The funeral director met my dear friend Rev Ian Brown, who is organizing my non-denominational death rituals, at the entryphone to my building.  The funeral director asked Ian why in the world there was a meeting with me, the not yet deceased.  Ian thought it not unusual that I would want to arrange and pay for as much as possible, so my son would be able to fly in from New York and participate in the service without having to worry about details.  Mothers reading this might understand that I would do anything to protect my son from having to meet this undertaker as soon as he got off the plane. Ian noticed that the funeral director was only slightly less flummoxed after this explanation.

The pair approached the lift. It is Victorian, tiny, with heavy gates, and for the past weeks the lights have been out, making using it as surreal an experience as one encounters outside the movies.  They arrived at my flat and Ian introduced us.  The FD offered his hand and without sensitivity I held out my elephant hand (the one swollen with lymphodemia).  I realized my mistake and snatched it back.  I offered him a glass of water or a coffee that he declined – a witches’ brew would have been more warmly accepted.

After a dither over sofa or table for the meeting we settled on the table and Ian explained once more that all decisions and costs would be determined at this meeting and it was time for the FD to start selling his product.

Ian and I were sitting next to each other, with our FD across from us.  The meeting lasted for two hours, from 11 until 1, and during that time the FD never looked me in the eye. He directed every bit of his pitch to Ian.  If you have ever been at a meeting with the principal participant not looking at you at all you might understand the discomfort I felt, and a slow anger built.  I was paying the bills.

When he explained that he inherited the business from his father, the psychotherapist in me wanted to stop everything and find out the relationship between not looking at me and his father’s giving him the business.  But I was distracted into thinking what archetype I had been cast into.  I decided in the non-questioning way to which I am prone now that I am retired that I was the ‘corpse’ archetype: to look at me would turn you to stone.

Another side of me was saying this is a business meeting, just tell me the bottom line: what will it cost, and to whom do I send the check?

The first pitch was for up-market wooden coffins.  We began with huge solid wood vehicles that looked like they were designed to take the more portly of the corrupt bankers to hell.  These caskets weigh much too much to ascend to heaven.

Was it I who mentioned ‘green’?   I guess that is the buzzword because he was ready with a complete chemical explanation.  I think the huge wooded casket could be ordered with an interliner.  The box inside the box is the only part that gets burnt and it releases eco-friendly chemicals into the air.  Moving right along from solid wood-to-wood veneer, we then discovered what I would call the hippy coffin line.  The caskets are made of wicker, pandanus or bamboo.  I chose a wicker model, which my friends describe as pretty.  Not exactly an urban sophisticated model, more country living.  Choosing your own casket is never easy.  The fundamental question still remains unanswered:  why do you need a coffin if you are going to be cremated?

Moving right along to the grand finale: the ashes. We never discussed expensive urns, but I thought I wanted my ashes put in a box, which apparently weighs 4 pounds. Why didn’t I learn that when I was trying to lose weight?   Now Martin Sexton, the artist who has been taking care of me, will make an artwork to contain my ashes.

We did get to the money. I found out that they take every type of credit card but American Express (“don’t leave home without it” – but I can’t leave earth using it). I’m writing to American Express to complain.

They came with violins packed and I dreamed of concerts and practice sessions.  The books looked like they were getting longer and I thought they might enjoy some reading.  I also thought they might like some healthy berries for breakfast instead of pastry.  Dream on grandma Marge. These children were not brought up in China, they’re imported from Long Island, New York.

Clara and Juno

Clara had brought a long lists of shops that would have put Time Out to shame… and they went to every single one on the list, and shopped until their father dropped. They managed to see the moving dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, which they liked. The biggest moment was at the zoo when Juno’s mask fell into the lion’s cage – an event which found its way into her diary (a 5-year-old’s blog).  I had a long talk with the older one about her crazy parents, agreeing with her that they aren’t perfect – a non-traditional role for a grandmother, but I refuse to be taken in by the myth of parents who do nothing wrong.  My favorite poem remains Philip Larkin’s

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

[…]

How else could I get in trouble, as a grandmother?  I probably let them watch too much television – they got hooked on an Australian teen serial where all the girls become mermaids, and they have beautiful blond hair and each has a beautiful blond boyfriend.  I was impressed that Juno still wanted her video Barbie doll to have brown hair, because it looked like her.  Strong self image, that’s good.  The other thing that amazed me about Juno is that she picked up a beginner’s knitting set that I bought her at Christmas (never handed over because the snow stopped them flying) and began to cast on, as she had seen her mother do (Hellen is an avid knitter). And she almost got it right.  She did sew a little purse (another kit) and gave it to her friend who came to play.  Doing just what her mother might do, and doing it very well.  On the other hand, when it came to practicing the violin for one hour a day, I failed miserably. I don’t know how their mother does it. I did get a performance out of each of them, which was a major accomplishment.

