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  1. Last month I forgot my mother’s birthday. I was writing on my computer, glanced down at the bottom right corner of the screen, and saw the date. It was my mother’s birthday, or it would have been. My mother died twenty-three years ago. At first, after her death, I used the date of her birthday as a time to remember her. Using the date of her death for this was too much, too morbid and too negative. Her birthday was in January, in the cold winter after Christmas, and was always celebrated quietly. When she was alive, I would arrange to post a card and present to her, in time for it. After her death, I would take time, on what would have been her birthday, to remember something about her. I would remember some story or anecdote about her, good or bad. It was my way of remembering her, of keeping her memory alive. My mother had been ill for a long time with cancer and I had told myself I was prepared, I knew what was happening. Shortly after her diagnosis, she’d had surgery and radiotherapy for it. I wasn’t able to see her, at that time, and didn’t physically see her until two months afterwards. When I did visit my parents I was shocked at how tired and worn she looked. She was sat in the house’s conservatory, reading a magazine, when I arrived, and she looked so old and frail, sitting there in that armchair. Everyone had told me how well she had done since her surgery, how well she had recovered and how she had returned to health, but looking at her, that day, I knew she was ill, I could see it. I kept quiet though, everyone, including her, were being so positive, and how could I rob them of that? I kept it to myself, but I knew my mother was dying. She declined slowly over the following six years, her health failing her, as my father failed to cope looking after her. I lived two hundred and fifty miles away from them, and I was the only healthcare professional in my family, so my role fell to providing advice at the end of the telephone. I told myself to prepare, to be ready for when she would die. To prepare myself for my family’s reactions, to be the strong one because I had seen this coming. She died in a hospice, were she was comfortable and well cared for. I had seen her two days before and said goodbye to her, it was clear then to everyone she was dying. I received a call, from my brother, that Tuesday morning, that she had died. She had died in one of the few moments when no one was sitting next to her bed, in a quiet moment when she was left alone. I was prepared for this news, I wasn’t shocked, I was expecting this. I called my partner and told him. The next day, I was due in work and I was prepared. I had accepted the fact my mother was dying, her death was just the final part of that. So I went into work. I spent the first hour or so of my shift just wandering around the ward, but I wasn’t connected to why I was there. Mid-morning, I went into the ward’s office, where my manager was. She looked up at me and in surprise asked me what was wrong. “My mother died yesterday,” I replied. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said. "I don't know," I said and burst into tears. She sent me home, telling me not to come back to work until after the funeral. She was right. Grief is a strange and messy thing. I thought I was prepared for it but I wasn’t, how could I be because I didn’t know where it would take me. I didn’t cry at her funeral, sat there in the front pew next to my partner, but I did cry when I was set off by stupid, little things. The sight of her favourite flowers in a shop, the memory of her suddenly leaping into my mind, the sound of a piece of music that she had loved. The strange, physical things that made me remember her. I had thought I was prepared because intellectually I knew the course of grief, I had studied it, I knew the theory and evidence behind the stages of grieving. But I didn’t know them emotionally, I hadn’t lived them. Losing a parent is never easy, I found it especially hard because I was only in my early-thirties. I was at the age when people were beginning to expect their parents to retire as they entered “old age”. But my parents were in their early forties when I was born. When I entered my thirties, my parents were entering the end of their lives. I felt cut off from my peers, they couldn’t relate to what was happening to me, their parents were alive and well, were I was living through this too soon in my life. Fortunately, my partner knew exactly what I was facing, he’d lost his mother when he was sixteen. He knew about feeling too young for what was happening. But as time passed, that grief faded, as all emotions do. Marking what would have been her birthday became less and less urgent, and at some point I forgot to do it. I can’t remember when I did last mark my mother’s birthday, I stopped doing it so long ago, but I didn’t forget my mother. She had been such a large and dominating part of my life for so long. She had shown me and taught me so many different things, most of which she never meant to. She had been a woman of very strong opinions, opinions that were not to be questioned, and faced with this I had learnt how to argue. My mother, unwittingly, had taught me to argue, because if I wanted to do what I wanted, as a child and adolescent, then I had to win my arguments. The first time I won an argument against her I was fourteen, and it was a glorious moment. I had learnt how to use logic to defeat a steadfast opinion. It is a skill I have used many, many times since. Watching my mother, as a child, learning why she held her opinions, showed me how to watch and understand other people, a skill I am so grateful to have because it aids me so much as a writer. So many things still remind me of her, and I have a partner who I can share these with, even if it’s just a short memory, and he does the same about his mother. We keep those women alive in our memories. That day, as I looked at the date on my computer’s screen, it occurred to me that if she was still alive, it would have been so easy to buy her a birthday present. I could have gone onto Amazon, found the gift I wanted, bought it, and had them gift wrap it and deliver it straight to her. So much more easy. But my mother died before e-commerce became such an easy part of our lives. So much has changed in our world in the relatively short time since her death, would she even recognise our world? Would she even like our world? When I realised what the date was, I texted my partner and told him. He replied, “Blimey, how old would she have been?” “94,” I texted back. Drew
