Tuesday, May 01, 2018

"Grief is not what I thought it would be" (My Sister: Part 3 of 5)

My sister, Annie Caulfield, died of cancer in November 2016. I wrote 5 articles that got published in Standard Issue. I'm putting them up here -- if you're going through or have gone through the same heartbreaking experience, they may help you. You are not alone. x

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"Grief is not what I thought it would be" (My Sister: Part 3 of 5)

In November 2017, we had to say goodbye to our wonderful Annie Caulfield. Her sister Jo Caulfield talks about dealing with the grief.

This is probably not a fun read. Just to warn you, so you don’t read it with the tone of voice. Like a newsreader who hasn’t read ahead and is unaware that it’s not a fun puppy story – the puppy drowns.
My sister died of cancer aged 57.
Immediately that seems such a melodramatic statement, but death is as dramatic as it gets. It’s the end. I am the first person to shout “drama queen!” in this modern ‘selfie’ world of oversharing, but now I can’t stop myself. Maybe writing about it will stop these thoughts going round and round in my brain.
It’s like a punch in the stomach, about two or three times an hour. “Fuck. I didn’t know you were going to die.” I miss her so much. But more than how much I miss her, is how much I hate that she died.
I find it hard to say out loud, maybe that’s what this is about. It’s too awful to say. Which now sounds very overdramatic and ‘actressy’. I say actressy as a pejorative, obviously.

I’m a comedian. I enjoy making strangers laugh. I am very mistrustful of people who enjoy telling strangers how sad they feel. I’m also aware I am not unique. I don’t have a monopoly on grief. In the league table of deaths I don’t think a sibling is top. Not above a child, a suicide, your parents when you’re young or the love of your life, but it’s in the top five. It’s a place in the Champions League.
Nor am I writing this for sympathy. I’m OK; I’m alive. I’m writing it because grief is weird and not what I thought it would be. It is not weepy or sentimental or delicate. Well, mine isn’t. Mine is angry and deeply sad, yet able to walk around as if it’s not there.
It is there; it’s there all the time. It’s odd to walk about with such a huge, raw feeling and people not know it’s there. Ordering drinks at a bar, renewing my car insurance, talking to a woman who’s hired me for an after-dinner speech. I want to say, “Two bottles of Peroni, please, and my sister died six weeks ago.”
And I feel so stupid for not knowing that she was going to die. Not just in the hospice but all our lives. That I went about my business not knowing that my sister would only have 57 years. Like a film where I didn’t see the ending coming. “No! And then… What? She just dies?” What an idiot I am.
It even felt like there must be someone I could go to. “Excuse me but Annie Caulfield died, that’s a mistake, isn’t it?”
What a dumb ass! If only I had known. I would have… I don’t know what. Stuck to her like glue? Clung to her? Oh god, ’clung’ is very melodramatic again. But I would have. And Annie would have said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Annie was always brave, all her life, because she would be scared and wrong – often wrong – but she’d just jump in and do it anyway. She was my big sister and she knew best.”

I had thought there would be a lot more crying. I am a big cryer. Music, films, that NSPCC ad on TV, all have me blubbing like a fool, but I haven’t cried that much over my sister’s death. Or I’ve cried differently, a dry heave that comes from deep within my belly then rolls up through me and then I sob, huge slow sobs that seem like men overacting in films when they’ve been asked to cry.
How could she just die? It’s the permanence following something so random. And the speed. It now seems so fast. She was diagnosed with cancer and 20 months later, she passed away.
I blame all those celebrities jumping about in T-shirts saying, “Let’s smash cancer”; “We’re beating cancer”. Annie was so sure she would.
There’s an ad on TV advising that if you have a cough that hangs around it could be lung cancer; get yourself checked. Annie never, ever had a fucking cough. She had back pain. She went to an osteopath who said it was her posture, sitting writing all day. It wasn’t, it was a tumour in her lung pressing on her spine.
I remember her mentioning that back pain for months; that’s months she went undiagnosed. If we had known. If we had known what we know now about how cancer can manifest itself she might have been treated in time, she might have lived. And, if I can be selfish, I would still have had that one person in the world who is like me. Like me but braver.
She was always brave, all her life, because she would be scared and wrong – often wrong – but she’d just jump in and do it anyway. She was my big sister and she knew best. Even when I knew she didn’t, I followed her around happily, wagging my tail, just content to be with her, having adventures.
I remember being shocked when she’d gone shoplifting, shocked but impressed. So much eyeshadow – we were rich!
When I was 16 we went hitching round Europe. Not inter-railing, hitchhiking. Two young women alone, it never occurred to me that it wasn’t a great idea. Only when we were jumping out of a moving lorry as it slowed down on a hairpin bend in the Swiss Alps did I think, “Maybe Annie doesn’t always know best…” We were sexually harassed across five countries but we had great stories. Annie always had great stories. She was always exciting to be around.

