Dad - some thoughts written over the second month without you
Parenting while grieving is hard. Parenting grieving children is hard. Grieving children don’t always realise they’re grieving. And they don’t always grieve in ways that make you feel sorry for them.
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My body hurts.
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Everyone talks at me all of the time. I don’t want to talk about it. Talking won’t bring you back. And it doesn’t make me feel better. And taking everyone else’s grief onto my shoulders is so heavy.
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When I think of the utter bastards running this world, and how they all live to grand old ages. It’s insane. You are such a good person. You have made such a beautiful difference in this world. So many people love you. So many people’s lives touched by you, changed for the better because of you. Make it make sense. Make it make sense.
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Just had a moment in the car park that was the last place I saw you. 3 weeks before you died. We didn’t have a proper goodbye that day because you were in a hurry to get J & L home. When I got in the car today though, I saw this van parked near us and it made me laugh. “‘Tis but a scratch! I’ve had worse…” Just the sort of thing you’d say!
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Remember when we went to the Tower of London together? Just you and me. I got the train in from Winchester and we met, and you bought our tickets with your Clubcard vouchers. It was such a lovely day.
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We buried you today. The church was packed. So many people came to show how they loved you. It was beautiful and sad and lovely and exhausting. Tom came all the way from Antarctica! Mum was amazing. The children were fantastic. They miss you so much, but they love each other so much too. Your grandchildren. I know you’re still so proud of them all. You would have loved it Dad. I kept thinking you were going to jump out and laugh that you’d finally managed to get everyone together and that it had all been a big prank. Oh Dad. I hope you’re enjoying the singing and the heavenly buffet - save us a bit! Adieu. “The rest is silence.”
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Orrery. That’s what set me off today. It was in my Poirot Switch game. He’s investigating a missing painting in a museum. I’m supposed to help solve it. There’s an orrery in the museum. It reminded me of the time we went to Jodrell Bank and the kids kept asking you to say “orrery” just to hear you pronounce it “owwewy.” And you laughed along with them. I always wondered why you’d agreed to call me Laura when you couldn’t pronounce your Rs, but maybe that’s why you nicknamed me Honeybee instead. You were so easy to joke with, never offended. Most people can’t take a joke, a gentle ribbing, and not like you did. Most people require me to think more carefully about what I say. You are just so easy to be around.
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Jan died this evening. Chris was with her. But you know. You’ll already have greeted her and taken her to the heavenly buffet. It seems we’ve entered an age of relentless grief. Another funeral to plan. Chris so desperately wanted to talk to you today. I’m just trying to look after everybody. I’d give anything to have you sitting on my settee, just around to keep me company.
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Sundays are the hardest. Not seeing you at church. Bea and Mum read at mass this morning. You’d have told Bea to slow down, and been so proud too.
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Hayley died last night. Look after her. Pray for her family. And for us. Miranda is utterly broken. So am I. We all are. How can we bear this?
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I’m awake at 4 in the morning again. Bertie is back in our bed. He’s struggling. I find myself just bursting into tears at the moment. And then at other times I’m almost numb, and like I’m moving through treacle. The longer this goes on the harder it is. I miss you.
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I got very angry today that Chris still has a Dad and I don’t. Jealous. Not that I’d want it to be the other way around. I just wish you were still here. It’s so surreal to remember you’re gone.
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There are three types of people I’ve come across since you died:
- those who understand and show their love, checking in regularly, offering support, meals, hugs, etc. These are few and far between.
- those who express their sympathy, but turn it into an opportunity to share their grief or trauma dump. Thankfully, these aren’t plentiful.
- those who never mention it after the initial condolences, as if it never happened.
The third group are the hardest to deal with. Acting as if everything is normal and I haven’t had my world turned upside down. Shoving their joys in my face and expecting me to be happy, but completely unable to acknowledge my grief.
I’m so grateful you taught us to grieve and to care.
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Started watching Small Prophets this evening. I know you would love it. I wish I could talk with you about it. I miss discussing tv shows with you.
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I have no regrets when I think about you. I know you love me and you know I love you. I just have sadness. I wish I’d been able to say goodbye. Just one more hug, one more I love you. Just one more minute with you. It feels so long since I saw you, and the future without you feels like an eternity.
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I said goodbye to Hayley. I held her hand, and kissed her forehead, and gave her a hug, and told her I loved her. And it doesn’t hurt any less. Why do I think that just one more would be enough for you? A million more couldn’t be enough. I will miss you - and Hayley - for always.
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Chris and I watched As Good As It Gets last night. I understand what you found so funny now. Some real guffaw moments. And it’s a lovely film too. Life is hard so all we can do is care for one another. I think that’s something I learned from you too.
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It’s interesting how the care dries up as time progresses. Once all the sympathy cards have been delivered. As if the further we move from your death the easier it gets and people don’t need to worry about us anymore. There are the stalwart few who check in every few days, but the majority have moved on. But, as Vin sang “Time heals wounds they say, Time takes the pain away, I wonder why it never happened for me.” If anything, it’s getting harder, and yet I feel like I’m expected to be back to normal.
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What if this is as good as it gets?
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I realise that I have always told stories about you. So when I slip you into conversation now it feels completely normal. But I wonder if people think I’m telling stories of you to remember you or to remind them that you existed. Does it make them feel uncomfortable because you are dead, even though it is the most natural thing for me? You are interesting and fun. Your stories are good stories. But there won’t be anymore now. I only have the stories I’ve already told. I won’t grow tired of them, but I wish there more.
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Mum found a photo of me in your drawer. When I was a little girl. A picture you took of me walking on the beach. I don’t remember that day, but you must have. These little reminders that I was important to you are so precious.
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G & G have been here, decorating the boys’ new bedroom. The boys are so excited. They were desperate to show Mum today because they knew she was coming round, but that made me think about how they would have shown you and you’d have been excited with them. How you would have sat on their sofa bed and been silly and read books with them. You were made to be a Granddad. But there won’t be any more old Beano Annuals to stock their bookshelf, or weird knick-knacks from boxes of stuff you found at the auction to put on their windowsill. Every day there’s something that makes this harder. Anna asked me if this will ever get better, and I don’t think it will. Perhaps we will learn how to walk beside grief, but we won’t be able to walk away from it.
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I think Bertie is anxious. He is constantly telling everyone he loves them. I think he is scared that we’ll die and he won’t have told us. Because he didn’t get a chance to say it to you one last time. What do I do? You’re the one I would have talked to about that.
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It’s been 2 months. It feels like a lifetime. I still feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Can I pretend you’re just in the next room?