  2. L gave me the number to the Memorial place that C's sis had used. She'd put down a down-payment on the headstone, but wasn't sure how she was going to pay for the rest of it. It's been such a busy week, I hadn't had time to call them until lunch today. Thay had to call his sis to get her verbal OK before talking to me (which I expected) and I paid off what was left on the headstone; was about what I was expecting. It was something I felt like I had to do for my Boy. I didn't expect the emotions that took a hold of me. Doing this was such a final thing - the period at the end of a painful sentence. And in the afternoon mail was the pamphlet from his funeral, and a DVD with a copy of the recording they took of his funeral. I think it will be awhile before I can watch that. Most days are better. I can look back and think of him and the time we did have together and smile, but.... I know there will always be that "but" -- those moments that sneak up on you from nowhere.
  3. Had my second counseling session yesterday. Honestly not sure how effective they are. Things are, ever so very slowly, getting better. Getting easier to think of the good times and the memories without hyperventilating or collapsing into a pile of tears. Doesn't look that professional when it happens at work. Biggest hurdles for me are still the guilt of not having told him that I loved him -- even though I know he knew I did, and I know he felt the same way about me; and letting go of the idealized version of our next date, which would have been so very soon, when we had so many firsts planned. The feeling of having waited too long for those things -- even though I know that if I had pushed him too fast he would have bolted and ran. He was so afraid of being hurt again. A special place in hells for someone who hurts someone else that badly. Still odd random things that will trigger a wave of pain and grief. I love you my baby - you will always be your daddy's boy. 💗
  4. Got an email this evening from a mutual friend of C and his sister. His sis isn't doing that well dealing with the loss; neither am I to be honest. C was a very private person, with everyone it seems, so I spent the last hour trying to decide how much to say and what I shouldn't. I did say that he was a man I loved dearly, that we had been dating off and on the the last several years, and that he was someone I saw a future with. I included the last selfie he sent me (G-rated) and the pic of the flowers I took after I put them on his grave, along with the pic he sent me when we first started dating - a time that seems like it was yesterday, even though it was so many years ago.
  5. Spoke with someone at work I'm close with, who had known about my relationship with C, and told her what had happened. She offered to get in touch with his sister ("M") on Facebook -- as I don't have a Facebook account (or Instagram, or twitter, or....). She got a response. M did see the flowers I had left for C when I visited his grave, which makes me... well, not "happy" but pleased? They're waiting on a response from the VA on the headstone, and hope to hear back soon, though with the gov. shutdown I think that's optimistic. Work friend just introduced me as someone who cared about him deeply, not as the man he'd been dating; she did pass on my private email address (with my permission), so I hope M does contact me at some point. She hasn't been doing well -- they were extremely close. It sounded from t he conversation that I was correct in thinking that she didn't know who I was. He was a very private person, and I don't think he talked to his family that much about his private life. He was out, but I know there was some baggage there from when he was younger that -- for him at least -- made things more complicated. So it doesn't surprise me that he would be short on details of his dating life. This is the financial side of me, but I've also wondered in the last few days if she realized how much his Alberto Vargas print collection was worth. A winter storm moved in on Thursday, which started Wed. night. Had the automatic though, "I should send C a txt telling him to drive home safe" -- then the moment of sharp pain when I realized I couldn't do that. I know I mourn not just the loss of a friend, and a man I cared for very much; but the loss of my dreams for our future, my hopes of how things would work out, my longing for our first "private time" that was supposed to be next month.... Some of those hopes/dreams may never have materialized, but the loss is still there. The potential that is no longer. 💔
  6. Finally switching out some light fixtures in my loft, which means once that is done I can start to repaint, replacing the hideous colors that were there when I moved in. So this afternoon I cranked up the music (hopefully not enough to bother the neighbors), started some prep-work, and did a couple of test patches. I'm a twisted individual who actually finds painting a room to be relaxing; and though some may have found my song choices to be a an odd choice for relief from grief, the music and work was calming. Some of the songs I listened to, if you want a glimpse of my current head-space: Candi Stanton: He Called Me Baby One eskimO: Kandi George Michael: A Different Corner; Waiting For That Day / You Can't Always Get What You Want Moby: When It's Cold I'd Like to Die [lyrics are depressing, but letting the melody wash over you is odly comforting; he's also called it one of the best songs he's ever written] Jimmy Sommrville: For a Friend [this one did make me cry, but in a way that was releasing; a goodbye through music] Rebecca Ferguson: Nothing's Real but Love; Teach Me How to be Loved Sophie B. Hawkins: Did We Not Choose Each Other I should have done this earlier; I'll need to do it again.
