Tag: bereavement

Brief encounter

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.

The feels

This is a big week for me.  I’ll be alone in my own home for the first time since Trisha died.  For the last six months, I’ve either had my mother-in-law or my own mother living with me, or both at once.  Last September, Trisha’s mother came to stay here with Trisha while I was due to go to the wedding of my best mate at school.  She’d only been here a few days when Trisha stopped being able to swallow properly.  I assumed – hoped – it would be transient, just a blip, and she’d be sent home again.  The rest is very recent and raw history.

Once we’d been told that Trisha wouldn’t recover this time, my mother came over to join Trisha’s.  I’ve not been alone since.  Tomorrow, my mother goes home.  I think this will be the time when those feelings of grief I’ve been keeping at bay will surface.  I only seem to let it all get to me when I’m alone.  Why is that?  Do I need to give myself permission  How repressed am I?  Don’t answer that, I’m way ahead of you.

Anyhow, I also think this is something that needs to happen.  I can’t keep focussing on the practical things in life to the detriment of my emotional well-being.  It’s time to let the feels in.

The loneliest number

It was Trisha’s birthday over the weekend. The first birthday without her. I wanted to do something special to commemorate it.  I took myself into Newcastle with a two-item to-do list. Light a candle and go the football.

After a galvanising coffee, I went to St Thomas the Martyr’s church and sought out the candles. Not through any kind of spirituality on my part, but I know Trisha would have done it, so I did the same. The commemorative candles stood on a rack in three rows. Next to the rack was a tree with requests for prayer in the name of the dearly departed tied to it. I felt a bit like a fish out of water already so I stuck to candle-lighting. I took a candle from the pile on the rack, left my contribution to the collection, placed the candle in the special three-pronged holder and struck the match.

I’d just about got it lit before the floodgates opened. Shoulders shaking, unable to move, even out of embarrassment. After some minutes, I find my way to a pew at the back of the church, only to realise I’d not brought anything for this pretty obvious eventuality.  I know there’s a cafe in there but no idea if there’s a toilet. It’s no good, I’ll have to find someone to ask. I’m in an almost deserted church on a Saturday morning–definitely out of my comfort zone on both counts, sobbing while asking where the toilet is. A vision, I’m sure. Mind, I’m sure the people working there are accustomed to seeing similar things.

I can’t stand about here all day, dripping from various bits of my face. I said I’d take her to the football. Not literally, obviously. I’m not taking the bag with her jar of ashes in. That’d be a step too far, even for a grieving widower. But I’d be taking her, figuratively, to St. James’ Park, what with her being a NUFC fan. “That’s my granny’s doing. She was from Byker.” If she’d said that once, she said it hundreds of times. More so as her MS advanced and her memory and cognitive skills diminished. She’d have loved the atmosphere of the ground, even if the game itself left something to be desired. She’d have hated the cold, though. She always envied her brother because her birthday always coincided with bad weather, whilst his was in the spring and he could do more.

As her birthday wore on, I felt more lonely. I was doing all these things that had a special meaning but couldn’t tell anyone. I was aching to tell everyone but couldn’t just blurt it out of the blue. It’s not something that the Bumper Book of Making New Friends As A Widower recommends as an introduction to conversation. In fact, it ranks among its top ten list of don’t-whatever-you-bloody-do’s. I started to resent other people just getting on with their own Saturday. Which they were perfectly entitled to do. I guess it’s another sign that time is passing without her. And that it’s not fair. She should be here. Whether her condition allowed her to really enjoy anything like this is another matter. I’m thinking in purely selfish terms.

I miss her. I keep hearing her say “I do love you, Simon”. Not just a declaration in and of itself but also her way of acknowledging the situation and my role within it as her carer. A ‘thank you’ of sorts.

Throughout our time together, I never said goodnight to her. It was always ‘I love you’. Every night–especially at the hospice, every time I left her room for any length of time–I wanted to make sure that, if anything happened to her, the last words she heard me say were “I love you”.

They were the last words I ever said to her, “I love you with all my heart”. I’m still not ready to say goodnight to her. Or if I ever will be.

Dear Dad, 

When I was
small, you held my hand.

When I was
growing up and needed you, you held my hand.

I left home
and started my own life, you were holding my hand.

When my
life took me further away from you and Mum, you were holding my hand. 

My life
changed, and I started afresh. There you were, holding my hand.

Time and
again, you led me around the Railway Museum…..by the hand!

When I got
ill and grew weaker, you were holding my hand.

Then.

Illness
came for you. So, I held your hand.

When distance
came between us, I held your hand.

As I heard
your voice on the phone, I held your hand.

When all I
can do is think of you, I’m holding your hand.

For the
rest of my life, Dad, I’ll hold your hand.

And I’ll
never let go.

I love
you.  Your daughter.

Milestones

This year has brought milestones into MW’s life.  She’s recently turned 50.  The day itself was fun.  Some friends came to visit and made her day and she had cake and balloons.  It was good for her – and for me – to have a house full of people and laughter.

MW hadn’t really had time to get used to being 50 when we learned that her father passed away the other week.  They’d not been able to see each other for over a year – MW can’t travel such a distance because her MS is too advanced, her Dad had leukaemia and had deteriorated significantly since we last saw him.  This meant that neither he nor MW’s Mum, his main carer, could come and see us.

It’s been a challenging time since we learned of his death.  MW has cognitive and memory issues, and I thought she’d need to be reminded what had happened.  There are moments where she seems to forget and others when it’s obvious that she’s thinking of him.  There’s a deep sadness in her demeanour, a real low mood.

Given that she couldn’t get to see him while he was still with us, she can’t get to today’s funeral.  Which is a mixed blessing, I suppose.  She can’t say goodbye to him but she’s not surrounded by reminders that he’s gone, which avoids provoking more low mood.

We’ve written something to be read out on her behalf, to make sure that she’s involved in a small way.