It must be wonderful to believe in an afterlife. Unfortunately, I don’t and neither did Annie. Someone at her funeral tried to tell me that her electricity and aura were still living on in the world and I wanted to smack them in the mouth. Obviously people mean well. They think it will be comforting, but it just seemed such banal rubbish. It belittled the awfulness of Annie not being alive anymore. Any talk of her ‘looking down on me’ just makes me angry. I know – I am not easy to comfort.
Conversely I was talking to a friend of mine who lost his wife to cancer 10 years ago. I said how sad I felt and he replied, “It’s just a huge gaping hole in your life that can never be filled.”
I laughed and laughed. It was so funny to have someone be honest and not even try to be remotely comforting. And yet it was comforting. I’d wanted someone to say what I was thinking.
People acknowledging Annie’s death – sending cards, texts and emails – has been a comfort. I would recommend sending sympathy cards, even if you don’t know what to say; just say that. It’s just old-fashioned good manners and I was very grateful to people who did it.
A big sister is always ahead of you in life, making your path easier. I am so grateful to Annie for being a good sister. Even if sometimes it was learning the hard way. (Don’t drink vodka with no food just because your sister does – you are only 13.)
I don’t know if I will get to live to be an old lady but I do know I will have to learn how to be one by myself. Because my sister died of cancer aged 57.

Please consider donating to the Macmillan tribute fund set up by Jo in Annie’s name. https://macmillan.tributefunds.com/annie-caulfield

Sunday, April 15, 2018

"I haven't finished talking to you yet!" (My Sister: Part 2 of 5)

My sister, Annie Caulfield, died of cancer in November 2016. I wrote 5 articles that got published in Standard Issue. I'm putting them up here -- if you're going through or have gone through the same heartbreaking experience, they may help you. You are not alone. 

“I haven’t finished talking to you yet” (My Sister: Part 2 of 5)

Four months since the death of her sister Annie, Jo Caulfield is navigating situations she didn’t even realise existed.

If making an arse of yourself by bawling your eyes out in public is one of the stages of grief then I have that one down pat.
It’s four months since my sister died of cancer.
My train had been cancelled and that, for some reason, immediately made me cry. My big sister died and now my train is cancelled – that’s just too much to cope with. I was crying as I asked the guard which platform for the London train. He explained it very clearly and gently. He seemed to think I was crying because the cancellation meant I had to change at Bristol Parkway.
“It’s a very easy station to change at,” he said. He was so nice about it I started crying again.
There are new situations that I haven’t learnt how to navigate. They just hit you. You don’t know they’re coming. I was about to be the entertainment at a posh charity do. All women; women so posh they seem like a different species. Clothes that were clearly expensive, bright green, orange, but they may have been wearing them since 1972.
The lady next to me reminded me of Princess Margaret: fun, perma-tan, knocking back the wine, with something tragic but stoic about her. Her facelift meant the bottom of her face didn’t really move. Or maybe that’s just the way posh people hold their faces. Her son had been to Iraq in the army; my brother had been to Iraq in the air force.
“Have you just a brother?” she asked me.
“No, I’ve a sister as well…” Tears shot into my eyes. Shit. “I had a sister; she passed away recently, I’m sorry… I’ve never said that before.”