  7. My friend S had me call the cemetery yesterday, to check to see if C's family had ordered a headstone yet, or if they needed more cash -- those things are expensive. The cemetery sent a letter to his father, but I think they have the wrong address (they sent it within this state but last I knew, from not too many month's ago, his father lived one state over); but you'd think they would have confirmed the address they have on file??? They'll send another letter (to the same, possibly incorrect, address) saying that there is an anonymous person willing to assist with the funds needed for the headstone. S said I should just call his sister. I don't think she understands why I can't do that -- not now at least. I know - at least I think I know - the most likely reason why she didn't call me, but...... it still hurts that she didn't. And due to living with depression my entire life, there's this little voice whispering in the back of my mind that says maybe she didn't call because in spite of everything we talked about and everything we said through txt, C really didn't feel about me the way I think, the way I know, he did. We didn't discuss his family much. I'd have to hunt up her number online, but I could find her if I tried. A final reason is when we visited his grave, there was nothing there -- no other flowers, nothing; just bare dirt. It hurt so much to see that. I had expected to have to have found at least one small group of artificial flowers at least. I just don't think I could talk to C's sis without either breaking down or loosing my temper - or doing both. I hate feeling like an outsider intruding into "their business" That was at 3pm. Off and on throughout the rest of last night I had waves of crushing grief slam into me. Grief I haven't felt since the night I found his obit online. Surprised my blood pressure is still stable. Going to stop typing now. There seems to be water falling from my eyes.
  8. Visit to the cemetery went well, I think. It started to rain lightly as I was putting the flowers on his grave, which seemed somehow appropriate. It's only been a month so he has no headstone yet. I need to try and call the funeral home next week and see if they will tell me if the family has enough $ to cover the cost. I know I could just find his sis' number online, but I'm reluctant to do that for reasons I can't quite explain even to myself. Started grief counseling last night. Not sure how well that's going to go, but will give it a try. I have 6 free appointments through my work benefits. Logically, I know what I need to be doing; emotionally.... it's not so easy to actually do. Especially this morning. Trying to focus on our good times together, like our last date -- which the first time we kissed. Sitting in his car with my coat in my lap; had a sweet kiss & told him that he was so handsome. His doubt started to surface, so I took his hand and placed it on my lap under my coat; told him he could feel for himself that I meant what I said, and wasn't just saying it to be nice. His reaction to that, and his response, will always make me smile (no, I won't share what he said). For only being 70 miles apart, it was surprisingly difficult to get together (joked at one point the Universe was trying to keep us apart) but I will always treasure the few times we did have. Told mom I won't be up for long this Christmas: up Monday morning, coming home Tuesday afternoon. Just too soon for a happy joyous holiday celebration. And if my brother says something I'll have to keep myself from hurting him. Thank all of you for your expressions of support.
  9. Finally realized that I'm going to have to finish painting the loft the same way I started: playing songs of love and loss, grieving for my boy, and loosing myself in the painting. It's the only way the loft can get done and -- more importantly -- I think it's one of the things that has to be closed for me to let him go. Though I should have left Rebecca Ferguson's version of "I'll Count the Days" off the playlist. 😭 The other is for his headstone to finally be installed. Sent an email to the friend I'd been talking to. A couple of weeks ago she said it would a week or two before the 3rd one [since they F*d the first two] would be ready; then FOUR to SIX WEEKS before it got installed. I'm still hoping it's there in time for his birthday on Memorial Day. Finished the first coat and stopping for lunch, pain Rx (storms moving in), and a Xanax (because I'm not so stupid as to not realize I need one).
