Friday afternoon. Newcastle….again.
I’m standing by the lift near the shops in Eldon Garden because I can’t be arsed walking the five flights of stairs to the ninth floor to shove my shopping in the car. I’m immediately joined by two women, one walking a dog wearing a harness that indicated that s/he was an assistance dog of some kind. I smile at the dog because s/he reminded me that Trisha loved dogs and wanted us to get one (I didn’t want to be caring for two, so I always prevaricated to avoid actually saying no. Selfish, eh?).
Her companion, driving an electric wheelchair, caught my eye. She smiled at me. Not directly at me because her posture was compromised, her head was tilted and she hunched slightly to one side. Instantly, she reminded me of Trisha. Trisha would smile this same smile; a smile that was not only very sincere but also appeared to be of someone not entirely of this time and place, a naive, child-like, vulnerable smile. Yes folks, today, Grief shoved its stiletto blade back into my chest. My heart broke. Rather than have to explain my wobbly lip, I excused myself and let the women have the lift to themselves.
Up until today, I’d not experienced the ‘ambushed out of nowhere’ grief that I’ve heard other widow/ers speak about. To add to this, everything I heard or read following this chance meeting seems to have been designed to make me cry. Alright, I am reading Adam Golightly’s book about his journey through grief but I’ve been strong enough to read it with good-humoured recognition rather than inconsolable howling. Till now. Every word twists the blade while I’m having lunch at my Friday haunt. OK, I’ll listen to music instead. Shuffle: Make You Feel My Love (I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love)…*skip*… Sing To The Moon (Hey there, you, shattered in a thousand pieces, weeping in the darkest night)…*stop*
You sneaky bastard, Grief. I hate you.
A Husband For A Carer 