Love Your Loss - Have a day off!

More oil pastels from James and my favourite Dahlia.

Love Your Loss 17th October 23

Welcome to my - either 4th or 5th  - Newsletter. Not sure. Can’t be sure of anything. And what’s wrong with that? Not knowing is fine. Better to accept, we just don’t know half of what we think we know. Like, today, out of nowhere, I had to accept a fresh wave of grief. Forced to give in, I took the day off, had a good cry, acknowledged what was trying to get out of me. I make it sound easy. IT IS NOT.  I find this so hard - giving in, stopping the day. I did not expect to be writing a Newsletter today. Relinquishing control makes space for inner truths to surface. Allowing that space is healing and restful -  No plans. No expectations. No disappointment. I live on a mission to get through the day, lists pouring through my mind and there is an awful feeling of being in a race. It’s not sustainable. The crash comes. It’s easy to dance through autumn with a glance here and there; it’s like a quick step - from the end of summer to the start of Christmas. I want to slow down time, have my down time, watch the light fade and the leaves fall before the madness of December makes me want to hide again. A tricky month for people in loss. I am trying to write a quick off the cuff newsletter. I must get used to doing things quicker, be more impulsive, not weighed down,write something short, easier to digest. Not sure I’ve managed it but I urge you to write because all of this started with just one sentence - Welcome… (writing words is like omega oil for your joints, a nourishing for your soul.)

I was afraid of pointing out the date to Simon this morning but thought if it was me I’d want to know. But of course he already knew the date and he did not want to point it out to me. The 17th of October. Today it is seven years since that moment when James’ aliveness began to glow, when my eyes woke up and watched him shine like a beacon, leading us through the darkest hours of our life. We couldn’t take our eyes off him. We are the luckiest unlucky people. But turn on the news and you know one thing, life is about suffering and surviving. 

Seven years ago today life as I knew it ended. I remember that moment, his pink warm skin and golden curls in the dull glare of the hospital light. From the moment I stepped back into the room on the ward after receiving the scan result, his whole being glowed in a way that I cannot describe. Language has its limits. Words can not do justice to the presence he possessed, nor how my perception was transformed in an instant. In an instant, when life sits right next to death, you know what life is, you know what a breathing beating heart is, a warm smile, soft skin, the smell of a kiss, the feel of your child’s hair; the aliveness of James from that moment for the best part of four years was like living with a miracle. I can see us, being driven from our life, driven away in an ambulance to Bristol; we were inside the siren, inside the flashing blue, inside a nightmare. I am not going to go on about that. It’s all over. I am not there. I am here, seven years away. But a few days ago it all went a bit dark and sad in my head again. Why? Where has this come from? I could feel myself being thrown back again. You think you’re getting somewhere, don’t you? It’s so naive to think the pain has gone forever and you’ve really turned a corner now, (yes the pain is always there, a background ache, the feeling of carrying a huge weight, it’s always there) but I’d been feeling strangely new for a while. It is bittersweet because feeling better means James feels so far away. But I had more energy and felt more outgoing. But lately the darkness has come back in its full force. I know what it is - The light is changing, the leaves are falling, the children are walking up the hill to school wearing coats… Blackberries are fading, the shops are full of orange tacky halloween crap… of course - it is October. And my body knows it and today it is protecting me, it senses the change of light, the throwing back of the time is imminent, the mornings are so uninspiring with a creeping low light. All these things are telling me, oh, dear, I remember this, this was terrifying and so it takes me down and says, You lie low here a while, wait for the terror to pass. The day itself does not want to start. So how the hell can I get going? I am supposed to be in a beautiful little garden right now in Chapel Amble. I am supposed to be there with my hands in the dirt, gloves on, secateurs and fork ready. But I am here, needing to reach out again. I want to write this because I know I am not alone. Whether it’s a loved one, a home, a treasured thing, even just the loss of a sense of yourself, I know that most of you reading this know what loss is, you know how kindness works; that it is vital, you know that there are days when it comes back, just to make sure you know, just to remind you - this is what life is, this is what pain is, don’t go thinking life is easy. Here, go on, it says, it’s yours, have another taste of it, and here is your love too, all mixed up with your loss. You must love your loss. Treat it like a pet, nurture it. If you tend to it, it really can make beautiful things, make you new friends, and see the world differently.  Go on now, put it to bed for the afternoon, with a hot water bottle and a cup of tea. Later, make some soup for your loss while wearing your pyjamas, soak your loss in the bath and put it to bed, stroke its face and let it cry. 

Childless Dog Lovers

China cups on the beach are best

My darling, James, would you have liked to drink tea?