  10. A "thank you" card from C's sister showed up in the mail today, to thank me for paying off the headstone. First time I've heard from her directly -- my other interactions have been with a mutual friend of C and his sis. Was nice to finally hear from her directly, but sad to know that she's still having a really really hard time with his passing. I know there are moments for me where a memory will catch me blindsided and rip my heart to pieces again, but for her it seems like that's still a constant state of being. 💔
  11. The first time I saw it she was visiting me and took out her purse to pay for a purchase. There it was, inside her purse, a picture of me. An old and unflattering picture of me. It was a passport photograph, taken years ago. My hair was in a style I’d not had for years, short and flat. I was staring fixedly into the camera, no smile on my face, the harsh light making my skin seem pale and unhealthy. I wondered why she had chosen that one, but I said nothing. It wasn’t an easy question to ask. I have many pictures of her. Ones from her youth, as a bright and happy young woman, her hair short and dark, dressed in pale or white summer dresses with wide belts and full skirts. Pictures of her in motherhood, her clothes changing over the years, showing her own slow change in tastes. Pictures of her taken only in the last few years, her as the rosy-cheeked, white-haired grandmother that she grew into. (I have no pictures of her at the end, a tired and ill old woman, but I don’t want to remember her like that.) I didn't keep any pictures in my wallet. Even if I did they would become lost in the chaos of paper, cards, loose coins and my different IDs and all the other things tucked away in there. For me pictures are placed in frames and hung on walls so that everyone can see them, enjoyed at a glance. That’s what I did with my favorite pictures of her. Not hidden away in the dark and clutter of my wallet. (I have heard people say that they carry pictures of their loved ones, their partners or children, with them so they can see them whenever they want to. I carry around my memories of her with me, as bright as any photographs.) I always wondered why she chose a picture of me to carry around. I am not her only child; I have an older brother and sister. Maybe that was the reason. I was her youngest child, the last one to leave the nest. After I had gone she was no longer a mother, the role she had had for over forty years. Maybe there is a special bond between a mother and her youngest child, I don’t know, and if there ever was I am ashamed to admit I never noticed. Why that picture, of all the ones she had of me, such a harsh and unemotional one, to carry with her? (It is too late now to ask these questions.) At the end, as she lay there in that bed being cared for by nurses who it had only taken her a few days to grow close to, I was unable to ask any but the simplest of questions. I had thought, at the end, I would be able to ask her all those questions I had been yearning to know the answers to, ones over which I had puzzled and wondered for years, not least about that picture. When the time came, all I could ask were the basic questions, "Are you comfortable?" and "Is there anything you want?" The profound forgotten and replaced by the important. As a child I had questioned and questioned her, why this and how that, almost challenging everything she said. As an adolescent I had distanced myself from her and her rules as I was fighting to be myself, whatever that meant. What did she know? Only as an adult, when I had become a professional in my own right, we were finally able to reach an understanding and peace with each other. I was still her son but now we could talk as equals. At the end I was the one she requested of, the one she asked to look after her husband, my father. After it was all ended, the funeral and cremation and final spreading of her ashes, did someone find found that picture of me? As my sister-in-law and my sister were clearing out her handbag, the final act of tidying a life away, tidying away her now unneeded things, did they find her purse? As they emptied it did they find that picture of me and what did they make of it? These questions are unimportant; I will forget them and never seek an answer. Instead, I will hold on to those memories I have of her, memories that live outside of pictures. For Joan Margaret Payne 12/1/30 to 2/5/01 (I originally wrote this in the week between my mother’s death and her funeral. It was my way of working out how I was feeling. I have rewritten it in the subsequent years, but the emotions here still remained intact.)
  12. Today, my younger brother is the bravest person i know. 2 years ago, my nephew was killed on his first day of university. Today, he and my sister-in-law, took my niece to school to begin her freshman year. What makes this so much more than just hard, is that not only is this a reminder of that day in 2019, but my niece is out of state. 848.2 miles; 1365.0456 km; 12 hours; 29 minutes; two days by car; away from anyone who knows her. my Husband and i talked about this on Wednesday when they began their trip. We can’t begin to imagine the painful memories this drags up. How hard it is to leave your only child that far away. i can’t stop thinking about it. Heck i had a hard time when Daughter went to the coast with her high school culinary team. Number One Son is in Denver this weekend, and i’ve already tracked his flight to make sure he landed safely. i’ve reached out to him, offered him virtual hugs, let him know how proud i am of him and his wife. And how proud i am of their daughter, for following her dream and working through this grief. i imagine it's pretty damn scary for her too. It’s important, i think, to tell people things like this. If you’ve done something hard, whether other people see it as hard or not, be proud of yourself. i’m proud of you too.
