These past two months have been occasionally rapturous, but mostly horrific. The rapture has come from doing some work and buying a flat, the horrific is everything else.
Practically: we are about to move again, but this time into a flat we will own. I want some roots, new ones, ones that can do us for a longer expanse of time. It's a lovely flat and I know we will settle there. We have moved five times in the last five years, twice across hemispheres; this is a real opportunity to sit still for a while.
Over the last two months I have been grappling with all sorts of large scale philosophical questions. Perhaps this is grief, I don't know, it's hard to tell. When I write them down they appear fickle, juvenile. But nonetheless: what are we for, other than to reproduce and maintain the evolution of the human race? What makes us different from each other? What the hell, in summary, is the fucking point?
The conclusions I have come to are as follows: nothing, nothing, and really, I have no fucking idea. But then, in my deepest, darkest moments of sadness dwelling on all of this I stumbled upon a word I hadn't thought of to that point. Value. And herein, in this one moment of minor revelation I believe there lies a key to unlocking a bit of the darkness. Value; and worth.
When my husband was alive, I had value. He gave me meaning, definition, and prominence. We moved away from a place which made me feel worthwhile on a daily basis. I left a job that gave me value in ways I never anticipated. At the moment, the grief and the loss I am feeling extend beyond just that for the man himself, my husband, my best friend and the father of my children. It's the loss of me, the person that he loved and respected. That other half, the part he gave meaning to. The life that gave me meaning on a daily basis. This new way, this new world of me and the girls, it is a hard, lonely place. It is not enough for me to be solely defined by my children: I'm not afraid to admit that. It doesn't mean I love them any less.
Where is your value? Where do you get it from and to whom do you give it in return? For me this is the one thing that distinguishes us from each other. To be a part of something bigger than just us. If I'm just me, what makes me different? What is the point? They're dangerous questions to fall into. But I think if you have something you can give, that in turn can give back to you, I think that makes it a little easier to let them go.
Of course I recognise the value I still have beyond my daily life, I'm not so blinkered I can't see that. It's just right now, at this moment I am too consumed with my grief to move forward. I know I have some definition and I love giving value to others I care about. And my kids, poor things, have no choice but to be defined by me, which makes me smile, particularly when they are dancing around the room in sequins. But losing the man who believed in me as much as I believed in him, losing the meaning and purpose that went with it all; it makes the physical loss even harder to bear, whether I'm wearing sequins or not.
Thanks for reading.
X
Helen, in November last year I was driving into London when Mark Pougatch told me, via the radio, that Keith had died.
ReplyDeleteI went to Cape Town with Keith in February 2003, as part of Radio Five‘s comic relief contribution, and spent two weeks with him there. He told me I was beautiful, I thanked him, but told him I was uncomfortable with a boy telling another boy that, and why didn‘t he just say I was gorgeous. I told him his feet were ugly. I told him if they were a face they would be Karl Malden’s face. He got me to pursue ex footballer Ian Wright through a Cape Town shopping arcade to ask him a leading question about a former relationship, and I got him to use a straw to pass beer from his glass, into another person’s mouth, and then back to him via the straw. He told me his Alex Furguson story, and how Michael Parkinson considered him a friend. We sat together on the flight back debating such things as, if you jumped up in the aisle would the aircraft travel further forward than you, meaning you to land a little bit closer to the back of the plane. Clearly we had developed a particularly cerebral, analytical, and rounded friendship during that fortnight. We met up again a few weeks after our return in a bar on Shepard’s Bush green following a Radio Five broadcast and promised to meet up again for a beer, or a cup of tea, or something, and we didn’t. However, I’ve got a great collection of vivid memories, disproportionate to the small amount of time I actually spent with Keith, and I’ll not be alone in that.
Helen, if you are ever in Cambridge, we should meet, for a beer, or a cup of tea, or something.
Steve.
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