Tag Archives: Online Writing

Shits n’ giggles

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support, Uncategorized by
Public Toilet

Public Toilet (Photo credit: ilovebutter)

This blog used to be all about shits n’ giggles.

You know; drinking beyond excess. Frolicking with the Plumber like a reckless youth. Buying loads of ‘things’. The comedic potential of dog ownership. A right old barrel o’ laughs.

I’ve noticed, and also had it pointed out, that it’s become increasingly maudlin as time has gone on. I assure you, it ain’t intentional. It seems to be the way grief is leading me. The first few months were like, whoah! What the fuck is going on here? Suddenly, from being in a relationship with the love of my life for ten years, (married for five), I am, for all intents and purposes, single.

What does this mean?

He’s not here, that’s what it means. And I can do whatever, or whomever I want! I don’t have to ‘check’ if I can go out with the girls for a night. I don’t have to ‘run it by Him’ if I want to go away for the weekend. I can sleep with whomever I choose, without explanation. I can spend money on whatever I want, (He never would have agreed to half the shit I’ve bought since He died). I can now make decisions about my daughter’s future singularly, without having to seek a second opinion.

In short, it’s back to ME, ME, ME. Freedom, George Michael-style. (With the exception of that unfortunate public toilet debacle.)

But actually. Erm. I don’t like it. The ‘fun’ is over.

You can come back now, love…Love? Love?

Open letter to my dead husband

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support, Every day survival, Uncategorized by
At more than 1 kilometre in height, Mt. Thor i...

At more than 1 kilometre in height, Mt. Thor is the highest overhanging rock face in the world (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What would you think of all this, pet; this blog which features you, your death, your first initial writ large?

(Yeah, who am I trying to kid with that? He’s called Mark. Anonymity seemed to make sense in the beginning, when I was unsure and cared about what people might think.)

I lay in bed last night, a single tumbler of wine between me and total sobriety, sobbing so hard my eyeballs ached. I missed you so much and I vowed I wouldn’t write anymore. Not intimately, anyway, not about the true state of things. I’d defiled you too much already. Told people too much.

From now on, I would tow the line, describe grief as it happens in the textbooks. Let me just check…ah, here I am, on page 63. According to this, at eighteen months in, I’m out of the mire of total despair, but am now staring up at the rock face of regret. (Turns out this is no more than annoyance though, as the next chapter sees me at the top of said rock face, looking down at the rose garden of renewal. Phew!)

Fortunately Mother stepped in tonight with a copy of The Guardian magazine. And it wasn’t the advert for a super pair of soft-soled sandals (choice of three great colours btw) which made my skin quiver.

It was the article about a cartoonist named Anders Nilsen who had lost his girlfriend to cancer aged 37. And written about it. With candour and a large amount of self-doubt.

Everything Nilsen says in the article resonates with me – every single thing. The piece is here: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/aug/16/anders-nilsen-the-end.

But as you can’t read it yourself, pet, I’ll summarise.

I have realised that this blog isn’t about you. It’s about me. And our love story. So I’m going to keep going for now, warts and all.

But actually, that’s OK, because I know what you think.

You’re with me all the way.

On turning 38

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support by
Bontempi

Bontempi (Photo credit: Jacob Whittaker)

The last thing you need on a post-birthday hangover are the strains of a child’s Bontempi organ bouncing off your eardrums.

However this morning my daughter has rediscovered the cursed instrument which has hitherto been hidden in a cupboard for months.

It has been in the cupboard for reasons other than her inability to play a note. There is a demo tune on it which takes me whirling back to a moment in time that I’m trying hard to forget – specifically, six days after M died.

The woman from The Humanist Society had just arrived to talk to us about M’s funeral service. Did we have any stories we wanted to include? What sort of man was my husband? Their son? Her brother?

My daughter, still high on the constant stream of visitors and piles of placatory sweets from the past six days, was corralled in the living room with my sister and the Bontempi. They spent the half an hour or so making up a daft dance to the demo that she is playing now, on a loop, downstairs. When we had finished with The Humanist we emerged from the kitchen, wrung out and catatonic, and had to sit and watch the dance. Over and over again.

