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CHAPTER 2 |
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Doesn’t it seem strange when you first come back from the hospital, or when you look around the house or the room or the garden? Everything looks as if life will just carry on as before; the food in the cat’s dish is still half eaten; the ‘get well’ cards and the soon-to-fade flowers are still on the side; your loved one’s winter dressing-gown is still on the hook; the last cup and saucer are on the draining board; the last washing waiting to be ironed. When you switch on the TV, the same laughter is still going on with the bright smiles of the presenters.
All around, life is continuing - shopping, dog-walking, children going to school, even the sun is still shining, and yet for you life has stopped. |
For the one you loved, his or her death may have been a mercy. But then you ask, why you are grieving? If the loss has been sudden or unfair , or unable to be explained, or even a suicide, there are feelings of anger with nowhere to direct it, for the person has gone. Then comes a mixture of tears, pent-up questions, frustrations, regrets, and strange and strong mood swings and, at times, being not sure if it has even happened. Suddenly you find yourself humming. You argue to yourself that this is what Charlie would have wanted. He never did like it when you cried.
Maybe you hold in your hands the few things from the hospital. The wedding ring has been wrapped and labelled for security, and yet it was something you exchanged in love or it had been on your mother’s finger as long as you can remember. Now it is with you. Life seems so strange. Then you are brought the bag of clothes and belongings from the hospital and a little pile of get well cards. There were sent with such optimism and now they seem so hollow. The hospital plastic bag seems so small for someone who meant so much and filled your whole life. As you open the bag the familiar smells of the person reach you. That smell brings back memories of nights together, working in the garden together.
Now Dan is at the undertakers but for you the essentials are still there in that bag. You know you should sort and wash the clothes but you cannot bring yourself to lose the nearness of the person just yet. Maybe you take the nightie to bed with you and weep as if your heart would break. After the accident, Mark’s watch or ring is sent back to you; it still has flecks of blood on it. These small things are so heart-breakingly real. One wave of tears follows another.
Maybe the hollow is still on the pillow from the last night at home? Or the last mug on the side? The same bottle of tablets half used? It is not real. Surely Jack will walk in that door any minute, he has only gone down to the shed or out for a paper. The door rattles, but it is only the post, or the cat flap. Your heart lifts and then drops again in tears or rage. |
There is so much to do, phone calls to make, people to see, arrangements to be made, business to sort out. These are things that you have never had to do before, all the paper work was always dealt with by John who understood it all. Who will clean the house and prepare the food for those coming to the house after the funeral? Emily would have known what to do so well. She always looked after that sort of thing.
Everything is confused, out of place, disjointed. When you do sleep you dream. In those dreams the images come up before you and John appears walking up the path in the park. You call urgently to him, but he turns away and is gone behind the trees and over the hill. You wake up. There are more tears but there has been another link with |
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