The Courage Project

Stories of courage in parenthood, a series brought to you from The Motherhood Project

Janelle Brunton-Rennie is a mother, a widow, a highly respected businesswoman and possibly a beacon of hope to so many others as they navigate the inevitable challenges of life. When Janelle was 36 years old, her husband Kurt died of Blood Cancer. At the time he was diagnosed they had a four month old daughter, she was suffering from postnatal depression, she was scheduled for major corrective surgery in a few days and was running a full time Public Relations company. Less than a year later Kurt tragically passed away and Janelle’s been sharing her journey of surviving, to one day thriving again on social media in the hope of helping others navigate what she’s referred to as ‘the halls of hell’.

Read Janelle’s courageous story below.

My husband, Kurt, was the healthiest human I knew. I’d never even seen him suffer from a cold or flu in the seven years we’d been together. One morning, the day after our wedding anniversary, he jumped out of the shower and asked me if I thought his stomach felt a bit hard. I felt the harder area he was referring to and nonchalantly commented he should see the doctor. That afternoon, life unravelled at break-neck speed.

“ I remember standing in the hospital hallway, holding our tiny baby girl, being asked if my husband had a will as there was a good chance he wasn’t going to make it.

”

The hard area was a large growth on his spleen. An urgent CT scan revealed widespread lymphoma and despite having no symptoms initially, his health deteriorated so rapidly he would have been dead within a few weeks had he not initially responded well to urgent chemotherapy intervention. I remember standing in the hospital hallway, holding our tiny baby girl, being asked if my husband had a will as there was a good chance he wasn’t going to make it. It felt completely surreal, I just couldn’t wake up from this nightmare I was experiencing and the hospital corridor just seemed to cave in on me. I wasn’t coping well as a new mum, on the outside, I was holding it together, but behind closed doors, I was a mess. I had taken only two weeks off work after having our daughter Sage and was back running my business with a newborn baby under my desk, and in hindsight I put far too much pressure on myself.

Kurt was the only thing propping me up. He took to parenting with ease and was a wonderful dad. He was my rock, my best friend, my everything to be honest. I remember thinking to myself just before our nightmare started, ‘I’ve done it, I’m through the worst of it. I’m feeling a bit better, I still have my business intact, everything’s going to be okay.’ Only a few days later in a cruel twist of fate, life was ever going to be the same again. As I stood at the top of my imaginary conquered mountain and congratulated myself for ‘making it,’ for working so hard for the amazing life we had created, an avalanche came out from underneath me.

Initially, Kurt responded well to chemotherapy. I set up my workstation in the hospital and would work from his room all day whenever he was having treatment. Things were looking positive. However, we then learned the tumours were growing again and had multiplied. It was at this time we started researching CAR-T immunotherapy in the United States as a backup plan. Kurt didn’t respond to the salvage chemo options, we fundraised as much as possible in New Zealand to contribute toward the immense cost of the treatment, and we managed to have him accepted onto an immunotherapy trial in Boston. Kurt spent four months in Boston undergoing CAR-T therapy, and I flew to and from Boston running my business and mumming the best I could, flying my own mum up to Auckland to care for Sage each time I flew to Boston to be with Kurt.

At Christmas time Kurt had what they termed a ‘repositioning scan.’ He rang me immediately when he received the result. I answered the phone and held my breath. I realised he was in tears. ‘Baby, it’s bad news.’ I remember the words ‘innumerable tumours,’ ‘progressive disease,’ and something about ‘massive.’ My body let out a sound I didn’t know it was capable of producing, like a punch to the heart that emptied both lungs at once through my mouth. My legs gave out and I dropped to my knees, the phone fell from my hand. I didn’t weep, I cried with an intensity I didn’t know we were even capable of.

I was with him when he passed less than two weeks later, I’ve had to work through the trauma of watching him suffer so badly the last week and witnessing him take his final breaths. We live in a society that is very averse to hearing about or witnessing death, and the only references we seem to have are what we see in the movies, and in my experience they weren’t too accurate.

“I wish I could go back and tell that terrified mother, standing in the hospital ward, holding her small baby, blinking furiously under those bright fluorescent lights, trying to wake up from what she hoped was just a nightmare. I wish I could tell her she was going to be okay.

”

Since his passing, I have shared very openly the tumultuous nature of grief in the hope of trying to somewhat normalise talking about loss in our grief averse society. At the start of my grief journey I was told, ‘just keep living until you feel alive again,’ and that’s all I focused on. A kind of survival mode, making sure I kept Sage alive, kept myself alive, and kept my business alive so I could provide for us. I wish the me from four years ago could have been visited by me now. I wish I could go back and tell that terrified mother, standing in the hospital ward, holding her small baby, blinking furiously under those bright fluorescent lights, trying to wake up from what she hoped was just a nightmare. I wish I could tell her she was going to be okay. Yes, things were going to get a whole lot worse yet (understatement), but I wish I could just hold her, and let her know she was going to get through this.

There are still harder days and many sad moments, but once there were only fleeting moments of reprieve among days and days of darkness. To anyone out there navigating those halls of hell right now, I know it’s hard to believe it, but one day you’ll wake up and the day won’t feel quite as heavy, and those days will slowly happen more and more regularly, I promise.

Sage and I are doing rather well now. We share a truly beautiful bond, we’re a tight little team of two plus our dog Daisy Boo. My introduction to parenthood was a far cry from anything I had imagined, but day by day we have moved through it, we survived the worst of it, and we’re transitioning into a place that feels a whole lot more like thriving in life now for the both of us. I’m so damn proud of me, of her, and I know Kurt would be too.

To other parents going through a similar experience:

Unfortunately, I receive one or two messages a week usually from women all from all over the world to tell me their story, which is often all too similar to my own loss and heartbreak and seeking advice on how to navigate their partners treatment, terminal illness or recent death.

“There is nothing else we can do, than try and be fully present with them,
care for them the best we can and hope that as they let go of our hands on earth,
they are met with loving hands on the other side. ”

My advice always differs depending on what stage their partner is at in their illness, or how long ago their partner passed. I’ve received messages from women seated at their partners bedside during their final days and I always tell them this. Just be there with them. Hold their beautiful warm hands, and really be in their presence. The one thing we are never prepared for is those final breaths, and their hands turning cold, and once they have left this earthly plain, there will be no more moments to feel their beautiful warm hands. There is nothing else we can do, than try and be fully present with them, care for them the best we can and hope that as they let go of our hands on earth, they are met with loving hands on the other side.

If someone has recently lost their partner, the last thing you should ever do is try and highlight silver linings or dismiss their immense pain in any way. I remember reaching out to a woman on Instagram when Kurt got sick seeking advice, and I know that all I was really looking for was reassurance that even if the very worst-case scenario eventuated, that one day I would be alright again. So I always tell them that over time it does get easier, and then it gets hard again, then easier, then hard again. Grief isn’t linear, its up and down and comes in waves, but over time the waves become smaller and less frequent I promise.

The best we can do is try and ride out the heavy days, catch our breath a little on the easier days, and take comfort knowing that it does ease over time. You will smile again, you will laugh again one day without feeling guilty I promise. There is no quick fix, and no shortcut around the experience of grief, but there is light at the end of the tunnel, and you do whatever you have to do to make sure you get through it for you, and your beautiful babies. It takes time, a lot of time, and patience, and self love and kindness. Be kind to yourself.

Follow Janelle’s story here - https://www.instagram.com/janellebruntonrennie/