On the last day, Clara, my eldest granddaughter, asked to go to a nice restaurant. My eyes lit up because I was so excited not to be going out for pizza again.   She put on her best (new) party dress, and we got a table at a very popular Michelin-starred restaurant.  I’d warned the restaurant that I was bringing kids, and they said that was fine, and it was.  They made them special pasta with tomato sauce, and the children were absolutely impressed by their yard-long breadsticks, and the fact that the restaurant started to get buzzy.  Their foodie grandmother would be happy if they remember this sophisticated evening.  I hope Clara doesn’t remain a vegetarian for ever and can eat more than pasta the next time she comes to London.

It was the first time Mike had come to visit without his wife Hellen, who had passport problems.  Mike bravely came over with the girls on his own – it didn’t trouble him at all, I think he enjoyed it. As much as it was difficult for him to go to girlie dress shops, at least he had the joy of seeing them select just what they wanted, a whole summer wardrobe each – and London was so hot that they could flaunt their new wispy clothes immediately on Oxford Street. I would like to say they looked just like the Australian mermaids they were trying to emulate, but I am happy they didn’t, and don’t.  I’ve had enough of mermaids for a while, after 26 episodes.

On the last day everybody did get tired, and things fell apart a bit.  There were some interesting fights I hadn’t seen before, when they were on best behavior.   Moments of parting can be difficult. Their last hugs as they left were generously given, and I felt a warmth I’ll carry with me, a memory I’ll treasure.

My day starts out at 3 o’clock in the morning when I listen to the world service – although that puts me back to sleep – and I wake up again at 7.  In London we have a news program that begins at 6 and goes on until 9 (‘Today’) and more or less I listen to that.  At 9 I take my morphine and steroids (uppers and downers) and my friend Martin makes my breakfast.  There is nothing like listening to our mad hatter coalition’s proclamations to make him rant through breakfast. By 10 the steroids have worked and I can actually think until about 4 in the afternoon. So that’s the time I get doctors’ appointments and see friends and explore the bargains to be had at Michelin-starred restaurants at lunchtime.

Meanwhile there is the underlying hum of discomfort – I hate to call it pain.  My breast cancer has not gone to my vital organs (kidneys, lungs) – which is good news – but it has spread all over the skin on my breast, back and chest, making horrible welts.  It is one of the ugliest patterns I have ever seen.  I’ve seen the New Guinea tribal people who scar their bodies and the tattoo artists of Miami Beach but none look as scary or as truly disgusting as mine.

I have carers (professional ones, through an agency) that come every day at 12.  They look at the bandages that try to cover the worst welts. Every day someone has a new solution.  The bandages are too thick, too thin, too wet, too dry, too small, too big… and they run off to the nearest pharmacy to order more.  I have about 20 boxes of bandages, all very expensive, none of which I am going to use.

Do bandages work for Madonna? They didn't for me

Pretty soon the bill was getting extraordinarily high, for example, a bandage that had to be changed twice a day was costing £45 (about $75) for a box of 5. Then there’s an amazing thing called saline, that comes in little tubes and is just salt water.  Plus I had to pay the carers to come in and change the bandages, and they were getting more and more uncomfortable, and kept falling off.

Every week Dr Spittle, my oncologist, has looked at the welts and said she is sorry that I have to go through this.  I finally asked her, woman to woman, are these bandages helping?  Her honest answer was ‘no’.  Tee shirts can be cheaper then my bandages (and more comfortable, and hide more) so she suggested I just buy tee shirts and throw them away after each use.  It was good to hear a practical idea; medicine has fewer and fewer answers in my case.  I’m finding that very difficult to face.

I need my carers, I’m willing to admit that, but I can’t always figure out what they can do or should be doing. She makes my bed, and fixes my pills, and until today she did my bandages, and cleans the kitchen, and she shops, because by this time I don’t want her around so I send her out to get whatever I can think of. At 3 my cleaner comes in, and the apartment gets cleaned all over again.

In between all this busyness, I try to do something constructive like paying my taxes, or planning my funeral, or writing my blog, and I find it difficult to do this with a carer waiting for me to give her something useful to do.

My carers arrive not knowing the neighborhood, and very often having English as a second language. Most take the job because they are traveling – they might have some nursing experience, but they’ve never seen anything like the welts on my chest, and they haven’t dealt with terminal cancer.

Sometimes I ask them to cook for me.  I asked one if she could cook, and she said she could; I asked if she could roast a chicken, and she looked shocked – she said, her mother had always bought ready-cooked chickens.  My friend patiently taught her how to cook a chicken.  She claimed to cook spaghetti and lasagne, but I never took the chance.  Masterchef this is not.  Another cooked up a huge pan of soup that looked like a witch’s brew, and scared me off.