“I suppose I am only just realising that this will go on forever. A bright, crisp spring day makes me think of her, how much she would have loved a day like that. She’d go striding through London telling tourists to get out of her way.”

She held my hand; well, she grabbed it, held it hard and said, “That’s awful. Awful.” The fact that her facelift meant she couldn’t display much emotion was actually helpful; I could get myself together as they were about to introduce me.
She was an only child, but told me she had lost her best friend to cancer 20 years ago. She understood. She knew. She was the perfect person to have that moment with, answering that question for the first time. She doesn’t know it, but I will remember her forever.
I still haven’t worked out what I’ll say the next time it inevitably happens, but everyone must go through that. It’s not just that it’s still too painful to say out loud, it’s also the effect on the other person – it seems unfair to put that on them.
They’re just engaging in harmless small talk and you lay a big drama on them. But at the same time, I have/had a sister. How do people phrase it? And what about photos? I don’t have any photos up at home because we’re redecorating, I spent ages worrying about putting up photos again. Finally I realised that everyone I know knows that she has gone and why would a visiting gasman ask. I’m an idiot!
My husband put some music on my iPod, music I really like, punk versions of great female anthems. I put on a punk version of Cher’s Believe. My husband came back to find me doubled up, crying from my gut. Music just wires itself straight to your emotions, like a bottle of red wine in one shot. Note to self: maybe don’t listen to music for a while.

Sometimes you know to prepare yourself but it still doesn’t work. An old mutual friend of mine and Annie’s emailed me to say he was in London doing a play and we must meet up. He and my sister had kept in touch, he had moved to America and I hadn’t seen him for 25 years.
I told myself: this will be emotional; we were all friends a long time ago, when we were young and thought we’d all be around forever. After the show I went up to him and was immediately a mess, a deluge of snotty tears and blubbering nonsense.
He tried to get me to sit down: ”Let’s take a bit of time…”
I bailed. I knew it was impossible; it was too much for me.
Walking to the tube my friend Daniel said, “Well, that’s one way to get out of the post-show, ‘You were marvellous darling’ conversation.”
My sister would have loved that. My knees buckled with that happy-sad cry that gives way to hysterical laughter.
I suppose I am only just realising that this will go on forever. A bright, crisp spring day makes me think of her, how much she would have loved a day like that. She’d go striding through London telling tourists to get out of her way. So many of us lose people we love before their time.
I think the rest of my life will be time she should have had. Things are different, forever.
I’m still angry. The adverts that say, “We’re walking over cancer.” Fuck off, we’re not – that’s what I think every time I see them. They make me irrationally angry. Obviously I want people to raise money for Cancer Research. It’s wonderful that people do.
But I hate those ads. It feels like a criticism of people that don’t survive cancer. Like a judgement. The dirty little secret, they don’t want you to mention. That people are still dying from cancer, every day. That it is a horrible, grotesque, merciless disease.
I find myself thinking about her last months.
In animal documentaries they often talk about wild animals dragging themselves off to die alone, away from the herd. I always thought that sounded noble and dignified but seeing people dying of cancer, I realised why they wanted to die alone. They know they are weak and vulnerable and the other animals could hurt them.

“A very close friend of Annie’s also likes to talk about her and that is a huge help. We both knew her so well that we know what she would think about things and people; we tell stories about her and if we get upset it’s just part of the conversation.

