It Has Been Nine Months

Dad - some thoughts written over the ninth month without you 

Chris is getting the kids into Pokémon Go, and we were reminiscing about how much you enjoyed it. How you had a little notebook where you kept a record of the Pokémon you had for trades. And it made me think about how you kept records. That, and your genealogy passion, and the lists of books we needed to complete series, and so on. How if you could travel back in time you’d ask registrars to use block capitals when they register births and marriages and deaths. And how deeply, sadly ironic it is that poor record keeping appears to be a massive factor in your unnecessary death. 

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I will never see your hands again. We have the same shaped nails, I think. Yours were so smooth. A beautiful shape. I remember how we laughed when I realised how big your thumb is! Next to mine it was enormous. When we came to see your body, you were covered up to your neck. I wanted to see your hands, but all we were allowed was your poor face with the endotracheal tube coming out of your mouth. You didn’t look like you. And I couldn’t see your hands. Those beautiful hands. 

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So, Dolly Parton died. That’s made me really sad. Can you say hi from me? Can someone explain why all the best people are leaving and the evil ones are still here?

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I don’t want to get out of bed today. 

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Aptly, it was pouring down with rain when I read the Coroner’s ruling on your cause of death. You didn’t have to die. “Gross failure to provide appropriate care.” At every opportunity to help you they failed. Ignored amber and red alerts. Ignored Mum’s concerns. If they had cared enough to do their jobs, you would be alive. “On balance the probability is that he would have survived.” I don’t think I will ever recover from this heartbreak. 

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The physical side effects of grief are insane. My body just isn’t working right. Nothing specific. Just so many niggles. I don’t feel good. 

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Holiday without you. Why aren’t you here? How is this our normal now? I miss you so much. 

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I’ve got a cold. That’s what my body was threatening the past week or so. The stress and the sadness of it all. 

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At the seaside. I pretend you are down by the sea with the others. That feels normal. Or exploring the rocks and caves at the end of the beach. For a few minutes you are on holiday with us. 

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We survived the holiday without you. It was always going to be hard, but your absence was so apparent. None of us can baby-whisper like you. So many times when you would have appreciated what we were doing. 

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Bertie’s struggling again. He said he gets sad because he’s realised one day we won’t be here anymore. Why should an eight year old have to worry about people he loves dying? And I know that’s reality for so many children, but it sucks. 

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Christmas planning has come around. Last year was our first Christmas without you, but we were all so in shock, and everything was already prepped. This year feels like it will be the real first Christmas and I have to start planning but I don’t really want to. It’s my favourite time of year and now it’s the worst. Tradition makes me feel safe, relaxed. But traditionally you have always been there. It turns out that surviving a first doesn’t mean the second is easier. It, in fact, makes it worse. Firsts are tricky, everything afterwards is doing that hard thing over and over again, knowing how hard it will be. 

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I don’t feel well. No idea why, and then I realise the date. Tomorrow is the 21st again. How do our bodies realise before our minds do?

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Here we are again. Another month since you died. All the inquest business has kept me in a sort of stasis, as though we’re all still stuck at the beginning of the grieving process. Still in the shock of it. Still in disbelief. Grief is the most exhausting state I have ever experienced. I miss you more each day. And I miss everything that has gone from my life because you have taken it with you. And I’m tired of platitudes, and people telling me to look after myself or take a break, and still having to fit my grief in between laundry and educating and cooking and parenting. I know it’s normal to grieve, but it makes the true normal so strange. 

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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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