It Has Been Eight Months

Dad - some thoughts written over the eighth month without you

It was David’s funeral today. The cathedral was packed. More than at yours, I think! Another family gathering. Two in less than six months, and both so unbelievably sad. And you weren’t there. It’s so hard doing all this without you. I always struggled at family dos. Didn’t feel like I fitted in. Living down south was part of it. I guess the other bit is my autism, so that makes more sense now. But we’re having to be brave where we didn’t have to be before. I used to just follow you, listen to your conversations, chat with whoever you were chatting with. Now I have to make the approaches and have the conversations by myself. It’s hard and it’s scary but I’m being brave. You’re pushing me to be brave. I’m trying to be. Anyway, it was a good send off. And I hope you both are having a laugh together up there. And I hope David saw how loved he is.

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We went to check out a detectorists exhibition today, in Chester Cathedral. All these amazing finds on display. You’d have loved it, and chatted to them about the saddlebag you found. I remember metal detecting with you. All I ever found was some chicken wire! You had more luck. 

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Why don’t I dream about you?

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Everyone is irritable and irritating one another. Mum and Anna are feeling it too. Why are our bodies reacting this way? What are we expecting? Some sort of seven month itch?

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I’m finding it really hard to write. I don’t want to just say the same things over and over again. How many times can I write that I miss you?

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I look for bees. When I see bees I think you are near. It’s better when they’re where I wouldn’t expect them to be. 

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How is it decided, I wonder, who stays and who goes? Why does a frail old man survive pneumonia after a 3 week stay in hospital, while a strong, usually healthy, not so old man gets sent home to a virtual ward and dies in his lounge? Why are we supposed to be ok with this? The redemption that comes from suffering? It’s nonsense, surely. Where’s the plan? How can I ask this without it seeming that I wished someone else had died instead?

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I have no grandfathers left. I have no father left. Never had an older brother. Even Chris is younger than me. Are we a matriarchy now?

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I’m really struggling with my birthday coming up. My first without you. I’ve not really looked forward to my birthdays for a while now. That clash between expectations and reality. Last year was the best birthday I’d had in a long time. We went to Sheffield, remember? To see Threads through the Cross at the Cathedral. Mum was officially retired, so it felt hopeful. The exhibition was amazing. We had the Two Mates Solution at Baity, which made us all happy, then found that ice cream parlour where you finished your own ice cream, and mine, then had a nap. We had such a brilliant day. I’m very thankful that the last birthday I spent with you was a good one. That’s a good memory. I saved my birthday card and you wrote “Dad” on it. But now I have birthdays ahead of me and you won’t be there. You, who witnessed my arrival. 

Dancing at a wedding and remembering all the times I danced with you at weddings and parties. You love to dance. Remember once, we were leaving a wedding, in the car, and Hips Don’t Lie came on. You jumped out of the car and raced back to the dance floor. I wish I could dance with you again. 

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You shouldn’t have died. The hospital report says they mistook you for another patient. How?! How could anyone mistake you for anyone else? There is nobody like you. No one. 

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I am so fucking angry. 

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With the state of this planet, Dad, I think you were lucky to go when you did. “Leaving early to avoid the rush.”

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I’m trying to get excited about our holiday, but it’s hard to be excited when I know you won’t be there. I don’t think anyone else is excited either. Maybe this is just one of those things, one of those ‘firsts’ that we have to get through. And perhaps next year it will be easier? Less hard? More manageable?

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My God! I miss your face.

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Another month has passed. I still miss you. It’s not getting easier. It’s getting worse. I’m crying more. Does grief reach a pinnacle? Does it plateau? Do we get to a point where it’s the hardest it can be and then it gets easier? I’m so exhausted. The body really does remember before our brains do. Every month, as it comes round to the 21st, I find my body reacting before I realise the date. The further we get from your departure date, the more I miss you, but the less other people remember that we’re still sad. 

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It Has Been Seven Months

Dad - some thoughts written over the seventh month without you

I wish I was “up on the roof” with you. There’s so much turmoil here. 

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I’m beginning to recognise the cycles of my grief now. A few days, maybe a week or so, of quiet sadness, numbness, like trudging through tar, memories, but no tears. Then something will occur to me. And an involuntary sob will escape. And then the days of crying hit. Every thought, every memory, every reminder of what we will miss with you, sets me off again. And then it slows again. Calm for a bit, before a wave of re-realisation. I feel it physically move through my body, and then it’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Nausea. Not crying for this part. Just pain and fatigue. And back to the quiet. Recognising the cycle doesn’t make it easier, but it reminds me that each way of feeling and being is normal. 

