Signs

In 2008 I lost my brother to cancer. 

It was obviously an incredibly sad time but I was glad he was in no more pain. His body was totally ravaged by a cancer that ultimately made him an unrecognisable shell. His death and how he looked had a profound effect on Laura. She made a lot of decisions, once her secondary diagnosis was confirmed, based on my brothers passing. She did not want the kids to remember her looking any other way than she did to them before she became ill. She made me promise that if it came to it, they weren't to see her if she went down that same path. She also didn't want to be at home when she passed as she didn't want the house to have the memory of her passing in it and she didn't want that to affect the kids in any way. In the end she needn't have worried. She didn't and she hasn't. 

Five years later, in 2013, I lost my mum to cancer too. The loss of my mum left me with more regret than sadness, and my sadness hurt. That's not to say I wasn't sad, I was, as my mum was a wonderful, kind, caring woman; a huge heart encased in the smallest of frames. I regret not telling her that I loved her more often than I did. I think the majority of us get that with loss, especially our mums. I wish she'd seen Aden but she passed away a year before he was born. I know she would have loved to see her youngest son with a child. I often see a random little grey-haired woman when out shopping etc, and it always causes me to catch my breath, but it also makes me smile. In the same way I always hear her voice chastising me for drinking milk from the carton. I feel her around. She's strong in my memory. 

In 2018 I lost my Dad to dementia. The loss of my dad was a loss of another kind. My mum was the hero of the relationship. It's best I describe it that way. I still cried at his passing and remember those few good times we had together fondly. Those times when we actually bonded and he wasn't the guy that sadly makes me feel disappointed in him. Still, he was my dad, I loved him and I'd like to think that I have learned from his mistakes. 

Last year, in 2021, I lost my oldest friend to cancer. He was an absolute legend of a human. I am fortunate to have had the same friends for the majority of my life and he was the very epitome of friendship. Again, I was incredibly sad and shocked at his passing but my heart is filled with love for him and it makes me happy to know that that love was more than reciprocated. He was a beautiful, extraordinary person. My life was, and still is, richer for having him in it. 

All these losses have taken their toll on me and hardened me to loss. When I look back at those losses, I struggle to recall how my grief manifested itself. I remember shedding tears, feeling sadness, loss and regret but I feel I recovered quickly, that I moved on and was able to replace the sense of loss with a memory of good times, shared experiences and unconditional love.  

But with Laura it is completely different. It was always going to be different for the obvious reasons. I struggle with it at its very basic level. How can she just not exist anymore? How can she just not be? It is a totally overwhelming sense of the irreplaceable. When I look at pictures of her my mind simply cannot comprehend that she just isn't here anymore. People say that she lives on in our memories, her actions, her legacy, and the children. I understand that sentiment fully and she does. But I don't want that metaphysical being, it brings scant comfort. The memory for other people will fade in time and they will return to a life without her like I have with those I've lost, I understand that too, it is only natural. But for me and the kids it won't. My mind struggles to deal with it all. I don't want to accept that I will never see her again; that I will never speak to her again or hear her voice or feel her touch. My brain simply won't accept it, so I think my grief is hiding behind that notion. One day I will have to accept it. I just don't know when. 

A Sign: Laura's tipple on a random bench

She often asked me if I believed that the spirit exists after death, that did I believe that she'll still be able to see me and the kids. She wanted to believe that she would always be looking down on us. It was a difficult question to answer honestly. I didn't want to lie and tell her what she wanted to hear. So I told her that if she asked me a month after my mum had passed, I would have said that I don't believe that there's a spirit that lingers but I believe that there's a place in the human psyche that keeps memories alive so steadfastly that we imagine that the essence of that person is there. I told her that I wasn't sure that there's a spiritual afterlife, but I do want to believe that there is a soul, an essence, that memory of her that me and the kids will keep alive forever. That she would always be with us in the fabric of our being. She will influence our decisions and she will always be in our hearts and minds. I know she ultimately wanted me to tell her that I believed that she would be able to communicate with us, to show us she was there, to show us that her love transcends death. It tore her apart to think that she would never see the children again. I promised her we'd look for signs. Those signs would confirm the idea that she would always be with us. Those signs might be subtle or extreme or simply a case of our minds bending something to meet with our deepest wishes but either way they are signs that mean to us that she is still here, or there, looking down. The signs would also serve to keep her at the forefront of our thoughts.

All I need is for my heart to overrule my sceptical head and believe that those signs are real because some comfort is better than none at all. And in the event that no signs are forthcoming, or they are so subtle that I miss them, I will continue to talk to her, both in my head and out loud, as I go about my day. That way she'll know that I'm watching and waiting and remembering should there actually be some substance to those signs.

I will always be watching and waiting. I made a promise. 

The Circle Of Life

When I first met Laura, she was stunned that I had never seen any of what she called classic movies. Now to me classic movies where The Shawshank Redemption, or Leon, or Betty Blue and such like. Whereas her classic movies were The Goonies, Mrs Doubtfire and The Lion King. 

So, one night we got a Chinese in and our favourite dessert of cookies broken up into ice cream and settled down to watch the audio-visual extravaganza that is The Lion King. As much as I liked the movie, I enjoyed the evening as a whole more. I remember it like it was yesterday. We sat in her bright, sunny living room in her little flat and she put up with my sarcastic comments throughout as long as I admitted that I actually liked the movie in the end. 