  13. It is done. They were able to place my Boy's headstone yesterday. C's sis sent me an email at almost midnight last night that I didn't see until lunch today. It looks good. It feels.... relief? I had really wanted / needed it to be installed before his birthday on Monday, and was afraid they weren't going to be able to do it because of the weather. His sis was wanting it done before his birthday as well. If the state doesn't wash away, I'll go down on Monday for his birthday, and be able to look at it first hand. 💔
  14. We had the internment for my mom yesterday morning -- just my brother and I, our SO's, and my last surviving Aunt. My brother surprised both SP and me by asking if we wanted to go somewhere for lunch. Had a nice meal without any awkward silences, so that was nice. Maybe -- maybe -- he's changing some. But then just a couple of weeks ago when he stopped by to sign mom's life insurance paperwork he never even turned off the car. Doesn't seem like it's been almost 12 month's since SP and I had our first date, sending us down this road of our new relationship. He's said that there are doors opening in his heart he's kept closed for quite some time. Love him so much.
  15. Attended the memorial for the wife of a faculty member today. They had planned on retiring this year (for the second time), take a position back with his Alma Mater that involved less work (his idea of retirement), and enjoying their time together. She was a sweet, kind, lovely woman -- but don't mistake that for weak. Not sure exactly how long they've been married, but longer than I've been alive. Between that and the weather changes making me ache, I've been mostly awake since 3am. Too much loss in the last year. 😢
  16. I'm not really a writer - things pop into my heat now and then and demand to be written down, but not good otherwise; and at the moment there's too many competing emotions to make any coherent statement. So I'm going to do what I've done before, and use a selection of song lyrics to express my feelings on this -- both my birthday, today, and the 1-yr anniversary of the loss of my boy at the end of the week. Kind of traces my emotions from the beginning or our relationship, and the hesitancy he had for so long because he'd been hurt so bad, to grief, to (not quite yet) healing: 1 -------------------- Please let me try to I can heal the pain That you're feeling inside Whenever you want me You know that I will be Waiting for the day That you say you'll be mine He must have really hurt you To make you say the things that you do He must have really hurt you To make those pretty eyes look so blue Now you can't see my love is good And that I'm not him 2 -------------------- There's a big old hole in the middle of you 'Cause somebody left you black and blue Yeah we all make promises we can't keep And they're paper thin but cut so deep One day we're together then we're apart Why won't you let me fill up your empty heart 3 -------------------- I never cried the way I cried over you As I put down the telephone and the world it carried on As I watch the sun go down, watching the world fade away All the memories of you come rushing back to me All I want to do is kiss you once goodbye, goodbye 4 ------------------- I don't want to swim the ocean, I don't want to fight the tide, I don't want to swim forever, When it's cold I'd like to die. 5 -------------------- 'Cause I'm gonna be free and I'm gonna be fine (Maybe not tonight) 6. -------------------- When you feel you've had enough From this world that's giving up on you On you... Sometimes we can relax walking through the fire And when it all turns to dust We'll watch the ashes light up and we'll rise We'll rise And we'll be fine (And we'll be, And we'll be) (And we'll be, And we'll be) ================================== Not quite to the point of "being fine", but I know I'll get there - if only because my boy would want me to. 1) Heal the Pain, George Michael; 2) Empty Heart, Grace Potter; 3) For a Friend, The The Communards / Jimmy Somerville; 4) When It's Cold I'd Like to Die, Moby, 5) Delilah, Florence+The Machine, 6) We'll be Fine, Rebecca Ferguson
  17. i’m angry and hurt, and need to get this off my chest. People will tell you that death is a part of life, it’s all part of the circle of life. Well, they’re full of crap. Death is death. And it sucks. Doesn’t matter who it is, if you lose someone you love, it sucks. Like Great Aunt Betty, the one who would sneak you that candy you loved at the family reunion—it’s a loss and it hurts. A nephew with leukemia—hurts like a punch to the gut. A nephew was hit by a car, while he was in the crosswalk? Almost unbearable pain. Very recently, a few people i know here lost family members. It was hard for them. They were both sudden. Not that having advanced warning for an impending death, makes it any easier. i mean, we all know those stories; Uncle Frank diagnosed with whatever, so everyone starts “preparing” that he’ll pass soon. Nope, doesn’t help to have that time to what, wrap your mind around it? No, don’t think so. Loss is hard, nothing really makes it easier. i have had two losses in as many weeks. My family is shattered. My brother and sister both have lost sons. One niece has lost her big brother, another niece and nephew have lost a cousin and a brother. my