Nobody knows that I still
tread the same walking route that we did during his last year. Nobody knows
that I stop and sit by the stream that he loved playing in, have a sip of juice
and picture him splashing in the water. Nobody knows that I feel the tall reeds
in my fingers, in a scene reminiscent of Gladiator, through the long meadow
grass that he would bounce happily along in.
Then I look over to the wall that he trundled down from on the night that the
first death of the year happened and feel so disconsolate. Just for a second.
Every time I reach that spot. And nobody knows how I let it consume me, just
for a second.
Then I continue with each step, as I do with every burden. I'll sometimes walk
for miles through the hills, watching out for swifts or cuckoos or hares or
deer. I'll stop every now and then to let it overwhelm me. Then I'll circle
back home where I'll carry on as I always do, successfully compartmentalising
the grief for another week.
I'm used to feeling a form of sadness - it has come with the illness for years
- but grief is a void that I'd never truly understood. It had always been shown
to me to be a brief encounter that dissipated quickly, turning into a fondness
for memories shared rather than true despair.
I was wrong. Of course I was. Many reading this will be shaking their head
incredulously at my naivety. There is nothing brief about grief.
Yet years of dealing with depression has allowed me to learn coping mechanisms
over time. Subsisting with one is reminiscent of coping with the other.
The concern from others, as we approach the 8 year anniversary of my attempt to
leave this plane, is that grief will trigger something within that will take me
back there; that I'll become lost in the pain.
It did come close. One night over the Christmas period I felt completely lost
and undeserving. I left a social night out without announcement to sit in a bar
on my own. All I could think about was throwing myself in front of the next
train. It was a very real desire to die that I hadn't felt for a long time. I
wanted to end.
But I sent the message instead asking for help. "I'm not safe and need
coming for immediately." And it was responded to in required fashion.
I was lost. In bits. Far from myself. Unsafe. But I was collected and taken
home to try and work beyond it.
Now I try to deal with that feeling sensibly and tactically. It is overwhelming
at times but so is much of life. I hold that grief to me and retell the stories
that led to the affection. Grief is a sign of love. It is missing the moments
shared and the special bonds within life. Grief is what ties us to this world
so that we can share their tales and ensure that they are never forgotten. That
alone is worth staying around for.
Nobody knows how I feel when I let myself be overwhelmed by it all. They do
now. Parts of life become renewed but nothing will ever fix the hole in my
entire being. I can only learn to avoid it, like a wonky step on a staircase
that can never be fixed. It is always there but managed. Occasionally it trips
you up when you least expect it. Grief is another part of me now and it will
live with me forever - but only because they do too.
Always tell their story. Always recall every memory. And always ask to go home
and stay with us all. You matter more than you realise. Otherwise grief
wouldn't exist. Grief is not brief but it can be managed in time.
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