The day has barely started. I have sugar in my tea again and the Sarah Raven gardening podcast on. I am listening to this to try and soothe myself- she’s talking about tomatoes and Sweet Peas; she is imparting her wisdom on the lad Arthur Parkinson, she is trying to convince him that she probably knows best. I can only really cope when I keep the garden in mind. Just as I sunk into writing this, the pips of the bin van invaded and I had to dash out, coat thrown over pyjamas; not quite present enough to greet the refuse guy.
I cannot escape it. In my house there is death. The end. You have to make your way through all that is living to find it, still it is eventual and there it is- the bathroom.
It makes sense that had the end wall a door then once passing you would step through to the afterlife and in this case the garden. The place where I am contented. The suffering ends there; it is finished.
There is nothing as stark as the silence of that room, in the early hours when I am still half dreaming. My subconscious sleepwalks there all the time so my waking body is used to it now. You would think that eight months since the event I would be less phased by the space; but I’m not. It is where I tried to revive him- my words of desperation and apology falling on the shell of the man as I tried to perform a miracle. I still don’t know how I managed to put the phone on speaker that day- I imagine the transcript. I hope someone held the hand of the operator; made her a cup of tea. Us both participants in a radio play with a part improvised script we remember late at night. LP does not know. She plays in the bath and ponders over when she might be permitted to go swimming again. Mermaid Barbie dives into adventures and I wrangle with hair washing. There is no luxury or indulgence- no candles and soaking the cares of the day away; the room is plastered in them like a shell grotto of concern.
It is the first of April and the ache is back. I wake up heartbroken, for a moment I wonder if I’m ill, then remember. That pain again. There are three things this month that have to be faced; Easter weekend, our wedding anniversary and LP’s birthday. It is a month of hurdles, I may as well stay suspended in the air.
There’s a photo of the three of us, it is 2020 and we are all smiles. The real devastation of the past year not yet written on our faces, just a month into lockdown where we are still high on gaining those extra precious hours together. Seb’s commute only a staircase and proper lunches on the table at one.
We were fully committed to the teamwork. LP too young for us to worry about schooling so playtime was all day. Warmer days were coming and all we really had to do was hold each other close.
We had no idea.
I have made myself lots of things to do. I am constantly problem solving. I can’t seem to organise papers that well- too many words. Still I can research and mend. I feel infinitely practical, it is an obsession.
Tidying has always been my default coping strategy. Days after Seb died I found myself hanging shelves whilst mournfully singing with Freddie. I was creating order in the chaos and soundtracking it. I don’t care that this act was a contrivance- where can I go if it isn’t to my records? The shelves aren’t there anymore, as temporary as the solace they provided.
I wonder at why after almost forty years of being Jo, I still fool myself. My behaviour changing before my brain has caught up. Obsessively organising, worrying about the minutiae- apparently oblivious to the storm approaching. If I just organise these books then the rain won’t get me. I will wear a novel on my head as the tempest rages- I am the child who makes herself invisible by closing her eyes tight shut. It never works but you must humour me.
I only see the weather now because I am writing. Perhaps this is my true defence, my nylon canopy of words.
As much as I may type, when the grief anvil hits I may as well be illiterate. Last week I delighted in my garden; hours later I had broken down.
Grief is a succession of survival manoeuvres, any joy derived from life is a gasp for air, a top up before a submersion. As a family we feel the loss differently, we cope in a way that befits our individual natures, sometimes we manage to find the respite together, oftentimes we are our only refuge; we have never needed each other more.
I will capture LP turning six, she will be all excitement and smiles. I will hide the ache of her aging without him. I will try not to fix on his absence in the photograph. Perhaps if I think about it now, giving myself a run up I will find the smile that befits the utter joy that we made almost six years ago when everything was okay.