26/30 - marking time // one year on after loss

It's the day before the one year anniversary of the loss of my beloved step-father, David.

"They" say the first anniversaries are the hardest, and that the lead up can be worse than the day itself. 

I have so far found this to be true, as the tension coils and the emotions bubble up and over with even more bite than usual. It still hardly seems true that he is gone. Still. 

But today....

Our little family decorated stones, to lay at the foot of the tree where David's ashes are scattered, the tree by which he ran and played and climbed as a child.

We had a quiet afternoon tea with his 95 year old father, a gentleman of the highest order, still living independently and sharp as a tack, kind as can be. He had lit the fire at his home so he could roast marshmallows for the great grandchildren, on his super deluxe double-pronged metal marshmallow roasting stick. An activity David would surely have delighted in joining in, and he would have gleefully let the children eat all the marshmallows they wanted (likely hundreds!).

Today we missed him but could hardly talk about him, a grief still too raw to express, one year on. But it felt good and right to be together, drawing quietly near as the day approaches.

And where is our delight today?

In family moments, in still-tender yet fond memories and in knowing that we grieve, but not without hope. 

We miss him, but we know he is at perfect peace and that is the delight in the midst of my grief.

Documenting delight, every day in June.

#highlightsreel // lowlights and love

This is life, our life. It keeps on rolling through ups and downs. We find joy in the darkness and bittersweet sorrow in our happiness. Somehow this mixture of joy and sorrow becomes a daily reminder of how tenuous and precious this life is. It makes me determined to be all the more purposeful in how we live it. Stark realities are a lingering reminder to our family of our hope and faith and assurance of things not seen. They give deeper meaning to the things we do. 

Although my joys are now forevermore tainted with sorrow, it makes me more grateful for them. 

That is the gift of grief, I suppose.

And so... here are our darkest days, mixed up, as they so often are, (particularly with small children!), with happy, light and sweet.

I found Eli busy at work creating a roadway of books. The path to literacy perhaps?
So cute! Not sure if he considers this endeavour worth the time it took him to pack 
them up again, however ;)

Allllll the way down the hall...

Decorating cupcakes, with quite substantial sampling going on...

We had our little buddies Finn and Harper over for a sleepover and disco. The
colourful streamers were a big hit! Eli was leaping for joy, haha.

Mark decided to make cupcakes as a special treat for the kids (awwww, bless him). The kids iced them, as you can see!

A sheet of pink fabric I had put out for play turned into the night's best game -
tug of war! Eli really put his back into it, heehee. My little strong man! 

Behind these scenes of fun and frivolity, which should never be far from life with children, was the reality of some of our very hardest days. 

My beloved step-father David passed away after his short and brutal fight with pancreatic cancer (I don't like the phrase 'fight with cancer', as it implies too much responsibility on the sufferer, but not sure what to replace it with?). Well, almost two months later and I'm still not yet ready to speak too much about it. Not sure if or when I will be. I have precious photos I took during this time I can hardly bear to look at, let alone share either. 

Instead, to mark this significant event in this, our online family record book, I will share a few photos I took of the beautiful view outside David's hospice room. These images were taken during the three days I stayed in his hospice room, his last days. Surreal, strange, beautiful, heart breaking days. In short breaks, I would step outside to breath some fresh air, soak up the view, pray and gather my strength for what was to come. 

The morning fog those last days was thick and heavy, lingering till well past lunchtime. A strange and rare weather pattern befitting of that surreal and precious time. I know I will always remember David whenever I see that hazy, lingering fog each winter. 

For three days we stood vigil at his bedside, awaiting that last precious breath, ready at last (can you ever be ready?) to send him home to glory and that perfect, perfect peace. For three days, I barely slept and sporadically ate and allowed my heart to crack open in a whole new way, as we nursed, and cared, and talked and waited. And then, he breathed his last and this beloved, dear man was gone from this fleeting life on earth. We grieve, but not without hope.

I miss him deeply.  

Hope floats.

In the midst of mist and grief, a little reminder pokes through - there is still life and joy to come.

The last morning, the heaviest fog...

