We've had horrid news from the Mothercountry. Grandma's cancer is spreading rapidly and with a terrible finality that is now necessitating mutterings of Morphine pumps and spinal cord involvement.
Grandma continues to be totally aware of everything that is going on and very much in control, despite being weak and resorting to a wheelchair nowadays.

Mr Not and I were discussing whether it was better to be like this or, more akin to his Dad who was too world-weary and weak and to care. What must be scary for Grandma is that she has witnessed all this first hand with her husband less than 12 months previously and, having the same diagnosis, all the same symptoms are recurring.

The grumpiness levels in Mr Not have increased two-fold in 24 hours. Isn't it funny how people react to emotion in different ways? I almost wish he would pace the house weeping, wailing and ringing his hands. I'm not good at 'sad' either and remember that my response to my parents' deaths was to bottle it all up and throw myself into life in a very (almost overly) business-like manner. There's nowt so queer as folkies.

Now the big debate: Go home now and see her for one last time (and risk upsetting the children who remember her as a relatively fit and healthy person) or wait until the inevitable happens. I would prefer the former but Mr Not the latter. I'm not a funeral person and think she would derive much more from seeing everyone for a flying-visit than from knowing we are scavenging the charity shops of NZ hunting for black clothing. Watch this space XX(