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Why do we bother to pray? Every time I pray for healing, the people I care about die. My prayers haven’t saved a single person. 

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“IT’S NOT THE DARKNESS I MIND. IT’S THE HOPE.”

— Death, Hogfather - Terry Pratchett

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I thought about you a lot today. Wept into the cupcakes I was baking for J and Bertie’s joint party. Railed at God while I washed my hair. Not just for you, but for Hayley, and Rick, and Susan, Bex, and Uncle Brian, and now David is so poorly. You are praying up there, aren’t you? You need to. Gather everyone and pray for his healing. If there’s one thing this world doesn’t need more of, it’s fatherless children. 

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When I got into the car to go to Mass, Radio 2 was on and playing a song I’ve never heard before. Father and Daughter by Paul Simon. What a beautiful song. It felt like you were singing to me. “There could never be a father who loved his daughter more than I love you.” I miss you. 

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I stood and watched the grasses in the garden this evening. At least six different types, just gently dancing in the breeze. A butterfly fluttering around and settling on the grass. Either a meadow brown or a small copper - it was a little too far away to see properly. It was so calm, so peaceful. And looking round the garden I saw the honeysuckle you gave me, the holly that managed to grow from a branch you brought home from a walk with the children, and the Norfolk quaking grasses you and Mum brought back from Grandad’s garden. Reminders of you everywhere. 

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David died. I’m sure you’re already having a great old time up there with him. Us? We’re heartbroken. 

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If you were here what would say about all this? I know you believed with such deep certainty in Heaven and the power of prayer and in being Jesus to those you met. But what would you have told me about all this sadness? Grief is for us, I know. But how are we supposed to keep going in this world of pain and violence and tears? It’s just endless. I wish you were here, even just to feel your peaceful confidence. 

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I feel too sad to write. I can’t share the things I want to say. 

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When you died, I couldn’t write. Only short sentences. Tiny scraps of memories. I was getting better at it again, able to write for longer. But I feel like I’m back at that point again. Compound grief is shit. 

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I am the chair for others’ grief again. Exhausting. 

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Bea and I are at the hair salon for her big haircut. Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie has just come on. It’s good of you to be here with us. I bet you’re so proud of her. Nearly 24” of hair to donate and she’s raised nearly £800. 

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We sat in your yarden, well, just Mum’s now, I suppose. She’s calling it your Memorial Garden, for Humanity & Not Hostility. She’s done a lot of work in it. It’s lovely. But everything beautiful is touched by sadness. It makes me think we should be doing something big, in your name, but thats not how you did things. If everyone could just do small kind things with big love and a bit of silliness how much more wonderful this world could be.

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Seven months without you. It’s constantly getting harder. So few people checking in now. The stalwart few will be forever etched in my heart. The sheer love I feel from them. Grief is so lonely, particularly when you’re not very good at talking about things. I feel most at peace when I’m watching the bees and butterflies in our garden. We even had a dragonfly the other day. It makes me feel you’re here. 

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It Has Been Six Months

Dad - some thoughts written over the sixth month without you

We had our first cheesecake party without you. Mum put in a sterling effort and brought along your famous savoury cheesecake. We had more guests than ever before. The table was heaving. You were missed. We had the Middlesbrough match playing on the telly, because, as Sophie said, you would have been watching it anyway. It was a typical Boro match, but you know that. I’m fairly certain you had a hand in them getting to the playoff final anyway! Saint Anthony of Middlesbrough, pray for me.

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Good grief - it’s been so hot! We went to a wedding in 30° heat. The sweat! And all I kept thinking was how we’d walked around the Eden Project last year, in our coolest clothing, while you were wearing vest, shirt, jumper and jacket, and didn’t break a sweat. 

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I haven’t cried for a few days. We’ve been so busy. I think I’m disassociating. I’m prepared this time; it’s happened every month since you left. The tears will come back with a vengeance. 

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All the business emails are coming through with their questions about whether we want to receive their Father’s Day marketing emails or not. As if avoiding being advertised at will help me not get sad about Father’s Day. I’m already aware of it looming up ahead, on the 6 month anniversary of your death, the solstice, the longest day of the year. What is it like to celebrate Father’s Day without a father? I never thought to ask you. 