own youngest son will have to attend his third memorial for a peer. A peer, someone his own age, not for an elderly relative, but a person in their prime. Of my sister’s step son, someone said, “He’s in a better place.” Hell, he was in a pretty good place! Good job, a beautiful wife, and the most adorable 3-year-old son. They said similar things about my brother’s son. He died in an accident on his very first day at university. His. Very. First. Day. He was 19. He was in a very good place already. i’m angry, hurt, all of those things. Grief is very different for everyone, and that’s ok. Right now, i’m stuck in anger and hurt. i need to work past this, a little anyway, since i’m going to have to be the big sister, the oldest child, next week and do all the social niceties. Go hug someone and let them know you love them. thanks @Mikiesboy you are the best
  18. The room was quiet; the only sounds there were small and slight, ones that would not normally have been noticed except for the silence there. There was the mechanical noise of the little pump occasionally leaping into life as it delivered another dose of painkillers. There was the hiss of air escaping as the air mattress slowly inflated and deflated. There was also the sound of his breathing, slow and almost rasping as he drew in air through his parted lips, held that air in his lungs for what seemed like an age, and then slowly exhaled it. He looked so small lying there in the middle of that hospital bed, almost lost in all those clean sheets. His eyes were closed, as they had been for so long now. His skin was dry and pale, it had taken on a grey pallor, while thick and dark stubble was pushing through his chin. His hair, only now thin and wispy, thinned out only by the chemotherapy and not by aging or baldness, was disheveled, more pushed back over his head than brushed into any style. My mother would have cast a sarcastic comment about his appearance if she had been here. My father was dying and all I could do was sit there at his bedside and wait. At first, I had sat silently by his bed, simply waiting on him. Doing anything else felt almost disrespectful. Unfortunately, boredom and distraction soon set in. At first, I just casually glanced at a magazine, a distraction as I flicked through its pages. Then I read one article from it, the one that had snatched my attention. Then I read another article, and then another one, and then I had read it from cover to cover. Finally, I swallowed my good intensions, took out the novel I had been reading on the train up there, and started reading it. As a nurse I had nursed many dying patients before and there had been so many different things to do, I had been kept busy with my tasks. I wasn’t a nurse here, I was a relative, I was his son, and all I had to do was wait. As a nurse, I had watched so many relatives doing this, sitting at their relative’s bedside and waiting, and my heart had gone out to them. Now it was my turn and I felt so useless. All I could do was sit there and wait; nothing practical or positive about it. My sister had organised a kind of rota so that she, my brother or I would be sitting next to my father’s bed, keeping him company, making sure he was not alone. I had travelled up to Liverpool, from my home in London, when he was admitted to the hospice. When I arrived, he was tired and weak and barely responsive. By the Saturday afternoon he was completely unresponsive, he was unmoving in his bed, he had stopped eating and drinking, and his eyes were now permanently closed. He seemed to be waiting for something, but what? His three children were at his bedside, who was he waiting for? My mother had died two years before from cancer. Her death had been quiet and quietly organised, like so much of her life had been. She had made so many arrangements and kept so much to herself. But at the end of it all, after her death, my father had been left on his own, and that was the last thing he had expected. My father came from a generation of men who expected to die before their wives. He’d had heart disease for several decades and because of this expected to die before my mother. But the treatment and management of heart disease improved over that time, and his heart disease was managed well. My mother died before him, not what he had been expecting. Unfortunately, again, like so many men of his generation, my father didn’t have the emotional or psychological knowledge to survive being widowed. He hadn’t just lost his wife of nearly fifty years, but he had lost his close companion, his friend throughout so much, he’d also lost the person who had organised so much of his life and the person whose council he’d always trusted. This broke him because he couldn’t cope with his loss. Grief made him angry and nasty, how could we be happy, how could we carry on as normal? He was angry at me, snapping at me and saying the most hurtful things. I’d lost him to the anger of grief. Martin and I had only been together a few years then and I’d wanted him to get to know my father, but that wish was now gone. My father had been replaced with a bitter and angry old man. It felt so unfair. Some uncaring person had told my father that he’d get over the loss of his wife, someone who didn’t really knew my father, and this had only made him even angrier. A