affected
Guru status reached
- Joined
- Apr 26, 2013
- Messages
- 16,096
- Reason
- Lost a loved one
- Diagnosis
- 05/2013
- Country
- OZ
- State
- AU
- City
- lala land
One of our home care staff sent this to me just recently. Chris gained his wings 4 weeks before she managed to write this.
It has reminded me that even though, at the time, we are just bumbling along through what seems a nightmare, we can turn anything into a positive influence for others.
This has been pasted without alteration or deletions and I was given permission to use it however I felt to:
- - - - - - - - -
To Chris and Katrina, family and friends – some words of thanks.
Last November when my supervisor asked me to go to a client at Tuckurimba they said “His name is Chris, and he’s just 10 minutes away from you. Chris has MND - sorry, it will be a sad journey.”
Sad as the circumstances of meeting Chris and Katrina were it turned out to be a journey that I will always be grateful for.
I walked into a house and met people who immediately became my friends.
Less than six months later I attended Chris’s memorial service and listened to his family and friends talk about their love for Chris, and reflect on their time with him – what a beautiful service it was.
I thought that I would share some memories from the few months that I knew Chris.
So many people spoke about Chris’s capacity for laughter, and I recalled the many laughs that happened while I worked with him. A lot of the time Chris would laugh purely because he was already laughing, then that would lead to more laughter. Chris would yawn then laugh, he would sip coffee then laugh, drop ash on himself then laugh – he would smile with pureed berries all over his teeth then roar with laughter, and his laughter was infectious. One time I ended up completely helpless with laughter. I was massaging Chris’s hands while watching the training video that Katrina had made for us. At one point in the video Katrina says to look at Chris’s face to make sure that he’s ok - I looked at him, and let’s just say that Chris had prepared his face well. The most spectacular grimace I’ve ever seen!
I also remembered making chicken and leek soup with Chris - I was adding the salt and looking to Chris to say when to stop. There I was – grinding, grinding, grinding, with Chris sitting in a wheelchair saying “More, More, More!” I was about to suggest that he modify his salt intake when his smirk gave it away. I said “I haven’t taken the lid off the grinder, have I?” I won’t ever forget his massive grin, or Sylvia’s laughter.
While we were gathered around the gazebo at Chris’s service I listened to people tell of Chris’s love of cooking and I looked at the rosemary growing there. We had made a lamb stew one day and I asked Chris where the rosemary was. I wonder how many people, if their ability to speak was taken from them, would be brave enough to even attempt the word “gazebo.”
Another time that Chris and I cooked together was just before Christmas. It was one of those stinking hot 40 degree days and Chris had pork roasting, potatoes, pasta and eggs bubbling away, apples stewing – the kitchen got hotter and hotter. I looked at Chris to see how he was managing - - what he typed on his iPad was “You should have a rest now.”
In the time that I knew Chris he never once stopped showing concern for other people. Every time I asked him how he was doing he would answer then, without fail, ask “And you?”
Whenever I assisted Chris to stand and transfer from one chair to another I could feel the enormous effort that it was for him. He never said that it was too hard though, or that he couldn’t do it. Chris kept the attitude that if he could still do something, he would do it. What a brave and proud guy.
So often in life we meet people who love their parents despite the bad things. Looking at Chris’s kids it’s so clear that they not only love Chris, they adore and respect him, and they are so very proud of him. That’s something you don’t see everyday.
I listened to people talk about Chris not being far away, and reassuring his children that he is still with them and I recalled a conversation that we had about distance. Chris and I often talked about having lived 10 minutes apart as kids, then living 10 minutes apart when we met as adults 50 years later – only a few kilometres. One day Chris started wondering how much distance there could be to still only be 10 minutes away. With some googling on my phone we found that with a spare 10 minutes (and a space shuttle) it’d be possible to burst through the stratosphere and be out amongst the stars – and that was even allowing for time to buckle up and count back from 10!
Chris and I often talked about growing up in Frankston/Seaford and we’d laugh about how rough it was. We’d remember things like when a Pancake Parlour opened in Frankston and the big artificial log fire was the flashest thing any of us had ever seen. We’d remember the local thugs called ‘Sharpies’ (imagine a skinhead with a mullet.) We’d remember being completely unreined as kids and running wild in the sand dunes behind the Pines estate, and we’d share stories of how rough our schools were. Chris once asked what my brothers were like and I told him “horrible.” Even as little kids they were shockers – their idea of family entertainment was to get me fired up by way of pinning my teddy bear down and punching him in the face. The look of horror on Chris’s face when I said that was priceless. He sat there stunned then said “Bastards.” I suggested that maybe I used to overreact a bit too but Chris said “It’s the principle of it.” My thoughts at the time exactly, being echoed back to me 50 years later.
MND made it so difficult for Chris to say any words, let alone words like “Bastards” and “Principle.”
Back as a kid I used to daydream (a lot) and imagine a person who would understand that you just shouldn’t punch teddy bears. Even in my wildest daydreams though I didn’t imagine that I would meet just such a person 50 years on. If I could go back and speak to my 5 year old self I would tell them about meeting Chris, and my imaginary ally in the prevention of cruelty to teddies would have a name!
When I told Katrina about Chris’s reaction to my teddy story, she told me that Chris still had his own childhood teddy bear, sitting just inside the house.
I knew Chris for less that 6 short months but gained memories and knowledge that will last forever. I now have no doubt whatsoever that dignity can be maintained throughout the most devastating of illnesses, and MND is a completely devastating disease. Every care worker who attended Chris now knows that it is possible to maintain dignity through such an illness – we know this because we learnt it from Chris.
