How do you do it?

The world turned upside down in the Irving household when Mr I was diagnosed with cancer.

by Esther Irving

Lots of people ask me these days, how do you do it?

Well, that depends on what you mean... how do I do what? Get up in the morning, do my shopping, clean my house or survive life in general? I know what they’re really asking.

When we got married, nearly 18 years ago, Mr I and I made some promises like for richer or for poorer—which was a bit of a mistake from his side as he didn't know quite how much I can spend but that’s a minor detail. The other promise was to support each other in sickness and in health, and you know what? When you make that promise you think they mean sickness like man flu—which is hard enough to survive as a wife—but not like this type of sickness...

The world turned upside down in the Irving household when Mr I was diagnosed with cancer.

Before that day we sort of got on with work and family life, we bickered over some small stuff and we tried to be fun parents to our three boys. Fast forward to now and we have been on a rollercoaster ride you would pay good money for had it been in a theme park. Unfortunately, it’s not, unless you consider an oncology department a fun place to be—don't get me wrong we did have a right laugh sometimes but other than that it was pretty depressing in there and they certainly don’t sell churros.

In the United Kingdom, we have this thing called ‘care leave’—pretty handy if the world turns upside down at home and you are needed. Usually, this means waiting hand on foot with drinks, medication, food and cuddles—and that's only for poorly children. I took care leave a few years ago when my son, Luca, had appendicitis and he was admitted to hospital but other than that I always had my parents as back up in case of illness or minor cuts and bruises in the Irving household. This meant that Mr I and I could just go to work. However, after 12 months trying to schedule chemo and consultant appointments with my work schedule, I made the decision to take care leave on the days after the chemo to look after my family.

Not so much to look after Mr I, as he was pretty capable of looking after himself on those days: he just slept, puked, slept or slept on the sofa... did I mention he slept a lot?

All I really did was change sheets, clean bathrooms and ensure he didn’t dehydrate—in itself, quite a job. This whole ‘care leave’ thing is pretty good, and it saves you taking actual leave days from work, so you can use those to go to a real beach resort instead. But there’s one thing the outside world doesn’t really understand: if I tell anybody I won’t be in work for a few days, it automatically gets seen as holiday. Let me tell you now, it is certainly not holiday—have you ever had to tell your man to stay hydrated after puking on holiday?

Not only this, but I was looking after the boys, who needed feeding at regular intervals. Mr I was a very hands-on father, running the household with military precision when I was away, but now the boys have turned into hungry teenagers, they tend to lose it if there is no food in the house. Cue daily trips to the supermarket, and endless cooking—while my boys are pretty self-sufficient, I liked to think they needed me during chemo week.

So next time anyone says, ‘oh, this week I have a few days of care leave’, please don’t tell them to have fun.

When Mr I was diagnosed and we started this journey (such a stupid word by the way, it’s not like we went on this amazing trip or anything), we hoped the end of the road would be years away, and he started by fighting like a real SAS trooper. When we were told treatment was no longer possible, I got a little angry, to say the least. It’s weird the stuff you do and say or not say when you know the inevitable is coming. There’s no manual on how to spend your last weeks with the man of your dreams.

Then, you have to deal with friends and family. First thing is telling them what’s going on: that’s when the circus starts. Suddenly, everyone wants to come and see you and your phone goes mental with messages from people thinking about you—don’t get upset if I don’t message or answer straight away. Life is a blur right now, and I don’t even know what day of the week it is. But the most surreal thing? Having the funeral director discuss arrangements while Mr I is sitting across from you on the sofa, alive and kicking. It’s entirely bizarre, but it was good to discuss together and spare me worrying about making the wrong choices.

During all of this, I watched my once strong husband turning into a really sick man: it was hard for me, and I can only imagine what it must have been like for him.

In mid-November, I put up the Christmas tree. If anyone loved Christmas, it was Mr I. The afternoon was filled with carols blaring out the speakers and me struggling with the tree lights; we even managed to have our annual Christmas argument, as Mr I knew better on how to swap the electrical plugs in the wall. When all was done, we snuggled on the sofa and pretended nothing was wrong; it was just a Sunday afternoon in December. That same day, a bed was delivered and Mr I slept downstairs from then on. I knew that morning he would never sleep next to me in our bed upstairs again, nor would I see him run up those stairs to quickly get something. It was hard, and a massive slap of reality to the face. We did have a giggle thinking of sleeping in the hospital bed and what would happen if we broke it though.

Those last four weeks were a complete blur and I asked myself, what do we do now? Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find an answer anywhere just yet. I’m not sure if the fact Mr I has left us has even sunk in yet. I look at that door every day and wonder when he’s coming home; I look at my phone and think when is he going to call me?

Days are tough, but nights are worse. When you have been together for so long, you have your routines: you come home from work, you cook, you clean, you put the kids to bed, and then you chill out together. We enjoyed each other’s company. We had this thing going each night: I would complain over something stupid like dirty socks, water marks in the sink, or a toilet seat that was left up, and Mr I was able to turn it around and have us laughing so hard it became silly. He may have been stubborn, and stuck to his guns on many occasions, but even that I miss.

Now, I don’t work as I can’t concentrate and not cry at any given moment: not the most professional. I don’t cook because this was mostly Mr I’s department. I still put the kids to bed, and I still chill on the sofa, but for some reason, watching rubbish telly on your own is no fun—there’s no one to laugh with—and then you go to bed on your own.

So what do we do now? There’s no manual on how to grieve, no manual on how to continue without him, no manual on how to comfort my boys when they are sad, no manual stating when you should work again, and no manual on how to deal with the paperwork afterwards.

I am very lucky: I have the most amazing parents who live a stone’s throw away and who come to the rescue on many occasions; I have the best employer ever who does not push me to come back to work; I have the most remarkable friends who check up on me every day, send me messages, drop in for coffee and give endless hugs; I have my boys who ensure I have a cup of tea in the afternoon. Without all of you, I would be lost even more and you all keep me going.

Mr I would be proud of our boys: the way they try to pick up at school and the way they are excited for Christmas morning.

Christmas this year will be strange with an empty seat at the head of the table, and no lunch preparation from Mr I. We will try to make it a day to remember just like we did every single year.

I know people say it will get easier as time goes by and that he will never be forgotten.

So back to how do I survive? I simply don't know. I just do what I need to do, hoping that one day I will wake up and realise it was all a bad dream. I do struggle with it all, but sometimes putting on a brave face is the perfect form of self-protection.

I wish you all a lovely Christmas and a happy, healthy 2019*. Hold each other tight today, tomorrow and always.

Mrs I ■

* Originally released December 2017