loss like his someone would never “get over.” That Saturday he was dying in his hospice bed, but he had started dying two years before when he lost my mother. It had been the day after my mother’s funeral; he had been such a lost and angry little old man. It had been heart-breaking and I’d not known what to say. Were there any words I could have said? On the Friday afternoon, my sister’s vicar had visited my father. The man clearly said that he’d seen many people in my father’s situation who had got better, got up out of bed and lived for years. The man’s naked denial had almost taken my breath away. I said that my father was dying, his hands and feet were icy cold because his circulation was slowing and failing, his internal organs were failing; he’d never get better. That vicar told me off for denying hope. He knew better than me, he was an ex-policeman and now an Anglican vicar, I was only a nurse. I was left feeling angry and frustrated, what was the use of this vicar? I spent Sunday afternoon was my friends Loraine and David. When they heard what was happening, they invited me for Sunday dinner and a break. I did my nurse training with Loraine and now she was married to David, an Anglican vicar, and they were living in Liverpool then. When I arrived at their home, at lunchtime, David told me he had prayed for my father at their morning Eucharist service, he’d prayed that my father’s suffering would end soon. I could have hugged him for that, I wish I had. That afternoon, after a wonderful Sunday dinner, we sat around and talked about books and gardening and fish ponds. Loraine and I gossiped about the people we trained with. Their dog made a big fuss over me. As I sat with the dog on my lap, patting him, I realised it had been days since I had touched anyone else, I had barely shaken hands with anyone. When I returned to the hospice that Sunday evening, my father was still lying there in the middle of that hospital bed, breathing in that painfully slow way. He was still waiting for something, just hanging in there. He died the following Wednesday morning and I wasn’t there. At first all I felt was relief. That awful waiting was over and his suffering was finished. He’d been so unhappy and angry as a widower, he’d not liked or even wanted the life he’d lived those last two years. He’d been so unhappy without my mother. Later I mourned, my father was gone and it felt strange and uncomfortable and very awkward. I went back to work too soon and had to be sent home when I burst into tears, apologising for the fact that my father had died. It was only after his funeral that the realisation came to me when I compared the dates. My father had died two years and two months to the date, almost to the hour, after my mother had died. That’s what he’d been waiting for. For Thomas Price Payne 19/12/1927 to 2/07/2003 Drew
  19. One week from tomorrow is the 4th anniversary of C's death. It's hitting me harder than normal this year -- then I start to feel guilty about morning C while I have SP by my side. 😢
  20. “Life is so cruel,” it was all I could think of to say to my nephew Stuart, who was on the other end of the phone. I was sat on the Brompton Road, the traffic rushing passed me with far too much haste, slight drizzle beginning to fall. I had missed Stuart’s message on Facebook, the day before, I’m not great with social media, so I was returning his call. Stuart wanted me to hear it from someone who knew me, a friendly voice. Dave, my only brother, had died, suddenly, two days ago. But he was healthy, strong, looking forward to the future, looking to finally retire, making plans. It wasn’t fair. I was stunned, as if someone had kicked me in the side of the head. This wasn’t real. But my eyes glazed over with tears. Still sitting there, I called Martin, my husband. I told him what had happened, and as I did it slowly began to feel real, slowly my mind was processing the shock. My tube journey home felt unreal, like I was stuck in a vivid dream. People were behaving as they normally do. Laughing, talking, reading their phones, ignoring the others around them, and pushing onto the tube so they could get the last seat. I wanted to shout at them, “It’s not fair! None of this is right!” But I didn’t. I just sat there, staring at a stupid poster advertising Tinder. When I arrived home to an empty house, I locked the front door behind me and screamed in frustration, my voice bouncing around the empty room. Dave is thirteen years older than me. That might not sound much to an adult, many people have partners thirteen years older or younger than them, but to a child it is an impossibly large gap. Dave left home, to go to university, at eighteen, when I was only five. He didn’t return to living at home, even after he finished his degree, instead embarking off on his own life. He was more like a young uncle to me, than a brother. We simply didn’t have the chance to be close. What also didn’t help us was that my parents saw Dave as the perfect son and, all through my childhood and adolescence, they compared me unfavourably to him. In my parents’ eyes, I could never be as good a son as Dave. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t even know they were doing it, but it didn’t stop me being resentful. It was only as an adult I discovered that my parents compared all three of their children to each other and always unfavourably. Also, as adults, we lived so far apart. He had settled in Lancashire, I live in London, and I don’t drive. I simply thought we were never meant to be close. Our mother’s death and then our father’s brought us together but only temporarily, our lives soon parted us again. It was another tragedy that finally brought us together. Linda, Dave’s wife of over forty years, died at the height of the Covid lockdown. She didn’t die from Covid, but that wasn’t important, when she died Dave was isolated by the lockdown. He rang me, in a terrible state, to tell me what was happening. I kept ringing him over the following days, reaching out to him. Then, that afternoon, he texted me, Linda had died. I was in the middle of our busy District Nurse office. I went to the next office, which was empty, its staff redeployed, and rang him back. He was in a terrible state, on his own at the hospital. I wanted to just reach out down the phone and comfort him but I couldn’t, I only had words. So I told him how sorry I was. I wasn’t able to attend Linda’s funeral, only a handful of people were allowed to be there. I knew why I couldn’t be there but I still felt I was letting him down. We talked a lot over the phone a lot over the following days, and weeks, and then months. Dave travelled down to London as soon as the lockdown lifted. He was being inducted into the Fellowship of Engineers. We were able to have dinner with him the evening before. He travelled down on his own and spent the afternoon walking around Covent Garden. He revisited the places where he and Linda had visited so often before, together, but that day he was presented with what he’d lost. He was almost swamped with grief. As a nurse, I’ve looked after many people at the end of their lives. I have seen so many relatives drowning in grief. Every time, I wanted to press a syringe to their skin and draw out all of their grief and pain and sadness, freeing them from it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do the same for my own brother, but I so wanted to. I told him if was normal what he was feeling and I told him I was sorry. That evening the three of us talked, talked easily and openly. Dave and Martin talked as equals, both as professionals, but from different specialities. Before Martin joined us, Dave and I talked as brothers. We had so many different things in common. When Dave rang me and told me he had met a new partner, all I felt was relief. He wasn’t on his own anymore. Not for a moment did I think he was trying to replace Linda, he had loved her for such a long time, but now he had found companionship. Martin and I met Margaret, Dave’s new partner, on a bright spring Sunday, on London’s South Bank. Both Martin and I were struck by how happy they were together, and it was such a pleasure to see. I could file away that memory of that winter night, the memory of Dave so lost, and not worry about it again. Dave travelled down a lot to see Margaret and was able to see me too, and I looked forward to those visits. Suddenly I found we had so much in common. He knew my parents as well as I did and saw the things that I saw, that I didn’t know if I could have told anyone else. I didn’t have to explain my parents to him, I didn’t have to make excuses or justify what happened, because he already knew them. We could talk about all those things without explanation. When I published my first book, he championed it and that meant so much to me. He’d read it and enjoyed it, he even recognised the inspiration behind some of its stories. As a child I longed to have an older brother. Someone who knew me, was on the same wavelength as me, someone who knew the same things as me. As a middle-aged man, I suddenly found I had the brother I had always wanted. Dave and I were finally getting to know each other. I looked forward to talking with him and seeing him, especially seeing him. His visits to London helped me get through last year, which was a difficult year for me. He was happy again and he was making plans for the future. Martin and I were planning on coming and seeing him this summer, but suddenly it was all taken away. I have lost my brother suddenly and without any warning. I cannot find any meaning or purpose in what has happened. How can something positive come from all this? All I can think is, “Life is so cruel.” Dave Payne 1953 to 2023 (Thank you to my niece Rachel, who first posted the picture of Dave I used here. It so perfectly captures him)
  21. It's been five days since her passing and I have yet to have a heavy cry. I know it's in me, but for some reason I'm holding it back. Everywhere I look I see something that remains me of her. Some memory of the past. I keep expecting to hear her voice or see her walking down the hall. But all there is is silence. The house seems so empty now, even when dad is here. Friends stop by, but there's little comfort in their visits. I miss my mom and best friend.
  22. I'd been to many interments, each of them a different experience of loss and grief, but never before had I been asked to shovel dirt onto a friend's casket. They are all looking at me, expectantly, a shovel held out towards my hands. Can I do this? Can I really do this?
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