Vicky Rayner Lea passed away last week. She was the beloved daughter of New Zealand writer Catherine Lea, author of The Candidate's Daughter. A few weeks ago, Catherine shared with us an exquisitely written post entitled The Luckiest Person I know. Today she shares with us her final goodbye. D.
The absolute worst has happened. I knew it would eventually. Why wasn’t I ready?
After rescuing my Girl from the hospital, I took her to the hospice. I brought in her nightdresses, her toys, her medications. It gave me time to breathe. And even though this time was officially “respite time,” I visited her regularly. At the end of nine days, she came home.
And things got harder.
Her breathing became laboured. I administered drugs I’m not qualified to administer under the hospice’s guidance. I contacted them regularly. When her condition deteriorated further still, I knew somewhere down in my heart that this time was different, that our lives were changing forever.
The outcome: I made the painful decision not to intervene in my beautiful Girl’s illness. Wherever her journey was about to take her, I would not stand in her way. What right did I have to continue extending a life of agony, a life filled with procedures and hospitals and pain?
I continued to care for her. I turned her regularly, kept her on a soft diet, kept her as stable as I could. But after only a few days, her condition deteriorated yet again, and after a distressing night, the hospice doctor and my darling nurse Claire came out, and we admitted her to the hospice.
I once promised my Girl that I’d never leave her, that no matter what, she would always come home. Sending her to the hospice felt as though I was betraying her. But standing there right then, what I had committed to in a moment of love, suddenly seemed worse.
The very first time she went into the hospice for respite, I bought her a TV with a DVD player attached. As we said our goodbyes at the end of the visit, she looked up at me, eyes full of wonder, and said, “Nu TV. Thank you nurses.” It was said with such appreciation, that I never altered that belief for her. If she thought the nurses bought her TV’s and DVD’s and whatever, who cared? It made the hospice a wonderful place to visit. Subsequently, with each stay, I’d buy her presents and wrap them up and leave them with the nurses to give to her. I hope she loved them.
This stay was different. It was always going to be different. There were no presents, few Smurf viewings. I played her music, sat by her bedside, talked to her. At the end of my Tuesday vigil, I told the hospice staff I had to leave because I had the dog at home. They told me to bring him in. I did.
The three of us sat for hours each day, listening to music, telling my girl how much I loved her. I did it because I needed to. I did it because I knew that one day soon, I would no longer have that privilege.
On Saturday, I left at three o’clock. A little earlier than usual. As usual, I kissed my Girl goodbye, I told her that I love her “to bits.” I impressed on her that I’d be there tomorrow, that I’d never leave her. Then I packed my bag, and I left.
Almost the instant I got in the door, the phone rang. The nurses were handing over just minutes after I left, and my Girl had slipped away.
My heart is broken.
I didn’t know what people meant when they say the heart breaks. It feels as though someone has reached in and torn an enormous hole in my chest. It crushes me from the inside. This pain is physical and all-consuming. It’s a pain I wonder if I can bear.
In the past, I’ve suffered panic attacks—waking at night, desperate for time to roll back and let me have even one more moment with her. But this is something else. Over these past two years, and I guess all our lives, we’ve been hurtling towards this enormous moment, a moment that’s stood like some insurmountable wall. We’ve been headed this way, for so long now, that somewhere in my heart, I began to believe we’d never reach it. I began to think this journey, this life, however hard, was meant to just keep going, that I would walk forever with my Girl’s hand in mine.
Now, I’ve crossed that wall, that moment in time, and my Girl has stayed behind, beyond my reach. Her little hand in no longer in mine. I can’t get back over the wall, but I know she’s there, just on the other side, forever caught in the moment that was our lives together.
As I write this, my beautiful Girl is here at home with me. I can look up now and see her beautiful face, the curve of her cheek, the plump of her lips. I’ve had her here for five days. She’s dressed in her best clothes, her hair done, her favourite toys around her. I come into this room to play her music, to talk to her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her. The pain of knowing that today I have to let go is unbearable. I want to gather her up and keep her with me. After today I’ll never be able to hold her, to touch her, to brush her hair from her eyes, to lay my cheek on hers.
I know I’ll always talk to her. I know that wherever she is now, she has no pain, no procedures, no needle pricks, no worries. Her spirit has been freed from a body that bound her to this earth, that served her, but which ultimately let her down. Whereas I want her back with every fibre of my body, I would never want her to experience that pain again. All I can do now is keep our treasured times in my heart, in my memories, and yes, in this blog.
I’ve been the most privileged person I know. I’ve shared in a life that’s been unique, funny, hard, and enormously satisfying. I’ve been granted the opportunity to bathe in her light, to walk in her world, to share in a personality that’s sweet, that’s funny, that’s more loyal than anyone I know. This Girl has taught me lessons that no school, no religious leader could bring. She’s shared her life, her love, and her philosophies with me. I can’t say how honoured I am.
Eventually, I’ll turn this list of blog posts into a book. If it inspires one person to make the difficult journey we have, if it helps one person through the dark days of terminal illness, then our work here is done.
It really is the smallest things that take up the most room in your heart.
I love you, my Darling Vicky Rayner Lea. I love you to bits.
On behalf of all of us at MB4, we offer our heartfelt condolences to Catherine.
Catherine Lea lives in New Zealand with a fox terrier that thinks he owns the house. She has sold international satellite capacity, worked in IT recruitment, and run her own communications store. She's the author of The Candidate's Daughter and the upcoming The Contestant.
When Catherine isn't writing, she's dog-wrangling, wrestling with technology, blogging, or going crazy trying to maintain control of the yard.
Contact Catherine at https://twitter.com/CatherineLeaNZ, www.facebook/CatherineLea or www.facebook.com/TheCandidate'sDaughter.
Dora Machado is the award-winning author of the epic fantasy Stonewiser series and her newest novel, The Curse Giver, available from Twilight Times Books. She grew up in the Dominican Republic, where she developed a fascination for writing and a taste for Merengue. After a lifetime of straddling such compelling but different worlds, fantasy is a natural fit to her stories. When she is not writing fiction, Dora also writes features for Murder By Four, an award winning blog for readers and writers and Savvy Authors, where writers help writers. She lives in Florida with her indulgent husband and two very opinionated cats.
To learn more about Dora Machado and her novels, visit her website at www.doramachado.com or contact her at Dora@doramachado.com, Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DoraMachado101, or https://twitter.com/DoraMachado.
Catherine, when you wrote your first beautiful post, you instantly became my hero. Now, with heart breaking in sympathy, I offer virtual bear hugs and God's blessing for you and your family. Vicky sounds like she was a truly special young lady. I'm so sorry she's gone from your physical life, but glad she's with God now. Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words. Anything you need - just ask us here at MB4. - Aaron
Yes, Catherine, thank you so much for sharing your story with us. I'm so sorry for your loss.
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