After David passed, we moved through the exhausting, painful week between his passing and the various beautiful services we held to honour him. Then the very next day, my beautiful little tiger-man, Eli, turned five. And so, a birthday. Jarring, yes? From funerals to birthday parties in rapid succession, but that is how life is sometimes. And how could we deny this sweet little boy his celebration? If anyone, Eli is our ultimate reminder of the joy life also holds, my irrepressibly happy little man. So, we rallied to celebrate him as best we could.

We held a low key family dinner, and gave our all to make it a happy affair and my boy was indeed thrilled with what he had. And we will more than make up for a low key birthday with his (delayed) birthday party extravaganza coming up very shortly too (dragon themed!)! Yes, the party is two months delayed but as far as E is concerned, he wins as he gets two birthdays ;)

As hard as it is, as jarring as it can be, I'm so grateful for my children who remind me that life goes on, and there is always joy to be had.

Eli decorated his own 'Lego Cake'. Pretty epic, huh?? :) 

In awe.....

With much coaching and encouragement from my crafty friends, I made Eli his very own
Lego softie. I have never done something like this!! It was a big challenge for me, as
simple as it was. The stitching left a LOT to be desired, but the look of bliss on Eli's face
when he opened it made me so happy. He couldn't believe he had a Lego toy to snuggle
and that I had made it!? :) This little toy is seeped in extra love because I stitched 
him together while sitting at David's bedside in hospice. David smiled when I showed 
him what I was doing. He loved Eli so much... his favourite activity was swapping
funny Eli stories with other who knew him and his antics well :)

Lily trying on a very special outfit!

We gave our puzzle obsessive a new puzzle, and all enjoyed working on it together after dinner.

Lily as always put together her own very special bundle of crafts and cards for her beloved brother. She made these binoculars which were very well received :)

What a gift... she also decided to write a story dedicated to her brother. In her tiniest, neatest handwriting she worked for
three days over three big pages, while brother proudly and eagerly watching over.

Eli got an awesome beanbag for his birthday, and Lily felt she was missing out on a
cool chair, so decided to make her own special 'throne' out of a box - complete with
cup holder. Yep, pretty happy with herself!

Little Scientist. I found Lily with a piece of paper, labelling all these backyard finds. When I enquired what she was doing, she informed me she was trying to work out what the chickens' favourite snack food was. She was going to carefully present this sheet and see which one they ate first. Oh, my girl, you are so cuuuuuute :)
Translation: Twig, grass, big fat leaves, leaf, dry (jriye!) grass, flower petels, dry leaf.

What a mixed bag of photos and moments, huh? These are our days. And such is life.... such is life.

hello again...

This was the lovely lake view from David's hospice room. A misty morning on the day he passed away.

Hello lovely readers,

Just popping in to explain my absence on this little blog lately - it's been about a month since I last wrote, I'm afraid!

My beloved stepfather passed away about three weeks ago after his very short fight with pancreatic cancer. I miss him so much already, but take great comfort in knowing he has found perfect peace at last.

Needless to say it's been an emotional time of memorial services, family time and just trying to begin to process all that has gone on. I am walking through this grief one non-linear step at a time, and must admit it's still all so fresh and strange, I am not able to talk/write about it much just yet.

I can say that while finding my way through our 'new normal', I have found it's a bit like riding an erratic roller coaster of emotion. At times, it feels like such a blessing/escape/welcome distraction to 'go to work' as it were, on this happy little blog of mine. Then at other times, a silly little thing like blogging seems impossible! And I just need to keep space for my family or my own thoughts. So, posting might be a little scatty for a while as I find my groove again. I still remain committed to documenting the delight of our daily lives, steeped in sorrow as they might be. Somehow, the new depth of sorrow makes those joys all the more precious, don't you think? Bittersweet has new meaning for me now.

Thanks for your patience, for reading along and for all your kind support along the way.

xx Kate

childhood cancer // dancing for finlay + papa

In February 2015, my blogging friend Katey had the life changing news that her beautiful 18 month old boy Finlay had cancer. Stage 4 Hepatoblastoma, to be precise. Utterly devastating news - I cannot even imagine :(

Finlay has been courageously fighting this terrible cancer ever since, with his amazing family always by his side. He has been through chemotherapy and all sorts of treatments in hospital. And he is now having a mammoth eight hour surgery TODAY to remove the cancer, having flown across the country from his home in Perth to Westmead Children’s Hospital in Sydney.

