8 weeks

8 weeks.  It was 8 weeks before you died when were told.  At least it was 8 weeks when that arsehole of an oncologist at the Western General told us.  You know, before they started the medication for the inflammation on the brain.  So he told us.  The next day you’d forgotten. So I had to tell you.  And the next day.  And the next day.  Until you (mainly) remembered.  No-one should have to do that.

You never knew it was going to be that quick. I didn’t want you to know.  What was the point.  Even a week before you fell into your final 5 day coma you were talking about getting new blinds in “your other house”.  By that time you weren’t sure what the hospice was so you called your room “my house”.  And our actual home was “my other house”.

I spent 8 weeks watching my beautiful girl fade before my eyes.  You forgot how to write, then you forgot how to read.  So I read you feel good stories out of the Peoples Friend.  You forgot how to walk so I pushed you around in a wheelchair.  I sat up all night holding your hand so that when you woke with the night sweats I could wash you and change you.  Sometimes four or five times a night

It’s 8 weeks now since you died and I would rather be doing that than sitting here without you.  Which shows how selfish I am and how much I miss you every second of every day.

My Lindy.



St Columba’s Hospice Tribute Fund for Linda Hamilton



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