I’m tired of this. Tired of the reminders of what I have lost and the traumas I have had to face. I spend my time finding distractions, but I am tired of waking up without Him, not remembering going to bed.

I’ve just turned thirty-eight. I shouldn’t be this weary.

Within a couple of hours, I knew I would be free.

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support, Every day survival, Uncategorized by
Napoleon at Saint Helena.

Napoleon at Saint Helena. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have two books on the go at the moment.

The first, and surely the most impressive, is my ‘serious’ read about Napoleon’s incarceration on St Helena (fascinating peeps – did you know Boney’s balls were pickled post-mortem and are now on display in a museum in France?)

The second is my ‘bathroom’ book – Chris Evans’ memoir about being utterly alcohol-soused in his early career, and how he came through it.

The chapters in the latter are scientifically word-counted to the length of time it takes to excavate a turd. But in terms of cracking reads (see what I did there?), it’s on the button. I started off hating the guy and now I want his ginger babies.

What is it about the narrative that appeals? His raw and boundless honesty, that’s what. He’s done some crass things in his time, but he’s totally up front about them. No holds barred. It’s a Catholic confessional wrapped up in 200 pages.

It is hard to be full-frontal about things that general society considers to be distasteful, particularly if you are in the public eye. I am very much out of the public eye, yet some of the things I have done since my husband’s death have confounded those I am closest to. Myself included.

I’m only halfway through his book, but already Evans has done some toe-curling stuff. As a listener to his morning show I know how the story ends, but there could have been so many other ways for it to go.

But I have found unexpected wisdom and comfort in his words. Whilst he doesn’t deal in grief directly, his reflections resonate with me at this moment in my life. Take this one on alcohol for example:

“I remember taking several drinks on board and waiting for the periods of cerebral protection to kick in. With the thought of this safety blanket wrapped around me I could look forward to forgetting about the growing muddle of things in life I didn’t want to face. Within a couple of hours I knew I would be free.”

If my husband’s death has taught me anything, it is that you can’t guarantee your reactions to anything.

When it comes to the crunch, you’re a stranger. Even unto yourself.

Hymn to Him

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support, Every day survival, Uncategorized by

Hello keyboard my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.

You're so cool. (Except perhaps in those wellies)

You’re so cool. (Except perhaps in those wellies)

And tonight I just want to riff about my husband. Thoughts of Him occupy me so completely, but I am unable to express them to anyone but this multi-buttoned musketeer. The words form on my tongue but come out stutteringly, meanderingly, without flow or point.

Besides, why would anyone want to know about how I was always so proud that it was HIM I was going home with at the end of a night?

Or how when I first met Him we used to sit smoking roll-ups til morning, stubbing them out in a Lambrini bottle, which became a brown-silted graveyard for fag ends?

Or how He played ‘Romanza’ on the guitar with the devotion of a father nurturing a child? And how we used to sing together, to our daughter, ‘Dream A Little Dream of You?

How He introduced me to JJ Cale, War of the Worlds, Robertson Davies?

Or how He spoke in a low, deep voice – slowly and without pauses?

How He drank Black Sheep bitter and would always order beef curry at the Chinese?

How our last words before bed were always: I love you pet.

How He was without doubt the most courageous and beautiful human being I have ever met, and I still can’t believe He’s gone?

“…I look back and am amazed that my thoughts were so clear and true, that three words went through my mind endlessly, repeating themselves like a broken record: you’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzR4Agcsuh8

The Big Uh-Oh

Posted in Every day survival, Uncategorized by

A Mary Berry masterpiece

This week heralds another birthday for me, and this year it’s the big one.

Not the big four-oh; the big uh-oh. I’m officially older than my husband will ever be.

It’s difficult to explain how sad this makes me feel, but on a scale of one to bastardfuckballs, I’m up there with the profanity. Not only did I leave Him behind in 2012 (please forgive me for that, pet), but now I’ve overtaken Him completely. He will never age. The rest of His eyebrow will never go white. He is inexorably frozen in time aged 37.

