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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
Why aren’t you here when I need you?
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
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!
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
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.
~
I miss you so much.
~
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.
~
There are poppies growing on your grave, and one cornflower.
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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