunning.  We ate 'clean food' (read organic, healthy schmealthy juicy veggie stuff) at the beginning and the end of the week but for the majority of the time, Julia and I drank juice only - oh and a boatload of coconut water - some with oils and psyllium husk and whatever other concoction that Eve our Nutritionist recommended.  I mastered the holding ones nose technique and gulping the liquid down and we did get to the point when we heard one of us groan, we just knew instinctively that a friendly staff member in their crisp Balinese leisure suits was about to turn up with two giant size glasses of the greenest concoction you've ever seen and pop it down for us to enjoy!   Spending days drinking liquid only can do weird things to you and I found myself dreaming of chowing down on buckets of KFC popcorn chicken and looking longingly at the floral arrangements in the treatment rooms wondering what the stalks might taste like if I could just snap the bottom bit off for a gnaw?  But, it was an incredible transformation to wake every day feeling increasingly fabulous and energised! 

I have to say my idea of a week in Bali has been traditionally based around Bintang, Nasi Goreng and late nights dancing so to spend a week slurping down bright multi coloured veggie juices and considering clapping my hands at a bowl of Quinoa and 12 hours sleep - I just knew I was doing something very nurturing for my body and soul.  Do I go there and describe the treatments - hmmmm lets just say that yes, occasionally it did involve a lubricated tube and the "Angel of  Water" and some hilarious moments between Julia and I that has further cemented our friendship.  Yes I know, what goes on tour should well and truly stay there.  Enough said about that then.

We did win the award for essentially signing up to every activity on the menu AND undergoing practically every treatment available AND for stealing their local golden retriever and hiding her out in our room AND for arranging a trip to the 'real medicine man' only to uncover it was some old dude in a puffer jacket, sandals and with no teeth in which my consultation was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing!!!  Still, I purchased the $5 bag of yellow oil and smeared it on my forehead like he told me to until it leaked and ran all over my toiletry bag.  He did confirm that my cancer had gone however so Puff Daddy Medicine man rocks as far as I'm concerned.

The following week I said goodbye to Julia and I stayed on to surf at a surf camp on the Bhukit Peninsular of Bali.  I was feeling so fantastic following the detox that I actually stuck to good clean healthy food and I surfed my butt off for a week - some days spending something like 6 hours on a surfboard.  It was the perfect combination of detox and exercise and exactly what I needed to wrap the treatment phase of this cancer up.  I returned to Lennox one happy, healthy girl.

Of course I was aware that I was returning to face round 3 of surgery for me which was to remove my ovaries and tubes.  This was scheduled for early August (taking me to my last blog) and so shortly after arriving home from Bali, I was back in a hospital gown and back under the knife - but hey, I had a damn fine tan and what better place to be in for such an event - fully detoxed, feeling strong as an Ox and back at Club Med St George Kogarah!!  Perfect!

It was also the right time for me go see Stephanie my breast surgeon for a big check up - mammogram, ultrasound etc.  However here is where the fun ends and a week of anxiousness begins.  Unfortunately for me, the mammogram did show up some lumps in the right breast this time and so my week started with a mandatory and what I had expected routine check up and ended up with a right boob punctured x 6 to ensure that the biopsy was thorough.  The operation to remove the ovaries a complete doddle, literally an operation that required one overnight stay in hospital and had me back on a spin bike a few days later.   Waiting to hear if the lumps in the right breast benign - not so easy and sent me into the depths of despair having to seriously consider the 'what ifs' should it come back positive to breast cancer.  You cannot know the anxiety that is wrapped up in waiting on news such as this.  I am one of the lucky ones - I get to sit here and write about how relieved I was to hear that all was well and that the tests came back negative to cancer.  You can go home Kym.  

However it did offer me yet another life lesson on this cancer journey and it's one that is extremely close to home even as I write this blog on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  And that is that unlike me, there are others in which the news is not cause for celebration.  In which the news means another round of dreadful telephone calls to your mum and your mates and your work telling them you have to check out of life for a while.  In which the people the closest to you stop making plans for their own lives because they know you are going to need them and they have no idea how long that's going to be for.  In which you lie awake in the darkness of night and wonder where the strength will come to do it all again.  To keep smiling.  To stay positive. To fight.  I think of the beautiful people in my life right now that know exactly what that feels like......you know who you are and I look forward to every opportunity for connection and sharing whether it be at a cafe in Ballina or a restaurant in Paris.  You are my mentors, my pin up gals, my strength. 

And so it was that I gained a new depth of appreciation for all those people out there currently battling their disease for the second, third, fourth and tragically in some cases, the final time.  How do you keep fighting when you have used up every inch of your resilience to get through the last round of treatment? To take to the field and play the game of your life only to have the Umpire say you get off the bench and play again - the games not over - yes you are exhausted but you are still not safe on home base and no one else can play for you.  And it's gone on so long that it's not just you that's tired - your support crew are growing weary too.  

Yesterday my step mum opted, for now, not to undergo her final round of chemo.  For Yvonne the game has been long (over a decade now) and she's played with strength and an amazing spirit.  She is a champion in her own right and I have watched with pride and a heavy heart as she and my dad as her number 1 supporter have faced the pitcher time and time again.  No one should sit in judgement of decisions you make about your own health when only you know what you can and cant face - particularly when the game has been unfairly extended and physical and mental exhaustion is at play.  I've only had to face one innings in this game and I already know that there are scars I will carry forever as a result.  Additionally I am only too conscious that my support crew have sacrificed much to support me.  It takes a special person to keep taking the punches after every knock to the ground. It's not just you either - it's those that are helping you back to your feet, dusting you off, holding you up.  I can completely understand the decision to bring the game to a close.  

And so I dedicate this blog to Yvonne and Dad - Warriors in the fight.  A partnership that has shown remarkable love and care and above all kindness.  I salute your courage, your fortitude and your toughness.  To my dad I especially respect your stamina, positivity and the selfless sacrifices you have made to be the gentle pillow in Yvonne's life.  I am in awe of both of you.  

Much Love Squirty (aka Kym) xxx