Our taste in movies was just one of the many examples of how different we actually were. I was older and had different tastes in practically everything, a point I noted in my speech on our wedding day. As a couple you don't always have to be looking into each other's eyes trying to find common ground. It's more important, I said that day, to be facing the same direction as each other. Moving forward, side by side. There is a balance in our differences. To be honest Laura always brought more to the party than I did. She was the driving force, the brains of the unit. It was nice of her to let it appear that we were equals. 

The Lion King always seemed to be there though. Laura had Aden watch it when he started actually watching movies all the way through and then she did the same with Hallie. At the beginning of the year, Hallie started singing "ahhhhh zabenya" as an answer to everything. 

"Hey Hallie, what do you want to eat?"

"Ahhhhh zabenyaaaaaa!" 

"Morning Hallie"

"Ahhhhh zabenyaaaaaa!"

So, we decided, that as part of Lauras Living List, we would go a see it live on stage in Edinburgh. So we did. And it was amazing. 

The Lion King was the first thing we watched together, and it was the last thing we did as a family. Eight days after we returned from Edinburgh, Laura was gone.

"Love will find a way, anywhere we go. We’re home if we are there together." 

Opening The Door

It's 3:07am, Sunday 2nd of October.

This is the first entry I have made that hasn't been retrospective. I'm sure there will be more of these.

I'm currently alone, in bed, in an empty house, unable to sleep. Last Thursday afternoon I had a "coming together" with my boss regarding handing in my notice of my demanding job. I have been less than impressed by her attitude since I said I was leaving but I don't want to slander anyone, so I'll leave it there. I have made the decision because it's the right thing to do for both me and the kids. It is the first of many steps I need to take in my life to protect what we have. I need to ensure that I'm in the best position to be there for them for as long as I possibly can.

However, on Thursday evening I started to feel unwell. I didn't sleep at all at night, I was shaking, had a temperature, felt nauseous and had a very bad headache. I have all the symptoms of covid but I'm testing negative. I'm not implying the meeting with my manager caused these symptoms, but it certainly didn't help.  

This has always been one of my greatest fears, being so ill that not only can I not look after the children, but I cause them distress by not being able to do so. I worry that the kids think that all illnesses may result in death. 

As I lay there that night my worry got the better of me. My heart was beating uncontrollably fast, which in turn made me panic more, which in turn made me feel more nauseous. I started thinking terrible thoughts. I need to be there for them. I can't leave them. I may have been overthinking it but in my mind I couldn't stop it. I was disappearing down an all too familiar rabbit hole. This sensation isn't new to me. It is something that I have had all my life. But now, it has even greater meaning.

That panic. That dread. It's in me. And always has been.

I never let Laura in. These episodes used to haunt me when I was younger. When I met Laura they became less frequent. But they were still there. I didn't open The Door completely. Out of shame. Out of worry. She used to get so frustrated with me. The guy who was confident, knew how to formulate my sentences clearly and was never short of words, simply couldn't answer the question "what is wrong?" It just wouldn't come out. I don't know why, and I may never know. but I did try. The more I tried, the worse it got and the more frustrated she became. She was such a perfect light. I wish I had let her in. 

 

On Saturday I sat alone in the empty house. I missed the kids. I missed their voices. I missed sleeping in their tender vice. That feeling only exacerbated the fear. It's sitting on my shoulder. Whispering worries in my ear. This isn't grief. This is mine. This is my problem. This is my Door. I know I'm not alone. I have family and friends messaging me to see if I'm okay and offering help. 

I'm not alone or even lonely, I'm simply Laura-less. 

"How are you? Is there anything we can do to help?" 

“I'm okay thanks. Just feeling poorly"

The Voice: No, I'm not good, I've been sitting here crying for the last hour because sometimes the whole enormity of this task is overwhelming. I miss Laura. My guilt at never telling her my fears and worries are clouding me. I will ask for help. I know I must, but I need to open The Door first. 

So, when you messaged this morning to see how I am, my answer should have been: I slept okay but I woke up crying and couldn't stop. I'm feeling ill, lost and sad. I will get through this. I will need your help soon. I will ask.

Again, this is me opening The Door. Please don't pull it open from the other side. 

It is my Door. It is mine to open.

The Door

When I was young, in our house we didn't show affection openly; we didn't say goodnight or good morning and we never once expressed our love for each other verbally. Don't get me wrong, there was love and we never wanted for anything, it was just not expressed in that way. It was how my parents' generation did it, I guess. Back in those days the front door was never locked, you could come and go as you pleased, and others were welcomed. Even although everything was never as it appeared, the door was always open. 

There have been many times in my life my private persona couldn't have been more distant from my public one. Times when I really struggled, I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't express how low I was. Sleepless nights, breathless panic, an oppressive feeling of nothing going right, of hopelessness, of failure. All hidden away. Inside me. In my room. Behind a closed door. 

Now I'm older, I still struggle to articulate what's inside to those I love and that love me. Something holds it back. That distance between private and public persona still exists but the gap narrows. The very fact that this will surprise people will shed light on that little doubt that exists in us all. I'm learning now. Every day. I'm open to talking. I'm ready to accept what lies ahead. I should have let you know my love. It's not too late. I've decided to embrace the light and treasure the positives. 

And the love. And the pain. 

I'm going to open the door.