Sunday 23 November 2014

Drunk

I am a bit confused as to the new purpose of this blog. Prior to Keith's death it was about his illness and its effect on us, what am I to write about now? I don't want to write about our grief. Why would I do that? It seems pointless to me to go into detail about how awful things are. Not least because I am regularly told grief is a 'process' that I must 'go through'; great, none of this is special or different, I am merely ticking boxes of symptoms like everybody else. Google those then; that's how we are.

No part of me feels like an individual. No part of me feels special. I feel like one of millions exhibiting the same predictable behaviour as everyone else. Everybody has their own shit, and it doesn't make us individuals. There is no comfort in this. I don't want to know about other peoples experiences of losing people, it doesn't help one iota. In my world and my universe nothing can help, not any knowledge from anywhere, no experience of knowing 'it will pass'. No it won't, my husband died, nothing can help.

I'm special to my kids, I'm special to my mum but mostly I was special to my husband. Now he's gone, there is really nothing special left. I look at other families of strangers in the street, families of four and think, no, this is not fair. I imagine they look at me and they can tell and they breathe a sigh of relief to think it happened to someone else and not to them, and then the dads reach for their daughters' hands to cross the road, and I think this is not fair. I look other men and I think, my husband was a better father than you, he was a better man than you will ever be; this is not fair.

All this anger, all this pain it's 'normal', it 'will pass' and change into something 'different'. I don't care. I don't want to be normal if this is how it feels. 

I am not looking forward to the build up to Christmas. People rush around me buying presents for loved ones. The intimacy of being given presents by one's partner is on the long list of things ripped away from me. The superficiality of making it all about the kids feels plastic like the very presents they will receive. I imagine I will do much the same as I did last night: drink too much wine and send attention seeking messages from the phone that is permanently glued to my hand, my desperate connection to the outside world. They should add that to the list of grief symptoms: gets drunk and posts stupid pictures on Facebook. Then people will just think, oh it's ok, she's a grieving widow...nothing to see here. It's normal.

x

Thursday 13 November 2014

Three weeks on

It is only three weeks since Keith died. It feels like an eternity. People tell me time helps, time heals, but I can't believe that. The more time passes by the further away my husband becomes: I don't want him further away. Time can't heal, it can help deal with the sadness, help build the armour to get from day to day, time can mend, but it can't heal.

Darcey in her six year old mind said to me yesterday "It is going to be a really hard life for us." She means, the pain of missing Daddy is going to be always with us. She sees it.

His ashes came home this week and that did feel wonderful. The girls have their silver keepsake hearts with a sprinkling of ashes sealed inside. You shake it, you hear him. They hold them, kiss them, take them to bed. They talk to them, show them things. They took them to school to show their teachers. It's good, it helps, but it brought with it another layer of rawness, another layer of realisation of never as a reality; the never coming back.

"I want Daddy." 

"I wish he would come back."

I laughed when I carried the tube of ashes back into the house. It is so heavy! I never expected it to be so heavy. It has such weight, such presence, I was laughing to myself, it is so funny. So Keith, to be still so present. It makes me smile.

We drift along with our routine keeping us on the rails. Too much to think about, too much that distracts.  But still many rules broken: more dancing til 9pm, more pizza in front of the TV, more newspapers, coffee and music. I crave space and solitude and sleep, then people and exercise and air. I don't sleep, not really. It is too quiet.

The mind wanders to dangerous places...what would I do to have him back for just a day, an hour? Could this possibly be just a terrible dream? Dangerous places, dark, hard places. There is no hope in those places.

The good things keep coming, the silver linings. Friendships are strengthened, enhanced: more confident, real and honest. Still the words about Keith keep coming, all of them powerful. He was a man of integrity, he had great energy, he brought such substance. Strong words.

We're alright though, really; we're a team, we're Bunkers, we always will be. The now is terrible, but some of it will pass. We carry on because we have to and because we can and because we want to. We will always stand for love and integrity and very good parties. 

But we miss him, very, very, very much.

with love
XXXX