Sometimes people will do that too; they are so frightened that they lash out at those they love or withdraw into themselves. My sister did that briefly, she was so scared, so vulnerable, I don’t know what she imagined me or my brother would do?
Maybe if we had fallen apart it would have been too much for her. Or maybe she was afraid we would kill her hope, say what was really happening. She had to keep making plans that envisaged a successful outcome. Once she saw we were just being ‘normal’, she was herself again. (So if that happens, remember it’s not to do with you.)
And those thoughts and memories make my grief seem indulgent and selfish. When I think about everything she went through. How brave and funny she was. How grateful she was to her Macmillan nurse. How she kept saying how amazing the NHS was. “They’re spending hundreds of thousands of pounds on me!”
But I also know that her ego would want her to be missed, and talked about and celebrated. So I will go on missing her. I won’t try to get rid of these thoughts.
I find myself talking to Annie in my head all the time. Usually nothing profound.
“There’s some old posh ladies staying in this Travelodge, they are confused by everything, you’d love them. One of them just said, ‘The only thing we ever fell out over was marmalade.’”
“I’ve just started watching Prison Break, did you like it?”
“I haven’t finished talking to you yet.”
Some people don’t like to talk about the person they’ve lost. I do. But you have to have the right person to talk to. A very close friend of Annie’s also likes to talk about her and that is a huge help. We both knew her so well that we know what she would think about things and people; we tell stories about her and if we get upset it’s just part of the conversation. But actually we don’t usually get upset; it’s more like we both get to spend time with her again. If you find a person like that, it’s very precious and it does help.
Annie has left behind her partner and his loss is so much greater than mine. Strangely that’s comforting, which makes me sound like an absolute bitch, but I mean it’s comforting because it was a bonus to have/had/have a sister I love so much. As trite as it sounds, it’s better to have loved and lost… Christ I can’t believe I wrote that – but it is true.
It’s also true that talking to other people who have felt this same degree of loss helps too. Like my Princess Margaret lady. I knew she knew and that was enough.
It’s four months since my sister died of cancer.

Annie’s Macmillan tribute fund is linked below if you would like to donate. Macmillan helped us all, and we will be forever grateful. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been for Annie to have gone through this without them.

Tuesday, April 03, 2018

"It was HER cancer" (My Sister: Part 1 of 5)

My sister, Annie Caulfield, died of cancer in November 2016. I wrote 5 articles that got published in Standard Issue. I'm putting them up here -- if you're going through or have gone through the same heartbreaking experience, they may help you. You are not alone. 

There are no set rules when it comes to behaviour around someone you love who has cancer. Jo Caulfield shares what she learned from her sister Annie.

Something not in the Book of Etiquette, not that I’ve ever read one, is “How do you behave when someone you love gets cancer?”
The word that was used over and over again was “appropriate”. Annie would say people were “appropriate” or “inappropriate”. When people were inappropriate they would upset her, anger her, bore her or in some way displease her. You could be put off the visitor list for inappropriate behaviour.
Annie was outraged that a volunteer in the hospital had worn a mustard dress.
“A mustard coloured dress? Doesn’t she know there’s people in here with cancer? Upsetting us all with her nasty dress.”
It became a joke between us but it was based on something very important. It took all of Annie’s energy to try to get well; she couldn’t waste energy on things or people that upset her.
I think my sister dealt with cancer very well, probably most of us do – there isn’t much alternative. But it may be of some use to you, if someone you love has cancer, if I put down how she dealt with it and what I learned about how to be “appropriate”.
Oswaldthistle (pronounced Ozzle-twisle) sounds like a made-up town in a Dickens novel and has that feel too, a depressing ex-town in Lancashire which, whatever it used to be, it hasn’t been for a very long time. A perfect setting to get bad news. Annie sent a joint email to me and my brother telling us that she had been diagnosed with lung cancer.
That was a good way to find out. She knew we had each other to talk to and also an email rather than a phone call gives you time to just sit with the information. She doesn’t have to deal with your immediate outpourings of emotion. Well, that was her plan, but it didn’t work because I immediately phoned her.
At the beginning, I didn’t feel emotional because none of us had any idea what we were dealing with. That seems a good way to react: just take in the information they give you. There will be a plan of treatment; let them explain what will happen to them.

“Her Macmillan nurse said something that Annie really appreciated: ‘Yes, I do deal with people with cancer every day but I’ve never dealt with you and your cancer. How are you?'”