I am sure you’d have loved it, eventually 

This morning I packed the flask and my usual cup, 

(you remember, the white one with gold flowers that have faded from the dishwasher)

And off we went to the beach, (to look for you?)

You weren’t at home, but then as we got in the car

We felt we’d left you behind

Were you at the beach?

I looked under pebbles, in the dunes and in the clouds

There was a keen wind, scattering all the pieces of the picture

I drank hot tea out of my charity shop china

Daddy smoked next to me and I made a face and wafted him away

Like I would a wasp - you’d have laughed at that, you’d have said, Daddy you’re like a wasp, annoying mummy)

I must be nicer, kinder

Like you

You are my guide, my teacher. 

Ernie found a friend. A golden retriever, called Tuppence. 

They raced and chased, tails following on fast 

and sand flicked up behind their legs

They stole each other’s balls and then, 

digging, digging down into the wet sand,

they hid their balls. 

We stood in the middle of this whirlwind of furry fun 

Whipping up the sand around us. 

They had the hole beach, those silly dogs

But around us they went, round and round. 

James, Look at us - Me and Daddy, on the beach without you

What do we look like? 

Childless dog lovers. 

Love Your Loss

I wrote that in the first few weeks without him. We still see Tuppence on Rock beach. Ernie has aged a bit now and is not so playful. He’s ten. Alexa says a ten year old medium size dog, in dog years, is about 60 years old. So it’s no wonder he’s slowing down. I asked Alexa how old I am in dog years as I feel like an old dog these days. She said, ‘There’s been no record of a dog living past the age of 30 but 44 is roughly 213.’ Feels about right. Incidentally Simon called me Alexa yesterday. James would have laughed his head off at that. And I shouted at the television, TV, OFF! So yes, as expected we are both losing our minds. Not sure I ever had one to lose tbh. If you haven’t got an Alexa - don’t get one. She’s awful. She makes life noisy. I hate saying her name. Three syllables! A Lex A, too much effort. I don’t like my voice when I say it.  I sound bossy. What about Bob? Bob would be so much easier on a tired jaw. Smiling is so tiring. Bob, what day is it? Bob, who am I? Bob, have I got any wine in the fridge? I think my most frequently asked question to her is, Alexa, what is the temperature outside today? When you work outdoors you need to know this before you get dressed. Alexa can you sod off and leave me in peace?  I miss walking over to my radio to press buttons. I miss the physical connection with my old Roberts radio. 

I said to Simon on the dog walk this morning, that in a way, we did get to experience something so profoundly beautiful. All those years of being so finely tuned into him, always together, always appreciating every moment. Simon wasn’t convinced. It must be very irritating listening to me trying to find positives. If it was the other way round I’d find it annoying. It feels like someone is saying your feelings are not valid. I must keep quiet and let him find his own positives.  We must allow some self-pity. Because once it’s been acknowledged you do recover quicker. Even if my positives are laced with denial, it’s my way of coping. I’m grateful for the denial. I say, this was all meant to be, blah blah blah, I go on… and then like today the crash comes and says, it still hurts, meant to be or not. 

Always better to be active. Look out, act out. That is a mantra I got from a six week CBT course I did about 8 years ago. When James was a few months old a health visitor on her rounds, watching me talk, sensing my loneliness, said she was worried I had mild postnatal depression. She could see James and I had a good attachment but I wasn’t quite right. I do think the attachment was for show. I still felt he was a stranger and I was trying to get to know him but he was bloody tricky! (Also, she didn’t know me before! I’ve always had this lost look on my face.)  I told her, I am not depressed, just tired. He doesn’t sleep, I said. She said, I’m not convinced, and so she referred me to Outlook Southwest. I met with a lovely woman called Anita in the town hall once a week for six weeks. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is a very proactive sort of therapy. It says, right, what’s the problem, let’s stare it in the face, challenge it - these thoughts you’re having - are they true? I am probably simplifying it and definitely can’t remember it clearly. But I remember her telling me, when I walk back home, try to look at something you have looked at hundreds of times and try to see if you can notice something you have never seen before. On my walk home, the whole town grew before my eyes. These wearie shop fronts were attached to whole buildings, old buildings with character, history. Windows I’d never noticed. This was the start of a long journey, the way out of living inside my head. I can’t remember why I started talking about CBT. this is the state of my brain now. I must go back to the top, find my thread… Ah, yes,  I hadn’t planned to write a newsletter today. I am at home, because the thought of dragging my body to work is making me want to cry. I should be at work. I am hoping it will start raining so I won’t have to go. I should go. It will make me feel better. 