Katey and I are part of a small group of amazing fellow Aussie kid bloggers. When we heard the news from Katey, the group was desperate to show our support in any small way we could. We gave what we could practically, but wanted to do more and it seemed fitting to use our blogging platform to help get the word out. Having seen the #justkeepdancing project started by Ellen Degeneres after Katey's kids took part, we knew we’d love to dance for Finlay and donate what we could to his family and to ongoing cancer research. We’d love for you to do the same, as raising support and awareness means a lot to this family right now!

As many of you know, our lives are also deeply affected by cancer at the moment. My beloved step-father, David, is in the end stages of pancreatic cancer. Although his journey is a very different one to Finlay, today the kids are also dancing for him. He always, always takes joy in every day and every moment. Even now, even going through this, he smiles at the birds outside his window, at the smallest flower brought inside. He still finds reasons to laugh, to wonder, to be thankful to God. He still loves music, he loves his grandkids and if he could, he would still love to do some dancing too :)


So, today my kids are dancing. For sweet Finlay, for our beloved Papa, and to celebrate the love, hope and prayers that we always have.....


Oh, our video is very simple, but it does include a special surprise guest at the end ;)

Oh yeah, they know how to get their groove on ;)

Before I go, some more information on this topic it's important to know...


Childhood Cancer Facts:

·         #1 Killer of Australian Kids from disease
·         The causes of Childhood Cancer are unknown – there is no prevention
·         98% of Childhood Cancer survivors will develop chronic medical conditions as a result of their treatments
·         4 Families hear the words ‘Your child has cancer’ everyday
·         3 Kids die from cancer every week, between 150 and 160 every year
·         Childhood Cancer is NOT the same as Adult Cancer
·         1000 Kids aged 0 – 24 will be diagnosed with Childhood Cancer every year



If you would like to support Finlay and his family as they go through this unimaginable battle, please click here.
If you would like to support research into childhood cancer, please click here.
If you would like to follow along as Finlay and his family face this battle, click here for their Facebook page - the bigger their cheer squad, the better!!


And if you want to raise awareness about Finlay and the terribly high incidence of childhood cancer, please share this post. WHY? Because where there is awareness, there is funding. And where there is funding, there is a cure.


Thank you on behalf of a little fair haired hero named Finlay xx

PS It was my sweet husband's idea to include Optimus Prime in the video! When I told him about the video we were doing for Finlay, he wanted to include Mr Prime as he said 'what little boy wouldn't love a dancing robot?!' Hope you get a giggle out of it, Fin!!! xx


PPS Find more amazing blogs who are showing support with cute dancing and dancing ideas here -

• Picklebums
• Just for Daisy
• The Craft Train
• Octavia and Vicky
• Paging Fun Mums
• My Little Bookcase
• Childhood 101

when cancer walks into your world...

It happens like this....


Severe stomach pains a week before Christmas.
A scan. A fist sized mass found on the pancreas. (A 'mass' is a friendlier word for 'tumour').
Long days in hospital, waiting and waiting to get a biopsy done. Phone calls, frantic texts, stalking doctors through the halls for answers. Shock and tears and fears and prayers. 
Stunned. Can this be happening? It was.
Home. Christmas. Camp. Family time together, savouring the moment, savouring togetherness, savouring family...collectively deciding to not think about the test results coming and the 'news' we have already been told to expect..
We trek back to the hospital for the 'diagnosis'. We walk through the Oncology Department, past rows of dear souls on chemo drips. Reality. 
'The News': Pancreatic Cancer, wrapped around a vein. Stage Four. Metastasized. Terminal. A reality too great to comprehend, and yet we dumbly nod and take notes and say 'Yes'...
So, here we are and so, this new paradigm sinks in. In tiny horrifying doses, it sinks in, day by day.


When a cancer diagnosis walks into your life, it cleaves itself neatly through your world. The moment you hear 'the news' is defining, never forgotten. It cuts deep - like a violent gash, lives forever marked by the before and after. Without notice, you have joined a community, a frighteningly large one of those affected by cancer.