The one thing Annie said she couldn’t cope with was other people’s emotions. She didn’t have the energy to deal with me or anyone else falling apart and being upset. And also, being upset makes her think there’ll be a negative outcome. Therefore being upset is very “inappropriate”.
I then went and looked it up online. It said all sorts of things about ‘stages’ and that people died and something in me realised this wasn’t a good idea. Almost at exactly the same time I got another email from my sister telling me not to look it up online. There are very good reasons for this.
Her oncologist (a word I didn’t know before) told her there are so many variables in age, health and lifestyle that you can’t gauge how you will be affected. The other is that it was HER cancer.
If you are one of those people who thinks that someone with cancer wants to hear stories about other people with cancer – that they will find it interesting or helpful – well, let me tell you, in my sister’s case, that was (very strongly) the last thing she wanted to hear.
Your secondhand, half-truth about someone you know who has, or had, cancer? “Fuck them.” Remember that it is their illness, not yours; it is not gossip, it is not trivia to spread among your friends. Only tell who they want you to tell.
I think it made Annie feel almost unbearably vulnerable. She had to “circle the wagons” she said. Put herself in the middle of a very small protective circle.
I never read anything about cancer after that. I just got all my information from her. This did mean that I was completely ignorant of the facts but that was no bad thing for either of us. If she said she was having the special chemo where you didn’t lose your hair. I believed her.
She had been telling me tales all my life; this was just the same as when she had said that David Cassidy was her brother, not my brother as well, just her brother. I didn’t question it. Then when the hair fell out we didn’t mention it.
Some people are more open about it. Annie didn’t want to be defined as a cancer patient; it was no one’s business so I never saw her without a baseball cap. We did discuss how it was important not to look like the ‘spiritualist’ in an Agatha Christie drama: “I’m very wary of silk scarves Jo. That can go very wrong. Please tell me if I look like a crazy old actress or worse, Su Pollard.”
Her Macmillan nurse was incredibly helpful. They gave invaluable practical and financial advice, but also she said something that Annie really appreciated: “Yes, I do deal with people with cancer every day but I’ve never dealt with you and your cancer. How are you?”
It was important for Annie to feel listened to, to feel that she had someone she could ask all those questions to, someone completely safe and non-judgmental.

“One day, we were all round the bed, the whole family together. We are not that kind of family. I suddenly saw it from Annie’s POV; it looked like a deathbed scene.”

When she was having chemo I went round to her flat and saw that someone had sent a Get Well card. That seemed very inappropriate. Sort of ludicrous – it’s cancer for God’s sake. A Get Well card is too general, almost sarcastic. I think it’s better to look for cards that are personal or will make them laugh.
I don’t want to share all the details of her illness but the hard part isn’t the treatment. Easy for me to say. Obviously the treatments for cancer are not easy. Chemotherapy is almost Victorian in its brutality. It’s still a great sledgehammer approach.
The treatments are harsh and knock the stuffing out of you and it took all Annie’s strength to try to keep strong enough for the treatments. And she would get angry and frustrated – but only because it didn’t seem to be making her better anymore. She would have undergone any treatments if she thought it would make her better.
The hardest part is when they say, “She can’t take any more treatment.”
Because I had listened to Annie and not bothered with facts, I had no idea that the cancer had spread. She had the strangest ability to seem well. Always full of talk and plans. I had been visiting her for several days before I realised that she couldn’t walk. I tucked in her bedding and her legs were just dead weights.
This is when I lost my way. I didn’t know what was “appropriate”. I was scared I would say something wrong and upset her.
The best advice I got was from her old friend Sarah. Sarah had lost her long-term girlfriend to cancer and she had learned a lot about how to be “appropriate”. She said, “Just take your lead from her.” D’oh! Of course. It was the best advice: go where they want to go; talk about what they want to talk about.
Don’t behave in a way you normally wouldn’t. I wrote my sister an email saying how much she meant to me, not quite that soppy but a bit like the sort of email you would send to someone… if they were dying.
She was furious. Quite rightly. I wouldn’t have done that normally. It was not for me to even hint at the seriousness of the situation. And also it was selfish. Just double check if you are doing something to make yourself feel better or them feel better.
Her doctor said, “Don’t take away her hope.” It was important to Annie to keep making plans, to keep thinking through writing projects. She had her brilliant brain; it was still in full working order. She took huge comfort from her doctor saying to her,”You’re still the same woman I met 16 months ago; you’re still exactly ‘yourself.'” She repeated this a lot. It must have meant a great deal.
It was difficult when she was finally moved into a hospice. Difficult because at first we didn’t know how to behave. One day, we were all round the bed, the whole family together. We are not that kind of family. I suddenly saw it from Annie’s POV; it looked like a deathbed scene. From then on we co-ordinated our visits so we weren’t a depressing family group at the end of her bed.
No-one did any weeping or acting like she wasn’t going to get better. We always acted like she WAS going to get better.
She wasn’t a fool; she knew.
I always texted her partner Martin (I’ve put his name because I can hear Annie saying, “If you just put ‘partner’ everyone will think Martin is a lesbian!”). I texted him to check it was OK to visit. Just because someone is ill doesn’t mean we should lose our manners. I wouldn’t have dropped in without asking before she was ill, so why do it now? Being ill doesn’t mean a loss of your right to privacy.

