This is life after death

I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.

A wobbly-lipped, can’t-think-about-my-dead-husband-without-wanting-to-claw-my-own-eyeballs-out type of day.

Daft posing. I cry because I miss Him so...

Daft posing. I cry because I miss Him so…

They come and go, days like these. Most of the time, it’s like living in a kind of remission. But then one unremarkable Monday you wake up to find yourself being assailed by a hairy-arsed, sabre-toothed grief demon intent on juicing you to make emotional soup.

Why today? Well I dreamt about Mark pretty much all of last night. Images of Him spooled through my brain like a film reel. And even though I kept waking, the movie didn’t stop. It resumed as soon as my head hit the pillow again.

And I sobbed in these dreams, because I somehow knew that in the morning He would still be gone.

My daughter woke up, naked and small, and I cradled her in the crook of my arm and kissed her face and told her I loved her more than anything in the world. She lay there awhile, being kissed, then asked for Shreddies.

This is life after death. This is the fabled ‘New Normal’. (There’s an expression for the Grief Bullshit Bingo sheet! Cross it off, quick!).

Today I just need to leave my assailant get on with his attack.

Tomorrow the remorseless fucker will no doubt be juicing someone else.

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11 thoughts on “This is life after death

  1. I too have days when I get up and know it’s not gonna get any better. And these are the days when the bloody dog is a royal pain in the ass. But people tell me it’s because he’s ‘sensing my mood!’ To be honest the last few weeks have been hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Usually I can ‘put on a brave face’. But I cried at work today. I can’t seem to stop memories flooding my brain at the moment. Memories of hospital visits when we left and went to the pub to drown our sorrows and Ian would get his card stamped as he tried the various beers (u know the one? U buy 4 u get 1 free) Memories of multi discipline team meetings where I wanted to punch them all in the face and scream at them because I couldn’t understand why they all had to be in the same room with us when consultant gave us bad news. I remember the day I sat with him when he had his plaster of Paris mask fitted for his radiotherapy. He was so brave yet I sat and cried because he looked so helpless. I don’t know why I keep having these thoughts. Life is bad enough without these memories flooding back to make things bleaker. I don’t dream about Ian much. I think it must be heartbreaking for u knowing that u have to wake up. I too would rather stay in deep slumber if Ian was there in my dreams. They say u tend to dream about the last thing u think of before going to sleep. I don’t agree as my head is full of Ian as it hits the pillow. Love and hugs my friend Keep battling on xx

    • Flashbacks are featuring heavily with me at the moment too Lynne. You talk about the helplessness of Ian, I understand this completely. When you have known somebody to be strong, big, dare I say ‘manly’, and then see them reduced to a body which is having things done to it, it is hard to reconcile. Mark’s courage and bravery makes me cry too. Most courageous person I’ve ever known. Courage and much love to you. X

  2. My friend (and yours) Amy sent me the link to your blog. You write amazingly. Having just spent the last hour in tears I am now trying to compose myself for the pick up of my own little lady. There is something cathartic in writing things down isn’t there. I can only imagine just how much help your words are to those in a similar position, deeply moving and so so sad but yet with such well placed humour. That is such a talent you have there!
    Thank you for sharing,
    Nelly xxx

    • Thanks so much for your lovely words – and for taking the tim to read and vote! It is massively cathartic to write about the horror of all this, and to receive message of support such as yours. I really appreciate it Nelly. All good wishes to you. xxx

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