We need these lessons it seems. We need days that don’t start and days that put us in our place. But it’s hard. How do we give in, how do we make that call and say, I am so sorry but I don’t think I can do it today? I honestly don’t know how to get my body from here to the car, to the garden. You see, I know I have touched a nerve because writing that made me cry. Why? Why is it so hard for us to give in and say, actually do you know what, I am feeling absolutely broken today. Why are we afraid of weakness? I’ve been strong. And I will be strong again. But today I can’t be strong. And that’s okay, Jessica, it’s ok to just lie down and think, Oh for crying out loud, what the fuck happened to me, this is so awful. Tomorrow will be easier if I do this. 

I am tuning in and out of the news. How many wars? How many deaths? Fires and floods? We are somewhat desensitised. We have to be. How else can we live? Human beings seem intent on killing each other. How would I have explained this to James? Humans not being human. But animals don’t behave like this. So what the hell are we?  He would have cried. He’d be aware of it all now. We can’t protect children. That just leaves them more exposed in the long run. He was so sensitive. He cried whenever he thought he’d upset someone or something, or once when he broke a glass, he felt so awful; if you could have seen him sobbing, it would have broken your heart into many pieces. I read a little book once called The Highly Sensitive Child, it’s only a thin pamphlet. It helped me a lot; it helped me get to know my son. I recommend anyone to read about it because you realise why your child is making a big deal out of things. You see from their eyes. 

Out of nowhere, I have been plunged into a strange frenzy of writing. I cannot sleep past 5 am. I get up and write till gone 9 and then go to work. I have been using every minute, when not gardening, to write. Apart from the occasional half a Guinness, (most days) I am tapping away, sentences pouring out of me.  Poor Simon has to live in even more of a tip than usual. The state of the house does not interest me one bit. I don’t even notice it. I notice my son’s face in a frame on every spare surface. I notice my bed, my bath, and the table where I sit and eat and scribble. I am very lucky. Like his Son, Simon is a very kind man.  He is a fantastic cook. He’s very supportive. He knows writing is my therapy. And it keeps me quiet. So he’s clever too. Sit down and write, he says, (and stop bloody giving me advice). I’ve got to let him grieve in his own way. 

In the process of writing I have become disconnected from my phone; my friends and especially from my bereaved mum’s group. I know my Manor Mums will understand. We are a very forgiving bunch. I am always thinking of them and always inspired by them. Knowing that they are out there, getting through their day, helps me enormously. They were all there for me and I felt dependent on that What’s app chat for a long time. And now I am not there for them. I am struggling to read emails, texts, newspapers. It’s a feeling of being full up. There is just no room inside me to absorb anything. I stare and words and nothing goes in. 

I can’t go back in time. I have to keep moving forward. Gardens I worked in two years ago when I started gardening, I can no longer go to. I can’t go back to that time of early grief. Only forward, away, away. I have not been to Fee’s wonderful garden in Rock for so long now, a year maybe. It is where I first went, only five months into living without James. She let me in, with no experience or qualifications, and her garden wrapped its arms around me. It was a safe space, nourishing and healing. It is so strange now to think of myself there, so sad inside and yet there I was, becoming a gardener. Such fond and yet not fond memories because every step was using all my strength. Every step was a step away from James’ life. It’s the same with another lovely garden down the road from there. Gina couldn’t wait to show me her garden, teach me how to prune her roses and hydrangeas, plant bulbs etc. I was finding my feet. I was being useful. Knowing that someone was waiting for me, to help their garden grow, got me out of bed. But then, grief turns a corner, runs uphill and needs to keep going, I have to go with it, I can’t go back. I picture Gina’s garden now, and hope she found someone else to help her. It doesn’t make sense to turn my back on a garden. But I just have to keep moving. I’m not sure I am explaining this well but it’s a surreal feeling, hard to put my finger on it. Looking back I don’t feel like I was really ever there, so to go back reconnects me with the shock. Your brain is trying to settle into its foundations, smooth out the cracks, your nervous system is trying to mend, rattled nerves are trying to sit back and relax. 

We were recently invited to a new wing of a Brain Tumour Research Lab for a tour after our local pub put on a raffle to raise money in memory of James. I think I wrote about in my last letter.  It was a mistake to go. An hour’s drive from here in Plymouth. We are not ready to talk about brain tumours. Always trying to find a positive - I will say that the positive for me is that I have found my limit. We were about to be taken into a lab where technicians were working on tumours. Obvious really, what were we expecting to see? And I really don’t understand why anyone would want to see bits of tumours down a microscope.  There were many others there on their tour, all fundraisers, either patients or bereaved loved ones. We were the only ones that left the tour, fleeing in tears. And that’s okay. We went. We tried. We were brave and we listened to our bodies and left when we’d had enough. Thank you again for reading, for supporting us. Apologies for type errors, today, I can’t look back. 

Goodbye Dahlias. See you again next year.