“Life can get very small, but a big person can do a lot with it. Annie had her brain and her voice, and she could enjoy the people she loved; that’s huge.”

Annie’s friend Sarah was great at doing little things that would enhance Annie’s life once she couldn’t leave her bed. Here’s a list of Sarah things…
Room spray: a citrus room spray from the Body Shop. Annie loved it; it stopped the room smelling like a hospital. And it was a thing Annie could do herself. She had a horror of her room “smelling of bags of wee”.
Jo Malone hand cream: She LOVED this. A brilliant gift. It was also a lovely thing to do for her, give her a hand massage, just a way of having a bit of soothing contact.
A pedicure: Genius. Annie wasn’t particularly girly but she was looking at her toes at the end of the bed all day; why not have them look pretty?
A bright coloured soft blanket: again, like the room spray, it just made it a bit more like a home.
Trolls from McDonald’s Happy Meals: silly things that became running jokes. Though Annie said the trolls were because Sarah wanted an excuse to buy a Happy Meal.
Martin was constantly being sent to buy face wipes: Annie liked putting on her makeup and the nightly ritual of taking it off. Like it was any normal day.
Annie didn’t want to talk much about the outside world towards the end. Not in a depressed way, but because she had created a world of characters and running jokes in her new world, the hospice.
She and Martin laughed all the time. Well, not all the time. Sometimes she would be grumpy or snappy. Be prepared that may happen and just let it roll off you. Your feelings are not what’s important right now. It’s about them.
What can you do to make things better for them? Don’t talk about a load of things that they can’t do, just be a bit sensitive, talk about them and what they want to talk about. This, of course, is how it was with Annie. Other people may be completely different: they may want to constantly talk about what’s going on in your life. That’s good too. But only if they ask you to do so.
I was amazed at how Annie adapted to each new stage. I say ‘stage’: it was actually her deteriorating, but her life force was so strong, she never seemed ill.
I would forget that really, all she could do, was move her head and her arms. She couldn’t use a knife and fork but discovered the joy of eating scampi with her fingers.
People say so casually, ”Oh when I can’t feed myself and someone has to wipe my bum, pull the plug, what kind of life is that?” How foolish and wasteful. Annie would have taken any kind of life she could get.

“Don’t try to wrestle a person on morphine back into the real world. Go off into their wonderful world and have fun with words.”