This is a week that has been nearly all bandages. One or two treats but not nearly enough.  But this is the way cancer is, in some weeks I become obsessed with negative thoughts, and there’s not much I can do about it.  Like I keep asking the carers what it’s like to be with someone who’s dying (they know little but I ask anyway); and then I ask my friends about their experience of hospice care; and then I look at funeral services, funeral directors, and crematoria, and agonise.

my tee shirt and me

I guess this is what is called negative thinking, but in a way it is part of the process that I have to go through, and while it’s painful, I can see that there are things to look forward to, and this obsessing will end when my two grandchildren (Clara aged 10 and Juno aged 5) bounce through the door next week.

Price Check: Parker confronting Eric

There was a lot of business to be done during his visit: we saw an investment manager, a lawyer, my accountant, and a friend who will organize my funeral.  This wasn’t exactly what you’d call a holiday, but I was able to turn over to Michael a lot of my major problems. And it was such a relief; I feel very lucky to be able to rely totally on him, one reads so much of families not getting along.  I was a single hippy mother – the odds were not in our favor.  He  remembers little of his childhood except that a lot of people ‘hung out’ at our house on Miami Beach and that of all the druggy, political types the Buddhist phase was the worse for him,  Meetings that were full of people chanting, ‘Nam yo horangi yo’ must have been tough for a seven or eight year old.

That was the business side.  For fun, we went to several of my favorite new neighborhood restaurants, but the best nights were spent at home watching Mike’s film, when he made supper for me, which in itself was restorative.  I find something special in my son’s cooking.

The whole experience of being at home, watching a film he made, eating a dinner he had cooked for us, made me feel proud and gratified, and excited for him and his future.  We have done some kind of turn around and now he seems to take care of me.

The last four days reinforced my decision not to have more chemo. Just think: if I had been full of that poison, really sick, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on meetings, or the film; or enjoy any food; and no doubt I’d have been in bed all the time.  It is again the idea of false hope (even if you just never know whether it is really false), but there’s a lot of it around, there’s no doubt. I prefer to keep my wits about me, to be realistic, and to face things the way they are.  And most of all, to keep enjoying a really good meal. I think all my money is going to go to expensive restaurants, can’t see buying clothes anymore.

Soon after Mike left, Sweetpea arrived (my friend who had come with me to the Truffle Festival in Alba last October).

The way I feel now is that – I feel normal now.  This is very strange, as I’m on heavy morphine, and steroids, which is not normal.  It’s bizarre to feel normal, but there it is.

out to Dinner with Sweetpea

Sweetpea and I are foodies, and I wanted to take advantage of it while she was staying. I called for a lunch reservation at Dinner, Heston Blumenthal’s restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental, and was told that the list was closed for three months.  I persevered and got through to the dining room where I was waitlisted for Mothering Sunday.  Dream on, I thought.

Sunday came and Sweetpea and I were half way out the door when she suggested we check the waitlist.  Amazingly we got a table and off we dashed. We were bemused to be given a lovely table overlooking Hyde Park.  The service was impeccable, but the young man who delivered the bread had a shaking hand.  It was as if he was doing a solo at the Royal Opera.  It must be something of an honor to have even the lowest level job at what has got to be one of the finest restaurants in – London? Europe? The World? Who can say.

The menu is made up of historic British dishes (1500-1900) transformed to modern British tastes.

'Meat Fruit', strange but succulent

My starter was visually stunning and delicious.  Called Meat Fruit, from 1500, it was a chicken liver pate shaped to form a mandarin orange and dipped into a mandarin gel.  Try that at home. I can’t remember having such a succulent taste sensation.

Sweetpea had two fat duck legs, Powdered Duck (1670), for her main course.  This is not a minimal menu.  The portions are generous and rich.  You won’t leave hungry.  I had a large delicious Black Foot pork chop (c.1860).  I think they ate well in those olden days.

Still, we managed dessert.  The signature dish, Tipsy Cake (c.1810), was a drunk brioche accompanied by spit roast pineapple; my friend went for the Chocolate Bar (c.1730) – any restaurant in London would have been happy to serve this (c.2011).

The expense of the meal was not of overriding importance.  It felt like we had been treated to the best of everything.  I was impressed that we got taken from the waiting list.  I get sick of having to be ‘Someone’ to have an ordinary Sunday lunch at the Ivy.  We were treated beautifully from beginning to end, never rushed. It also is quiet … hurrah.  There is something honest about the food: the joy of the best ingredients cooked perfectly.

I may not be in a remission, but whatever I’m in, it allows me to have some special days and special experiences, to treasure my family and my friends and our times together.  As long as I don’t check my bank balance all will be just fine.