I can’t help but remember His last ever birthday, just over five weeks before He died. He is pictured here with the cake I made Him. Sadly, having the dexterity of a Dalek in the kitchen, I made too little mixture and the ‘sponge’ ended up being more of a biscuit – and a half measure at that. The poor bastard arrived home from work to it, sitting flaccidly on the chopping board. Even IT was embarrassed. It was supposed to be low fat too as we were both on a diet. As if it could get more pleasure-free.

The great, yet unsurprisingly thing about it though, was that my husband sampled the cake with the gusto of a man who had been presented with a Mary Berry masterpiece.

“Pet, it’s lovely,” he said, washing it down with a swig of tea, from where it had jammed in His gullet.

He placed the remaining quarter in a tin and put it at the back of the kitchen cupboard ‘for later’. And guess what? When the removal men came to package up our belongings from the house five surreal months later, one of them unearthed the tin and found that remaining quarter still secreted within it. I watched him sniff it with disdain, then ask me: “Do you…want to keep this?”

My instinct was to say yes. But I said; “Just chuck it.”

I am seeing in my 39th year with my Dad and my daughter and undoubtedly my dear friend Mr Rioja. As I no longer have need for a diet (note: sudden death of spouse – brilliant for weight-loss folks!) I may even treat myself to a slice of decent cake.

Grief’s the monkey

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Procrastination may have brought about the downfall of Hamlet, but had the Danish prince had access to You Tube, it’s possible that he would have gained insight much more quickly.

An irritating, parasitic little shit. (picture credit: www.02vavara.wordpress.com)

An irritating, parasitic little shit. (picture credit: http://www.02vavara.wordpress.com)

He could have kicked back and watched this clip for example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_sfnQDr1-o.

I’ve been watching it on a loop for the past half-an-hour whilst I muster up the will-power to start on some work.

As well as being an (arguably quite amusing) distraction, the more I watch, the more it makes sense as a representation of my relationship with grief.

Demonstrated through the medium of small mammals.

Bear with me on this one.

In case there’s any doubt – I’m the pig, grief’s the monkey. Even when the monkey loses his grip and falls off, note how he pursues the hapless piglet until he is able to mount once more. He’s relentless. Unforgiving. He probably has his dirty simian fingernails sunk deep into the pig’s weary flesh.

In short, he’s an irritating, parasitic little shit.

Interestingly though, the pig takes it all in his stride. He skitters about, snuffles in the muck, takes a lettuce leaf from the hand of an onlooker. He’s learned to get on with life in spite of the 40lb barnacle on his back and a ludicrous soundtrack.

Grief is a shape-shifter. To some, it’s a cell-mate with whom they are doomed to life imprisonment. To others it’s a gremlin. Some don’t acknowledge it at all, but still it lurks, in some shady corner, behind the filing cabinet. To me it’s a plane wreck, a millstone round my neck, and now it appears as a video on You Tube.

Now I’m off to find meaning in something else completely futile. Which is a pain, because I’ve got so much work to do.

A macabre, head-banging, delusional freak

Posted in Bereavement Advice and Support, Uncategorized by
English: Low cost above knee prosthetic limbs:...

English: Low cost above knee prosthetic limbs: ICRC (left) LC Knee (right) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My Great Aunt Edith died fifteen years ago, yet her husband (now a death-defying nonagenarian in the rudest of health) still keeps her prosthetic leg propped up by the fireplace in the lounge.

What a macabre, head-banging, delusional freak, right?

Me? My husband died in my Mother’s house. And sometimes, when Mum’s not looking, I go into the bedroom where He took His final breath, open the cupboard and allow my eyes to drift along the rail of her clothes to where His jacket still hangs. It’s right at the end of the rail, tucked away so it can’t be immediately seen.

Some days I just look, then close the door. Other days I sniff it, then reach into the pockets. There are three used tickets to The Deep in Hull, a half-eaten packet of Extra-Strong Mints and His pill box (empty). In the top pocket, there’s a pen.

Below the jacket, at the bottom of the cupboard, is the overnight case He had brought in anticipation of a weekend at Mother’s.