My dearest step dad (what an inadequate term for the father he has been to me since I was 12!), David, has been diagnosed with Pancreatic cancer. One of the most aggressive cancers, so they say. A prognosis of mere months.

How do you even absorb news like that?

Our dear David. Just turned 60, fit and healthy. No 'risk factors' at all. No family history. He is such a good, dear man.  Dignified, kind, gentle, funny, godly, full of faith and wisdom. Truly beloved by all who know him. Wise, caring and always, always, always there when you need him. And I've needed him. I still need him.


.......

Honestly, I have wavered over if to share here, what to share here in this space. I didn't want to write anything, I simple couldn't for so long. I don't know why. How can I simply ignore a part of my real life so significant and all encompassing right now... in this here, my little online diary?? And yet... I have been reluctant. I particularly feel uncomfortable about writing much about David here, his journey, his treatment and so on... it feels too personal and sacred. I love him too dearly. Perhaps that seems odd when I write about my beloved kiddos and all matter of things here all the time, but... there you have it, it is what it is. I'm not sure how to explain it. I want to write something, but what could possibly convey what we are going through? Certainly not one measly blog post. But... here it is, my attempt to somehow mark this significant time in our family records...

.......


So, here we are, over two months later....

The grief has already begun. There have been so many tears (so.many.tears), so much anxiety, so much pure sadness- oh, and of course, bouts of anger (usually misplaced and irrational, but there you have it). Sometimes I feel so utterly overwhelmed, both emotionally and physically, that I hardly know how to bear it. But there has also been gratitude, joy, laughter, love and serenity - a peace that passes understanding. What a tumult of emotions there are. 'How are you?' people ask... honestly, it changes by the minute!

Life has changed. A veil has been flung over us, it colours everything, all the time. Our world does not look like it did before. I have the blessing, the privilege, the honour of living just down the road from my parents, of being deeply involved in supporting them during this time. Well, as best I can with three little ones to manage too. Mmmm, yes, I feel torn so often, I wish I could do more, just be there more. It is so hard to witness them suffering, but I am grateful to serve them as best I can.

We cling to our faith. Our God is our rock during the good times - and the bad. 'God moves in mysterious ways' may be a trite saying but the heart of it is our daily truth. His ways are not our ways. Our eyes are so earthly, His are so eternal. Yes, I believe God has the power to heal, to do incredible miraculous things, and for that I earnestly pray. But I also know that He is telling a story here, one I don't presume to know every nuance and outcome of. It is a story of faith, of real every day people. Of a quiet man with a lifetime legacy of a fierce faith, playing out now more intensely than we ever anticipated. And so we hope and trust and walk forward, step by step. So many are finding inspiration and encouragement in David's peaceful response to the wretched news that so many fear. He is not afraid.

But is it fair? Many tell me this is so unfair. I don't know... I don't tend to think like that, I guess. What is fair? The rain falls on the just and unjust, and so, it seems, does cancer. No matter who we are, our metal is tested through challenges and I know that no matter the outcome of this tale of one beautiful life, his metal will be found to be solid gold faithfulness. In this I have peace and find purpose. I find shades of good in the midst of the bad, comfort in the midst of distress, hope in the shadows of despair. We have hope, and for that we are grateful. We have a hope beyond cure.

But still, there is no denying these are dark days. Days I still cannot truly comprehend, the shock only wearing off in small increments. Can this really be happening? It still feels like a wretched dream at times. My mind is constantly calibrating. In the end, I still desperately want David here with us. The idea of my children not knowing him, this is what breaks me the most. I want my kids growing up around their Papa, to learn from his wisdom just as I did and still very much do! That is what I want, that is how I pray, but I know this life, which is so fleeting and precious, plays out in a grander, more purposeful scale than that..

So. We take it day by day, we do all we can, we soak up every precious moment. Moments are all the more precious now. After all, none of us know what the future holds, do we?

In this dark cancer journey, there is light. I see the light in the blessings of family coming together, of church and community rallying around, and of seeing a good, godly man face life's biggest challenge with dignity and grace. It's been said before and yet I will say it again - every day is a gift, and so are those who surround us. Hold close to those you love.

xx

"Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?"

Mary Oliver