Him and her

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This is Him, and her.

Hello. I’m having a glass of Rioja at the end of one of those ‘Oh sweet Satan’s ball-sack, I’m a TERRIBLE mother’ days. Will you join me?

I have had the emotional resilience of Wensleydale cheese today (crumbly, for all you non-Northern-English people). And I’ve been unable to toughen myself up.

And my child has both a) witnessed it and b) had to stay at my Mother’s whilst I spent time collapsing on the bed at home. It sounds melodramatic, but I swear, today, I’ve not even been able to THINK about, you know, Him, without going all Wensleydale.

I don’t know why it hits you like this. Anyone? Anyone?

If I’d even tried to compose a post earlier I wouldn’t have had the energy to press the buttons on the keyboard. Fortunately, Rioja has the same effect on me as spinach has on Popeye – it makes me strong to the finich.

It’s the school holidays and I’m up to my ears with the sound of kids shouting for their daddies. I’m sick of people rambling on about going on holiday together. I’m weary of people complaining about the forthcoming fortnight they’re going to have to endure with their husband and kids. I’d sell a kidney for the chance of a holiday with just Him and her.

“Are you cryin’?” My daughter asked me, as tears powered down my cheeks.

“Uhuh.”

“‘Cos you miss Daddy?”

“U”- snort- “Huh”

She doesn’t say anymore than that these days. She just goes and gets a length of toilet paper from the bathroom and clumsily tries to stop the flow.

And I thought to myself today – with no level of profundity whatsoever – I thought, nothing really matters. Nothing.

All I want is you, Buble. Can you hear me?

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17 thoughts on “Him and her

  1. I visited your blog after you followed mine, and wanted to offer you my sympathies on the loss of your husband, especially so suddenly. Especially so early in your life. Especially because death really sucks. Loss sucks. And getting beyond it sucks the big one.

    I hope the writing helps; it has helped me get through the deaths of my two sisters and to make peace with losing my parents.

    Word Press really is a place where you can vent and that really does help.

    Wishing you peace.

    • Thank you so much for your lovely words. Venting is all I can do at the moment and you are right, wordpress is a good place to do it. Sorry to hear of your losses too. I hope you have found peace. X

      • Yes, thanks, mostly. I think they’re wrong about “time healing all wounds” but it does make them bearable. Or maybe just lets you compartmentalize them so that they aren’t there when you aren’t ready to deal with them.

  2. I thought I’d posted last nite but I’m not sure I pressed post button. Unless it was such a load of twaddle u deleted it. My heart goes out to you as you didn’t have enough time together. Ian and I had so many plans once the kids grew up but it was never to be. We so looked forward to holidays when we didn’t have to play bat and ball. I’m already tired of drinkin wine alone altho I’ll carry on regardless. There are times almost every day when I feel as tho I can’t go on without him. Life seems pointless. But we will. We will go on. We have to. For the sake of our families who love us dearly. But i’d gladly throw this bloody devil dog off a bridge. Please tell me it gets easier soon. He’s a fruit loop. Hope you’ve had a better day today. Each one is a challenge. Love and hugs xx

  3. my husband died suddenly 2 mos. ago – while we were both in remission from fucking cancer. and now I have a new cancer. I have days I want nothing, nothing but H, and I would scream loudly right now, but all the windows are open, and closing them seems just too goddamned contrived. it’s true, grief will have it’s way with us, it will make us focus profoundly inward and will give no expiration date. we have no choice but to lean into it – it is the only way we can honor the one we love most in the world. hell, if he was a jerk, we’d just be relieved. but when the time we had with them was one of being so in love, so in sync with caring and such tender mercies we lavished on each other – it royally sucks. do you feel the wave building up, know that it is coming, and try to brace yourself with mantras – like, I promise to remember the happiness, all the good and beautiful and un-wordly stars that aligned for us to find each other and love each other so completely? I do, hoping the eye of that storm will not make me feel I want to beg to die on the spot, but it appears that wish is summarily dismissed, knowing it is coming, but no when or where or for how long it will batter us is insult to injury. does it sometimes make you feel nauseous, so terrified, so preoccupied that you can barely function? once it’s over, do you feel so numb and empty? lately, those lingering effects have actually helped me because the relief allows me to turn away from self-centric pain to choosing to do something that comforts me – reaching out to dear friends, calling my sister, taking my Sadie-dog for a walk in the park, and I can think that the assault of grief at least lets me feel the contrast of it’s pain to the beauty of gratitude for even little pleasures. it gives me hope. It allows me to feel H’S presence, if only where I hold him in my heart . just a few thought for another one who has known great love and now, life alone.

