Another Wave

Last Saturday I finally got round to inviting several friends round who I’d been wanting to get together all year. So it was arranged that everyone would bring something to eat as well as wine so all I had to do was make two cottage pies and move the tables and chairs around before they arrived.

Darling Pip would always get in a fluster before we had people for a meal. I would be banned from the kitchen - “get out Pop. Go and lay the table,” while he created dish after dish of wonderful food with the aid of a few glasses of wine. Or whatever he was currently drinking. Our visitors always had a great time, were very well fed and watered and reeled off into the night at some late stage.

This time it was much more laid back. I'd done everything by late morning so I could relax in the afternoon – just as well as I get exhausted spells and this was one of them.

I wore The Dress – which has been christened twice now, and much admired by everyone. It’s also very comfortable, warmer than I’d thought and one of those dresses you put on and feel really good in. The first christening was at a brilliant gig in Falmouth where a friend’s partner tipped Tribute down my left boob. But no matter. It gave me something to sip at while I waited at the bar.

Pip would have loved the dress, and would have approved of the evening (though not the fact that other people brought food). But we all had a lovely time, everyone helped me clear and wash up, so there was very little to do the next day. But oh, how I missed him. Sitting next to me round the table. Sharing the evening. And the post mortem, lying in bed the next morning having a cuddle.

Mollie and I sat on my steps the next morning in the sunshine with a cup of tea, looking out to sea. Where he is and is not. And I wondered about life. How you can so easily take people for granted, and suddenly they’re gone.

This time last year we were about to go on holiday. Shortly after that he became very ill, a month at home and then the last two months of his life in hospital. So I'm aware that the rest of this year is going to be tough. Full of memories I would rather not have. But as Pip once said, “life is about how you deal with setbacks, Pop, not successes.”

This is one setback that I hadn’t envisaged happening so soon. But I do believe that life throws things at you and you have to deal with them. Somehow. One of my ways is by writing down my journey.

So thank you for reading and thank you for your support. You make all the difference.

Six weeks on

This has nothing to do with today's post, but I felt like a bit of sea. This is Bedruthan Steps, taken on a walk last summer.

I have managed 6 weeks and 3 days so far and I think Pip would be – is – relieved. I have not starved, I have not drowned myself in wine nor a sea of self pity. I have continued to work (thank god for work), walk Molls, go to singing and meet friends.
I have started to collect my own wood.

My metabolism has changed. I am nearly always cold, and have chilblains on my little fingers. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I am eating hugely, as I'm constantly hungry. Don't ask me where all this food goes.

Some people ask me, nervously, if I'm all right. But often, if I'm not all right, I can't tell them, for at the first sign of my incipient tears, their eyes flicker like a startled horse and they start to cry themselves. So I end up consoling them.

Alternatively, there are those that rush to console me when I want to be left alone. These friends mean well, but sometimes I just need to deal with it by myself. Grief is difficult for all of us to manage.

I have discovered that sometimes, I really don't want to be with my nearest and dearest. Anyone over-emotional is a no-no. Whereas people I don't know well, or new friends, turn out to be just the right people to be with. It's an intuitive thing and one that the great writer Joan Didion has written about, to my relief. It's not just me! I thought, when I read her book, A Year Of Magical Thinking.

My friend Anne at the Farmers Market is a great source of comfort. Before Christmas, when Pip had just developed pneumonia, she said, “You'll be in my thoughts and prayers over Christmas.” Ignoring the growing queue at her veg stall, she declared, “I'm going to give you a Christmas hug,” and enveloped me in her cosy arms.

I met someone from singing at Anne's stall yesterday, and asked her if she was OK. She shook her head and tears sprang to her eyes. She told me what was the matter and we hugged each other, weeping over the polyanthus. We laughed, shakily, and compared notes on grief. We decided to go for a drink and cheer each other up. And we both went our ways with tears in our eyes and a smile on our faces.

Grief is a private matter, and not always meant for sharing. A close friend asked me how I felt, as she wanted to empathise. It varies from minute to minute, I said. Sometimes, when I think of the last three months, a great foot presses on my chest so I can't breathe. At others, I wonder if I've dreamt the last 14 years.

When I looked at Pip's watch the other day, my stomach plummeted, as if I was descending in a very fast lift. Walking Mollie the other day I felt as if my heart had slipped – and then I realised that this is exactly what it's done.

Yesterday, I saw light over the sea and my heart lifted. That's my Pip, I thought, out on the horizon, waving to me. Later I played football with Molls and I giggled like a child. On Friday we had a gig at the Poly in Falmouth and I stood on stage and sang my heart out, and I didn't miss Pip because he was right there with me, cheering us along.