Alison Wilson
Care worker.
- - - - - - - - -
Tillie xxx
It has reminded me that even though, at the time, we are just bumbling along through what seems a nightmare, we can turn anything into a positive influence for others.
This has been pasted without alteration or deletions and I was given permission to use it however I felt to:
- - - - - - - - -
To Chris and Katrina, family and friends – some words of thanks.
Last November when my supervisor asked me to go to a client at Tuckurimba they said “His name is Chris, and he’s just 10 minutes away from you. Chris has MND - sorry, it will be a sad journey.”
Sad as the circumstances of meeting Chris and Katrina were it turned out to be a journey that I will always be grateful for.
I walked into a house and met people who immediately became my friends.
Less than six months later I attended Chris’s memorial service and listened to his family and friends talk about their love for Chris, and reflect on their time with him – what a beautiful service it was.
I thought that I would share some memories from the few months that I knew Chris.
So many people spoke about Chris’s capacity for laughter, and I recalled the many laughs that happened while I worked with him. A lot of the time Chris would laugh purely because he was already laughing, then that would lead to more laughter. Chris would yawn then laugh, he would sip coffee then laugh, drop ash on himself then laugh – he would smile with pureed berries all over his teeth then roar with laughter, and his laughter was infectious. One time I ended up completely helpless with laughter. I was massaging Chris’s hands while watching the training video that Katrina had made for us. At one point in the video Katrina says to look at Chris’s face to make sure that he’s ok - I looked at him, and let’s just say that Chris had prepared his face well. The most spectacular grimace I’ve ever seen!
I also remembered making chicken and leek soup with Chris - I was adding the salt and looking to Chris to say when to stop. There I was – grinding, grinding, grinding, with Chris sitting in a wheelchair saying “More, More, More!” I was about to suggest that he modify his salt intake when his smirk gave it away. I said “I haven’t taken the lid off the grinder, have I?” I won’t ever forget his massive grin, or Sylvia’s laughter.
While we were gathered around the gazebo at Chris’s service I listened to people tell of Chris’s love of cooking and I looked at the rosemary growing there. We had made a lamb stew one day and I asked Chris where the rosemary was. I wonder how many people, if their ability to speak was taken from them, would be brave enough to even attempt the word “gazebo.”
Another time that Chris and I cooked together was just before Christmas. It was one of those stinking hot 40 degree days and Chris had pork roasting, potatoes, pasta and eggs bubbling away, apples stewing – the kitchen got hotter and hotter. I looked at Chris to see how he was managing - - what he typed on his iPad was “You should have a rest now.”
In the time that I knew Chris he never once stopped showing concern for other people. Every time I asked him how he was doing he would answer then, without fail, ask “And you?”
Whenever I assisted Chris to stand and transfer from one chair to another I could feel the enormous effort that it was for him. He never said that it was too hard though, or that he couldn’t do it. Chris kept the attitude that if he could still do something, he would do it. What a brave and proud guy.
So often in life we meet people who love their parents despite the bad things. Looking at Chris’s kids it’s so clear that they not only love Chris, they adore and respect him, and they are so very proud of him. That’s something you don’t see everyday.
I listened to people talk about Chris not being far away, and reassuring his children that he is still with them and I recalled a conversation that we had about distance. Chris and I often talked about having lived 10 minutes apart as kids, then living 10 minutes apart when we met as adults 50 years later – only a few kilometres. One day Chris started wondering how much distance there could be to still only be 10 minutes away. With some googling on my phone we found that with a spare 10 minutes (and a space shuttle) it’d be possible to burst through the stratosphere and be out amongst the stars – and that was even allowing for time to buckle up and count back from 10!
Chris and I often talked about growing up in Frankston/Seaford and we’d laugh about how rough it was. We’d remember things like when a Pancake Parlour opened in Frankston and the big artificial log fire was the flashest thing any of us had ever seen. We’d remember the local thugs called ‘Sharpies’ (imagine a skinhead with a mullet.) We’d remember being completely unreined as kids and running wild in the sand dunes behind the Pines estate, and we’d share stories of how rough our schools were. Chris once asked what my brothers were like and I told him “horrible.” Even as little kids they were shockers – their idea of family entertainment was to get me fired up by way of pinning my teddy bear down and punching him in the face. The look of horror on Chris’s face when I said that was priceless. He sat there stunned then said “Bastards.” I suggested that maybe I used to overreact a bit too but Chris said “It’s the principle of it.” My thoughts at the time exactly, being echoed back to me 50 years later.
MND made it so difficult for Chris to say any words, let alone words like “Bastards” and “Principle.”
Back as a kid I used to daydream (a lot) and imagine a person who would understand that you just shouldn’t punch teddy bears. Even in my wildest daydreams though I didn’t imagine that I would meet just such a person 50 years on. If I could go back and speak to my 5 year old self I would tell them about meeting Chris, and my imaginary ally in the prevention of cruelty to teddies would have a name!
When I told Katrina about Chris’s reaction to my teddy story, she told me that Chris still had his own childhood teddy bear, sitting just inside the house.
I knew Chris for less that 6 short months but gained memories and knowledge that will last forever. I now have no doubt whatsoever that dignity can be maintained throughout the most devastating of illnesses, and MND is a completely devastating disease. Every care worker who attended Chris now knows that it is possible to maintain dignity through such an illness – we know this because we learnt it from Chris.
Alison Wilson
Care worker.
- - - - - - - - -
Tillie xxx