"I just want things to be normal."
The last time I heard Martin say this was when we were in hospital at the beginning of February 2020. We had been visited by a member of the Palliative care team, a nurse that worked to arrange transfer to Thames Hospice. He shut the conversation down quite quickly with this sentence, unable to speak or even think about death or what would happen after. I left the room and had a discussion with her about his do not resuscitate form being set up, about moving to the Hospice as soon as possible for respite care- they were still hoping he may be able to go there for a week or so and come home.
That night, as I lay on my makeshift bed on the floor of Martin's hospital room, I heard him begin to cry. I got up and carefully got into bed with him, being careful not to cause any more pain than he was already in, and held him. "I'm scared," he said. "Me too," I thought. I didn't need him to worry about me. "I don't want to fall asleep... what if I don't wake up?" I tried to reassure him, let him know I was there and take his mind off the anxiety that was building inside him. I silently prayed that it would be me instead. He didn't deserve this.
It was clear it was getting worse. As the disease spread through his brain, Martin had begun to struggle to concentrate, forgot simple things. Patience was needed for everything from going to the bathroom to his panic when I went for a walk to clear my head and he'd forgotten I'd told him where I was. I helped him shower, fed him his meals, tried to keep him calm when he had a seizure. and all the while he kept repeating that phrase, "I just want to be normal." There were times I wanted to scream at him to stop saying it, that of course we all wanted that but it wasn't going to happen, that he needed to just shut the fuck up and rest.... I would instantly feel guilty, selfish, knowing my pain could never match his.
We moved to the Hospice in the afternoon of the 6th February 2020, hours after we had gotten married. I had a long talk with the doctors when we had arrived where they had quietly explained that we were looking at days, possibly the weekend, but not much more than that. They had asked me if there was anything specific that he had requested. "He just wanted things to be normal," I said helplessly, wanting to leave and go back to his side.
I sat that evening opening wedding presents as his oxygen tank whirred away in the background. When the nurses came in to rearrange and bathe him, I joked that there weren't many men who could say their wife watched them with two blondes on their wedding night. I laughed when my brother sent me a heartfelt 'wedding speech', and ended it with "ps, I met Coco, he's fucking massive!' I barely slept for all the wrong reasons in my 'honeymoon suite', waking whenever he woke and called for help, trying to stop him from falling out of bed.
The weekend passed in a blur. A bed was brought in on the Friday, so I could sleep next to him and hold him. Family members and friends came and went, arranging care for Tomas, Morena and Coco for me so I didn't need to worry. I'd be encouraged to come outside, get fresh air, take a break..... I remember thinking I spent quite a bit of time away from him, but my sister tells me that it was really only just under an hour in the entire four days we were there. It felt like a lifetime.
Monday 10th February 2020 was bright and cold, the sun coming through the windows in a haze. I had woken up and was sat next to Martin as he slept, finishing off the tea and toast the nurses had brought round for breakfast. Our employer, friend and now member of the family turned up, as he had every day for the past week and a bit that we had been in hospital/ the Hospice.
He came in and sat down in a chair next to the bed, and as Martin slept he and I began talking about work and the yard... we reminisced about the time he had pulled up behind Martin and another groom in the lorry when they had driven out of the yard and forgotten to put the ramp up, and Martin had called me telling me he was going to quit before he could get fired.... We spoke about the horses, when they were being turned out, who would be coming in.....
This was a fairly standard mode for the three of us. We would sit and chat about the yard, about horses, make plans for what we needed to do. We would joke about things that had happened, having all known each other for long enough and worked together as a team to be easy in each others presence.
It was normal.
That was what he needed. In that moment, of tea and work talk and discussions about horses, Martin finally had the normality he had longed for. Quietly, peacefully, he left.
I stayed with him until he was collected by the undertakers. My father waited for me, quietly thanking the Hospice staff for their devotion and care. We stepped outside, and as that sunlight hit me, and the cold fresh air filled my lungs for the first time in days, my knees buckled. My dad held me as I sobbed; the realisation that Martin was gone, and I was stepping into the world without him, taking all the strength from me. My new normal.
I have had two years without him now. It still seems like only yesterday I was in that room, holding his hand as he slipped away, and life has been anything but normal ever since. A global pandemic, a new school, a job change, a house move- nothing has remained the same or ever will be again.
"I want things to be normal," I still hear, only now from Tomas, pain in his voice and tears in his eyes as I know exactly what he means- turn back time, mummy, bring him back, make this better.... I hold my baby and try to heal the hurt that I can't fix, hate myself for not being able to give him what he truly wants. What kind of parent am I that I can't soothe my child, can't make things better than they are? Why can't I bring back the person he is desperate for, the person he needs?
I miss normal. All those little moments. Arguing about taking the rubbish out,
listening to him curse at the tv whilst watching football. Reading whilst he played video games, fighting over who would get to be the little spoon (it was always him, he was shorter.) Sharing music for an entire evening, playing each other songs we had never heard. Helping him with his horses.
These are the moments to be treasured. The little, quiet moments that are so routine you don't even think of them. A look, a touch, a phrase. a favourite meal cooked for someone, a private joke with your group of friends. These are the things that make life normal. These are the memories that will never fade.
Life without Martin is not easy. There is not a day that goes by where he is not thought of, not mentioned. I went numb two years ago, and it took a long time to feel anything again. and slowly, the new normal is starting to suck a lot less than it did to start with. There are new moments, with people I honestly cannot imagine being without, that fill my heart with happiness...... Martin will never be replaced, that's without a doubt. But being able to feel, to love, to smile once more, gives me more hope for normal getting better than it has been.
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