Saturday 12 January 2019

And Here We Are


And I remain here in our world of blood-red tomatoes and earthy spices,
Willing for change and new routine and otherness,
I can be a sentinel for others' attraction
and a beacon of rest for the grieving faction.
But I know what I am not
and who I have not.
Everyone else remains here in our world of barking dogs and carrier bags,
Scuttling, targeting, oblivious to who they have lost,
Maybe wilful ignorance helps navigate
the risks of daily comfort.
Maybe they do not want
what they have not got.
The children that know lived through homework and after-school clubs,
Their fortitude bolstered by potential and by childish romance,
Maybe distance has dulled the sharpness
and youth is resilience.
They can survive painlessly
wanting what they don't have.
But she doesn't remain in our world of red tomatoes and earthy spices,
Of barking dogs and homework and after-school clubs.
Of sentinels and beacons and places of rest
Of daily comfort from those who give peace.
There she is,
and here we are.





Wednesday 2 January 2019

Anniversaries



There are a handful of anniversaries to navigate now that Ruby is not with us any more. Each has its' own identity. The anniversary of her death (May 8th, the day before my wedding anniversary) has a blanket sadness that is utterly unavoidable, there is nothing that can be done that day to reduce its effects, no distractions, no positive discussions. It is, without fuss or negotiation, the worst day of my life. I feel terrible rage at the unfairness of it all, I feel my body collapse and implode, I feel fate has assaulted me with a disability for life, I feel so much and also so little.
Our birthdays, as close relatives, have their own identity in connection to grief- we make them as fun as we can but the gap of loss is unavoidably present. There is no other day of the year like a birthday for someone who forever grieves. There are presents, laughs, cake, going out for dinner, seeing friends and all the usual shared celebrations. But the edges of the precipice are crisper than ever. On birthdays Ruby is barely mentioned, if at all. It is supposed to be day of celebration after all so sad stuff is not supposed to be brought up but of course it barely needs to be brought up, its always there.
The emotions experienced on Ruby's birthday vary every year depending on her age. Three months ago she would have been seventeen years old (when I last saw her she was eleven). The run-up to this anniversary is the longest of the year and usually takes many weeks. In public during this period I can only see young women of about her age and I am distracted by ideas of lost potential- would Ruby be in education, training, still have the same friends, would she be happy in our family, what about her relationship with her brother Tom, would she have liked a birthday party or a quiet night in with close friends?
Christmas grief has its own identity, one influenced by a monthly build-up to a holiday of family time, expected jollity, excess and conspicuous consumerism. I can experience social anxiety any time but there is a pressure on me like no other time of year to be around other people and there is an expectation to be celebratory, which I never feel. As an atheist adult, Christmas meant very little for me from the time I stopped believing in Santa Claus up until I had children of my own. Then there were eleven Christmases of childlike wonder and excitement but now that has gone. Tom enjoys it, of course, but everything is different now.
In the last five years Christmas has barely evolved from what it has always been around here- getting together with extended family, eating and drinking. This year I spent much of my time in a quiet corner online, connecting with strangers and trying to make things a little less lonely for us all on a Twitter group designed just for that purpose. That is my Christmas identity- loneliness. Feeling alone, even in company, has been the unique identity of my Christmas for the last five years. I do what is expected of me, as a relative, but there is no other day of my year that has that same quality of displacement as Christmas, of disconnectedness from my surroundings (it is for this reason that I can easily empathise, and can create good connections with, lonely people online and I try to use some of my day to ease our burdens). I am always pleased to see the end of this day. This year my dad was over from London for a week which was lovely too but he and Claire and Tom were all ill with bugs so my two weeks time off from nursing over Christmas was a busman's holiday. I had prepared myself a little for the unhealthiness of the time by losing a little weight in December (reducing bread and pasta for a few weeks and adding on a few more runs than usual which also contributed to helping me feel a little more in control of my emotions).
I spent midnight New Years Eve at home. Claire and Tom were asleep, snotty, coughing, with a high temperature, and I considered my resolutions for 2019 but came up with nothing. I think all I wanted was a return to some sort of routine combined with an escape to the forest. Maybe this is all I ever really want.
I want to get through the new year without totally fucking up. Anything else is a bonus.




This my favourite tree in the world- an oak in Castlewellan Forest Park in Northern Ireland, taken today 2nd January 2019.