Life can get very small, but a big person can do a lot with it. That sounds very close to being some sort of hideous inspirational quote but it’s true. She had her brain and her voice, and she could enjoy the people she loved; that’s huge. She liked being wheeled out into the sun, she would have been so able to live like that. Limited though it was, she would have taken it and been happy.
Remember to enjoy the person while you have them. Obviously I am talking about someone who was not going to get better. Lots of people DO get better.
One of my sweetest memories is feeding her soup. It’s a small moment but to be able to laugh with your big sister as you try to get pea soup in her mouth is worth being alive for. And she bloody loved that pea soup.
Towards the end, I got frightened again. The morphine dose had gone up and Annie just seemed to be rambling and talking rubbish. She then repeated the same nonsense and started laughing. Martin laughed as well and agreed with her. “Yes darling, dogs should be allowed wine.”
For the first time I thought, “where’s Annie?”
“Just go with it,” Martin said. Again, great advice, don’t try to wrestle a person on morphine back into the real world. Go off into their wonderful world and have fun with words.
And it was still Annie. It was just Annie on morphine. She knew she was being funny, she was doing what she had always done, she was playing with words. She enjoyed the sound of the words and would repeat things over and over, we laughed a lot and invented a song about Dr Funkenstein. She was still herself.
At the end, she just slept more. We had a few evenings where we sat in her room, talking and laughing and drinking wine. Every now and again Annie would open her eyes or laugh. Probably at something in her own head. But I hope that it was nice to drift off to the noise of people who loved her.

We were being silly, which was very appropriate.

If you’ve enjoyed* this article you may like to donate to Macmillan Cancer. I have set up a fund in Annie Caulfield’s name. Just a pound or two would make a big difference: macmillan.tributefunds.com/annie-caulfield

*I know "enjoyed" is a completely inappropriate word to use.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

11 Months On...

It’s coming up to the first anniversary of my sister’s death. I feel it more than ever. I am functioning and no one would know. Except my husband. "Oh, Jo's burst into tears again. I went in the other room and she was laughing, two minutes later, crying. Really must get a divorce”.
It hits you like a wave and floors you.

My sister used to send me emails if we hadn't seen each other for a while and the subject would be, "Wah!!! Where's my sister??”

That's how I feel. It's as though you have to learn over and over again that the person has died and you will never see them again.

Instead of looking at it as 11 months since she died , I can't help looking at it as one month till she dies, again.

I think I am only just beginning to realise what it means. The permanence of it. I know. What a dumb-ass. Did I really think that was it? That I could lose my big sister and it not feel this bad. How do other people feel? Do you go over the timeline again? When she told you she was diagnosed with cancer. The time when it all seemed to be working, the tumour in the lung had shrunk. She was strong and went to Cambodia to finish a book she was writing. Then the brain tumour. 

Annie loved her brain. Like an acrobat might love their body, because of all the amazing things it could do. 

We’re getting into, what were, her final weeks. The time when the doctors told us they couldn’t do any more. She was too weak for more treatment. Annie told me that she just had to get her strength back and then she would get another course of chemo. But she wasn’t going to get her strength back. The doctors knew that. 

I was reading ‘Purity’ by Jonathan Franzen lately. I find it hard to be interested in a lot of fiction but I was really enjoying it. I wanted to talk to her about it. 

I’ll never be able to talk about books with you again.

That thought made me think of a song, The Pet Shop Boys with Liza Minnelli, I’ve a horrible nagging feeling it's from an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical. 
‘The sun comes up, I think about you, the coffee cup, I think about you, I something, something and think about you…”
Crooked teeth, lovely legs, no ice in drinks, blue and white stripey tops, the look of her hands - different to my hands – her smell.

The ‘Cancer Ads’ on TV aren’t honest. Being bald and chatting with a friend while you have your chemo. It’s so much worse than that. To know that your body is being destroyed slowly - despite chemo, radiation and surgery. The cancer just goes on. And, contrary to what the advert depicts, you don’t necessarily have a cough with lung cancer. Cancer is often a pain somewhere, like a muscle pain, it’s the tumour pushing on something. Get checked. 

How scared she must have been. It’s awful to think about that. She wasn’t finished. My Mum is 87, she could, and should, have had 30 more years. I know that plenty of people get even less time – I constantly have another voice telling me that somehow my grief is indulgent.