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My ear is blocked and I can’t hear out of it. I was sat waiting for everyone at the Treacle Market. Yes, another one without you. In the market place a jazz band were playing. Because I can’t hear properly the music sounded like I was in a bubble and it was outside. And if that doesn’t describe grief, I’m not sure how else to describe it. Everything is still going on outside, but I’m trapped in this bubble of sadness and confusion, and I can’t join in. It’s exhausting. And so lonely. Even when we’re sad together, none of us are feeling the same things. 

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Why aren’t you here when I need you?

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Our culture around grief is so strange. My Dad died and basically the first thing I did was cook tea for the kids. And I haven’t stopped since. No one is coming to take my responsibilities away so I can curl up in a ball and cry. Five and a half months of cooking, washing, cleaning, teaching, tidying, parenting, because who else will do it if I stop to grieve. I have to chop vegetables through tears and hang up laundry full of rage. Put my little “ok” mask on while I get on with fulfilling expectations. 

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The kids are being horrible to each other at the moment. I’m really struggling with them. You used to come round when they were like this, keep me company, lift us all out of the hole for a bit. A reset. All you needed was a cup of coffee, a phone charger, and your slippers, and you entertained everyone, talked with me about telly or your recent filming work or something interesting one of us had read. I wasn’t hosting, or entertaining. Your visits required no stress or effort on my part. We were just comfortable and you were a comfort. I miss you so much.

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I found an avocado today that had the tiniest stone in it. South African, by the way, not Israeli, you’ll be pleased to know. Maybe they’ve finally cracked it! More avocado than pip. Sorry you weren’t here to see it. 

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It’s Vin Garbutt’s anniversary today. I’m listening to his music and remembering you playing it to us. I’m so glad I got to go and see him with you in Bedford when we did. I’ve realised so much of my politics and morals and social ethics come from those songs. Thank you. I hope you two are having fun up there. I can’t imagine you won’t be!

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You were in my dream last night. It just felt normal. You were just there, not a main part of it or anything. We were all eating dinner, I think, discussing how long a pie needed cooking for. It wasn’t exciting. Just ordinary. And we were talking about what to do on our holiday. But we all knew you weren’t coming. You were given the job of deciding what we could do. You were always so excited about our holidays. Last year you were down that way beforehand - I don’t remember why - and you scouted out interesting places and checked out our cottage. It’s going to be so strange this year. 

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Chris is away and I’m lonely and sad. You always came to visit when he was away. I can’t sleep, so I just read through our WhatsApp messages. Nothing deep. Just comfortable again. A bit silly. Boring stuff. TV recommendations. Updates on your Kenyans. Requests for the kids’ wish lists. Funny photos. I miss knowing you’re just on the other end of the phone. 

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I was feeling a bit lost and useless really, then one of your messages to me reminded me of who I am and how proud you are of me. Thank you. 

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I cannot get through an episode of Who Do You Think You Are without crying. All those moments where I wanted to talk to you about what they found out. Questions I want to ask you about our own history. You were always excited to talk about that show. 

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Bertie made his First Holy Communion today. He was so excited and proud. The only one of my children’s Communions you haven’t been at. It was beautiful. It’s the feast of St Anthony though, which feels important to me. A sacrament on your saint’s feast day. And Chris wore one of your jackets. Anna brought her lock of your hair too. You were there in all sorts of ways, not least when we took communion and joined with the Communion of saints. I know you were praying for Bertie and all of us. I found a photo of you on, what I assume was your First Holy Communion. I think Bertie looks a lot like you.

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It’s the run up to Father’s Day, which I thought would be a hard few days, but I’ve been in the numbness again. No tears, just a feeling of malaise and distance. It’s so tiring being sad all the time. 

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I miss you so much. 

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Father’s Day. Solstice. The longest day. Exactly six months since you left us. I don’t really know what to write. We had a good day, but I was so constantly aware that you weren’t there. Can’t avoid Father’s Day when I have the father of my own children here. They’ve made such lovely cards and given him great gifts. 

I’ve made you a Father’s Day card. Is that strange? If grief is love with nowhere to go, then I have to channel it somewhere, don’t I. What would I have bought for you if you were still here? Another Bob Mortimer book probably. Or a theatre voucher. I stopped buying you wine - didn’t want to encourage all that! But I brought you some today. Poured a glass on your grave for you. And a white rabbit too, like Harvey.

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There are poppies growing on your grave, and one cornflower. 

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I think that writing about my grief is helping me, and I hope that sharing it here might help someone else one day. But if nothing else, it is keeping you here. Like Terry Pratchett wrote in Reaper Man: 

“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”

And in Going Postal: 

“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”

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