Inside: wash bag (too painful to look through now, but I know it contains toothbrush, toothpaste, razors – items which still hold His DNA), jeans, a brown leather belt, one pair of brown Dr Marten’s boots (size 9), various jumpers and underwear. He had brought the pair of unworn Superdry socks I bought Him for Christmas too, but I had Him cremated in those.

Meanwhile, downstairs at poor Mother’s is the four pack of Guinness M had bought about an hour before He died. It sits on a shelf in the porch, tucked far enough behind the boxes of washing powder and detergent that it is not immediately obvious, but still, I always check for it, glinting through the gloom. I have forbidden her to get rid of it or to allow anyone else to drink it.

In the light of this, and other evidence (the vacuum packed contents of His wardrobe, His guitar, His ashes), I asked my counsellor today, “Am I building a shrine to M? Should I be getting rid of all this stuff, in order to ‘move on’?”

She looked at me with well-rehearsed neutrality. “You have to do what’s right for you. Some people may not understand it. But others – well, they will.”

I thought about the macabre, head-banging, delusional freak, and his wife’s prosthetic leg.

I understand, Uncle Gordon. I understand old son.

The Seven Year Bitch

Posted in Every day survival, Whatever gets you through the night by
sorry_1_396x222

Re-enacting scenes from Sorry (photo: http://www.bbc.co.uk)

Today I am picking the carrot out of the fact that I should have been married exactly seven years.

What would we have been doing? Probably popping the cork on a nice bottle of red. Settling in to watch Masterchef. We may have ordered in, but that’s not a given.

I’ve said before that M and I didn’t place much stock in anniversaries of any kind – birthdays were about as excited as we got, usually marked by a card and, if He was very unlucky, a home-made, and therefore deflated, Victoria sponge.

Instead, we lived by my granddad’s old adage; ‘Every day’s a Christmas day’.

Not much would have been different today, actually, except for the company.

As it is, I’m re-enacting scenes out of Sorry, where I am a sort of female Timothy Lumsden, having my dinner served to me by my Mother who then does the dishes afterwards. Fortunately she is far cry from Lumsden’s mother, and tolerates my shameful bad language with characteristic equanimity.

I have glanced at the photographs on the sideboard of this time seven years ago and it feels as if I’m looking at a different couple. That bloke wearing the big smile and the tails, next to that bird in the long dress. Figments of some distant lifetime. How is it possible that the day depicted would signal the start of just five years of marriage?

I have spent the day trying to put a name on the hollow space within me. It’s the part which paints a grey wash of sadness over everything. Sometimes it’s so grey it’s opaque – other times it’s cygnet-coloured. But no matter the hue, it leaves everything slightly out-of-tune.

I can only come up with one name for the hollow space.

His.

Happy anniversary, pet. Wherever you are.

Battenburg, chin hair, dead spouses

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I never imagined that I might ever have anything in common with a fluffy-haired, false-toothed septuagenarian woman. Except perhaps

Young Widow

Young Widow (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

a penchant for Battenburg and the odd hair on my chin.

Yet there I was, my hand cupped around her tiny shoulder, uttering the words: We’re in this together, you and I.

She is known as Nana Shirley. She’s the village Nana, and is as much part of village fauna as the village Idiot, the village Drunk and the village Bike. I, of course, am the village Young Widow. A new character in the soap opera of village life.

Nana Shirley lost her husband, Len, recently. They’d been together over sixty years, childhood sweethearts, had never known anyone else. Len went into hospital for an operation and never came out.

I came across Nana Shirley walking down the street in her slippers. I smiled and continued past her, but then stopped and turned back.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m all right, pet,” she replied. “It’s the night-times that are the worst. When everyone’s gone. Well, you’ll know…”

I did and do know. It’s why I drink.

Young widows mourn the future. Old widows mourn the past. I used to think the former scenario was the worst (as if it were some kind of competition).

But I realised, standing there with my arm around that little, newly-bereaved woman, tacitly welcoming her into ‘the club that no-one wants to join’, that the death of a beloved spouse is heart-breaking, regardless of age.

Turns out Nana Shirley and I are in it together.