What else might she have written? What works were forming in her brain that we’ll never read or listen to on the radio?

Most of the time she pretended to herself and us that she was getting better. But I can’t bear to think of how angry and frightened she must have been at times. Those moments when she couldn’t escape the thoughts in her head, couldn’t push away the truth of her situation. That is what is truly awful. To lie alone at night in a hospice - trying to fight with your own brain - to not let it tell you you’re dying.

An old friend of mine lost her brother around the same time. He died suddenly in an accident at work. He was about ten years younger than my sister. A tragedy. My friend said, “At least you got to say goodbye”. And I know she meant me to take comfort from that. But it’s not like that. Not when someone dies before they’re ready, not when they’re 57. You don’t say goodbye. That’s not what they want. We talked of plans for the future, what she would do when she was better.

In her last days she was on huge doses of morphine. You might have views on whether people should be given morphine when they’re dying. I say - YES. As much as will help get them through it.

One night in the hospice. I stroked her hand and told her what a good sister she had been. But I only did it because she was high as a kite on morphine. It made me feel better and it's a sweet memory that I will keep with me forever. But it was for me. It did nothing for her.
That is a very personal thing to write. I feel conflicted. I don't enjoy drama or tragedy, I am not ‘modern’ in that I don't pour my every problem out on social media. I would say I was stoic. But her death is important. As is whoever you, who are reading this, might have lost. It's huge. They are no longer here. 

No one else knows about the “Homeless Man, Sugar” in Maison Bertaux in Soho. We would meet there for tea. Both of us always early. We have the punctuality gene. One time I was first and I watched a homeless man spooning heaps of sugar from the bowls on the tables outside, straight into his mouth. He did it with such glee. Relishing it so much that in his excitement half the sugar was falling out of his mouth back into the bowl.
“I wouldn’t have sugar, dear” I said.
She decided we must tell Madame Bertaux at the counter. We always called her Madame Bertaux, I doubt very much that was her name. We both thought, she thought, we were weird. I doubt she ever noticed us.  The waiters were then sent round to change the sugar bowls. They looked at me with disgust. 
“Yes, they think it was you.” She said laughing. “I told them in French, it may have got a bit confused but hey they should be grateful - if it wasn’t for you, all these people would be eating “Homeless man Sugar”.

My Mum says that Annie would run off into the town as soon as she could walk. She would be found in various shops, chatting away to whoever was there, age 3. Luckily Newcastle, County Down was a small town and everyone knew who she belonged to. She reprimanded my Grandmother for giving her baby food when she was a year and a half. She wasn’t a baby!

 She was so much more advanced as a teenager than I was - crazy for boys and cigarettes and adventure. Devouring books that the nuns thought immoral. This will sound so weird and hippy dippy but I think - did her DNA know? Is that why she was so precocious? Why she hated to waste a day? Why she was greedy for a “big life”? Because somehow her body knew that she only had 57 years. Some people think about God when they lose someone - I thought about that.

Who will I go to for advice now? I miss her wisdom. She could be so wise at the same time as being a fuck up - her January tax bill was always a surprise. I miss having someone who knows why I am the way I am. 
And god was she funny! Funny as fuck! No one made mundane things more fun. A trip to the supermarket was an adventure, knees weak with laughter. And nothing was so funny as when she “took against” someone. We are all the poorer for her not being here. And I know I was lucky to have had her blah, blah, blah but that is no comfort. I too am greedy. I wanted her for longer.

If this piece struck a chord you may like to donate to Macmillan Cancer. I have set up a fund in Annie Caulfield’s name. Just a pound or two would make a big difference: macmillan.tributefunds.com/annie-caulfield

To find out about her work visit www.Anniecaulfield.com

Wednesday, July 26, 2017


We start recording a new series of STOP THE PRESS for BBC Radio Scotland on Monday 11th September.

Tickets are FREE.

I'll let you know when they're available.

It' a good fun show.
The audience always has a great time.

And it looks like this...