    love,

    Karen, TC

    • Firstly – so sorry for your loss. Thanks for taking the time to read and comment. It is immensely strengthening to know there are other people out there going through similar emotions. Grief indeed does seem to have its way with us, and for the past week or so I have hardly been able to see beyond it. ‘In sync’ was just what M and I were, from the moment we met actually, probably very nauseating for others but it was just how it was. ‘You complete me’ was a phrase we used often about each other. Sounds like you and your dear H were the same.
      Yes, I know what you mean about the wave building up – and waiting for it to crash down. To be engulfed by it. And the numbness, the emptiness. I STILL cannot believe he has gone and that I will never see him again – never hold him or be held by him, never hear his voice or share an in-joke. It’s preposterous.
      I want to thank you again for your thoughts, for making me feel less alone on this lonely old road. Love to you too Karen. X

  4. Bereavement in my experience is a cell mate not a visitor. Sorry to break that news (but I think you know anyway) so it’s not a case of ‘one day bereavement will be gone,’ he won’t. You just have to learn to live with him. Whilst confined in our mortal coil he will be there and time will help but not heal.
    I watched the film “one day” the other night. It’s a chick flick apparently so would never normally have got my attention, but my wife bought it and we watched. It was brilliant. What a deep film. I wonder if my wife and I sat and watched two completely different films? (I may be doing her a disservice here), anyway, I won’t ruin the end but when a scene played out, pretty much a carbon copy of what happened to a loved one right in front of me, my “cell mate” emerged from my darkest place, kicked me so hard that I was floored and didn’t know what to do. What I did was take the dog out and sit on a wall and cry, just for a couple of moments and I then packed him off to where ever he stays and hopefully won’t see him for a long time again.
    Bereavement is strange. I remember the first time that he didn’t ‘pop out’ to visit on the anniversary of the event. It had taken about 12 yrs for that to happen. I was so happy again that I just forgot the date. I felt terrible, felt I had been disrespectful, selfish, what a bad person I must be etc etc and so for about the next five years I made a point of actively “remembering”. Now, more than 25yrs on, I am more Parmesan than Wensleydale. I sometimes remember and sometimes I don’t; it’s ok, it doesn’t mean anything, I am “settled” with my cell mate. I know he’s there, I know he won’t leave. But I also know that I am in charge and not him, although on occasion he will just catch me unawares; usually a record on the radio, a quick glimpse of someone who looks like her, a film….
    I’m trying to come up with some pearl of wisdom to end with. I’m not sure there is one, but here goes. Life is too precious to invest too much time on your “cell mate”. Unfortunately you really do have to completely reorganise in order to accommodate them and this takes time. I don’t think you really know when you have got them settled, but one day you will just smile rather than cry when you remember them. Just be ready for the odd ‘flooring’ and know that it’s OK for that to happen. Also remember that the dog will always be ready for a walk!

    Ps Why have I made bereavement male???
    Pps If you watch “one day” have the Rioja, tissues and dog ready.

    • That’s an excellent analogy actually – that of bereavement and grief being like a cell-mate. For bereavement, especially of the sort we have suffered, does feel like a jail sentence. A life sentence, actually. I am starting to realise that and it feels heavy on my shoulders. It feels like we’re handcuffed together, grief and I. And the damn key is lost.
      I also like what you say about time helping but not healing. I find this the most unhelpful statement that people make: Time Heals. Fuck off and be glib elsewhere!
      I appreciate you taking the time to write so thoughtfully. It is immeasurably supportive to know that there are others out there, further along down the line, who have another perspective on this. A ‘time-helped’ perspective, I guess.
      I’ll have a look out for the film – although I may not be ready to view it yet…
      Much love and gratitude.
      p.s. My bereavement feels male too – draw from that what you will! X

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