Value

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

New Year's Invitation

There is a sense in me that I should write something today. This is the time of year, is it not, to review that which the last twelve months has delivered us.

I am glad in a way of the timing of all this. I am glad I am able to close some parts of this story today, tonight, tomorrow. I intend to leave the remnants of his illness, the dying, behind me, and actually the more time that passes the easier it is to let those parts fade. I'll never forget it, I'll remember the pain, but I can see more clearly the man who was my husband before the cancer. I am grateful for this - I don't need to remember him dying. However it has meant the pain of his loss has intensified. I miss him, in every way, all the time. I miss him holding my hand, kissing my head, laughing, smiling, talking on the phone, sleeping, reading to his children. I miss talking about the news, the sport, our ideas, what to have for dinner, whether we need to buy more toilet rolls. I can't talk to him about our children, our precious children, about the pain they are suffering, the problems they are having, the things they are saying, feeling, thinking. It is a physical pain I feel and it is in every bone, muscle, sinew, nerve and vein. 

I write this from Sydney and it is clear to me now how much more I have lost than just my husband. Part of me, it is safe to say, died this year. Such melodrama! I don't care. It feels very real. There is a heaviness to me now that was never present, not even during his illness. A spark, a flame that has been extinguished. However: the space where the flame was has been filled with something else, something promising and different and surprising. There is a confidence and a maturity and a purpose. It is all about the health and happiness of me and my babies, the future, the promise of further adventure. Let me quote something he wrote in the wonderful book he left for his children:

One of the most remarkable things I've found is that since becoming ill, yes I have plummeted the depths and still do regularly and am finding the whole experience incredibly distressing, but I've also had some of the happiest times of my life, which sounds perverse. I've always thought that your ability to feel is like a symmetrical waveform and that to be able to feel intense highs you have to open yourself up emotionally, to make yourself capable of feeling those intense highs; but by opening yourself up emotionally to feel the highs you are also open to feeling terrible lows. Being sick has opened me up again to be able to feel, as well as the lowest possible points, also the highest possible points.

This is how the Bunker girls will approach 2015: turning the curves of our lows into highs, then we will hold hands as we hit the lows again. It promises to be as tough as it will be spectacular: but as Keith himself articulated so beautifully, you can't have one without the other.

So I suppose this is my invitation, from us to you, to be part of it. I would love to think that 2015 will be as much about harnessing your energy as much as it will ours. It won't be easy, it will be hard, but if it involves us Bunkers I can guarantee it will at least be interesting. Thanks so much for all your love, support, friendship and help this year. Who's in for the next?

How they are

Last night I dreamt I had cancer and merely weeks to live. The single feeling inside me was fear for my daughters, for their future, their wellbeing and their happiness, nothing else.

I am regularly asked how the girls are, how they are coping, feeling. They are suffering terribly. Both of them have separation anxiety, a need to know where I am all the time. They are sleeping badly, having bad dreams, dreams about me, about Daddy.

My five year old has regular bursts of real upset; she has surgically attached herself to the silver heart that contains Keith's ashes. She says, it's not fair that everyone at school has a dad and we don't. She says, I don't believe you, I think he is going to come back. She cries properly, real tears of sadness, and all she says is I want Daddy. I want him to come and give me a kiss before I go to sleep.

My six and a half year old is angry, very angry. At school and with others she is contained, controlled, comfortable. At home she takes it out on me. She is abusive, verbally and physically, hitting, screaming. I get her to hit pillows, rip up newspaper, shout. We read books about death and she soaks them up. I tell her it's alright, it won't last forever. She writes her feelings down and keeps the book under her pillow. She made worry dolls from plasticine and talks to them at night. Then she tells me, she says, I am worried about four things. I am worried I will get sick and die, that Daddy will never come back, that great-grandma will die, that we will never go home. She means Sydney, she is desperate to go 'home', to the place where we were last where everything was OK. 

I have to be careful to not attribute difficult behaviour solely to the loss of their father: they are for the most part normal five and six year old siblings, delightful and infuriating in equal measure. However I am furious that part of the innocence has already been chipped away. Isn't that the greatest sadness in the world? When children have hope and love and safety ripped from them. Mine are a bit broken at the moment, but with time they will be stitched back together, and as Bunkers, they will be stronger as a result.

People ask how to be with them; be normal. Treat them like kids. Try not to overcompensate with things like sugar and presents (don't tell them I said that) and don't worry, they'll be ok, in time, I'm sure. 

Import

Last week I uploaded all the photos from my iPhone for the first time since I acquired it in August. As I sat and watched the contents flick through on my screen it occurred to me how accurately the photos illustrate much of the last four months. So I've stuck them together and here you have it, a snapshot of the Bunkers from 2nd August 2014 to 26th November; the time we returned to the UK up to my birthday last Wednesday. Keith died on 23rd October. Big love X

https://vimeo.com/113439416

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

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

The final ABC interview

Keith died on Thursday 23rd October. Here is a radio interview I had with James O'Loghlin at ABC702 Sydney which ties up the series of conversations with Keith.

Big love xxxxx

https://soundcloud.com/bunkertron/abc702-sydney-26102014