The night you died, when the paramedics were working on you, I didn’t say a Hail Mary for you. I couldn’t bear to say “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,” because that felt like I was expecting you to die.
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The sign of peace made me cry today. I’ll never get to feel your hand in mine again, or see you laugh at the kids nodding their peace to us from the altar.
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I heard a tawny owl outside when I was going to bed. Remember making owl sounds? And taking us out to listen to the owls when we couldn’t sleep?
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The day you died I had bought a tube filled with tiny plastic ducks. I was going to hide them round your house. I knew you would appreciate the silliness of it. What do I do now?
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Another Sunday. We didn’t get to Mass because we were celebrating Geoff’s birthday, and yet I still felt the same sadness I feel every Sunday. I thought it was about missing you being next to me in church, but there’s something more bone deep than that. It was the Treacle Market today too, and we weren’t there. That’s the fourth one since I last saw you. I think Sundays will always be my hardest day.
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Sometimes I try to pretend you’re not dead. That you’re just busy, or I’m not seeing you because we’re off doing something without you. Like this weekend. You wouldn’t have been there anyway, so maybe I could enjoy it and imagine seeing you when we’re back. But there was a pain around me the whole time. I made sure to take a good photo of Chris with his Dad. I’m sad that I don’t have more photos of me with you. Plenty of you, plenty of you with the kids, but I was the one taking the photos. Goodbyes are so much harder now too. Every parting is coloured by the thought that this might be the last time and the need to make it count. How am I supposed to live like this?
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I hope my grief for you never makes Chris feel inadequate. I’m so grateful for him. And so proud of him. Everything he’s done, since he held your hand when you died and held the phone to your ear so I could tell you I love you, every grief he’s experienced along with me. I am so blessed to have had a very good Dad and to have a very good husband. He loved you very much too.
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I went to the church website to see if I could find a recording of the last time we were at Mass together. I wanted to see if I could hear you singing louder than everyone else. I hoped to see you walking up to communion. Just the back of your head. But those recordings are gone. You don’t exist there anymore. Always looking for you. Never finding you.
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I understand Easter Saturday now. That silence. The waiting. You’ve gone home, and we have to wait a bit longer. I wouldn’t bring you back. That wouldn’t be fair.
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How lucky am I that I had 42 years of you? Sometimes I wonder if I really have the right to be so sad when other people have lost their people after much less time. I have 42 years of love and laughter and memories. But it’s so hard to know I won’t make any more with you.
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We planted flowers on your grave today, for Easter. Tiny narcissi, and tulip bulbs. Anna reminded us you don’t like tulips. And then it started to hail! Guess you really don’t like them!!
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We buried Jan today. So different from your funeral, but we celebrated her life and shared our love. 3 funerals this year, all different, and yet all 3 for people who shouldn’t have gone home so soon. What now? Time to focus on grief?
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I just thought about church tomorrow morning, and had an image of standing outside chatting with my Dad after Mass, watching you with the kids, and then I remembered you won’t be there. Like a punch to the gut.
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The utter cruelty of being left behind.
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Chris was just remembering that you liked instant coffee. What a funny thing to remember. I wonder why? Was it just the lack of faff? Or did you really prefer the taste?
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I feel like I’m carrying something really heavy inside of me.
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The world itself is such a beautiful place. The earth keeps turning. The sun rises and sets. New life is springing up everywhere. Buds, bees, baby lambs. Flowers bloom, trees communicate, elephants and crows remember. But I am stuck, not enjoying any of it. I need to not feel trapped in sadness all of the time. But that idea also scares me. If I don’t feel sad all the time was I ever really sad about losing my Dad? How can that sadness end if it’s real?
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I’ve stopped wearing lipstick. Is that weird? Am I not sad if I wear lipstick?
I have only dressed up nicely four times since my Dad died. Christmas Eve, because I was reading at Mass and I didn’t know how to step out of the plan I had already made. And then for the three funerals. It’s been leggings and jumpers every single other day. Comfort, warmth, simplicity.
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I wonder why mourning clothes went out of fashion. Wouldn’t it be helpful to look at someone and know that they are likely to be sad? To be able to be aware of others’ grief without them having to tell you?
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I stopped doing my daily thankful posts when you died. I haven’t felt thankful, and everything has been so mixed up with grief. But here are some things that have given me a little joy over the past few days:
- Watching The Grand Budapest Hotel.
- The roast pork and stuffing sandwich I had for tea tonight that I had been looking forward to all day.
- A video of the baby blowing raspberries that Anna sent me. That little fellow has been a godsend to us.
- Making Sunday lunch with Chris.
- Seeing Bertie show off an amazing move he’s learning at street dance.
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Another month gone. It’s getting harder. Everything is different now. Every activity, every place, every relationship. All coloured by the hand of grief. I’m so tired of it. I miss you.
