We got the knock at 6am on May 8th 2013, two days after Ruby left on a coach for a week-long trip to Scotland with 60 other children in her year at school and the day before my wedding anniversary. The head of her school and a police officer nearly broke the front door down they knocked so hard. "No she isn't alright, she died" was the last thing I remember for a while and is the phrase, with accompanying visuals, that returns to me spontaneously like a deeply unwanted and distressing flashback. It still does.
We subsequently learned (through police investigations, pathology reports, etc) she had started to have heart failure at around 7pm the evening before, was very ill throughout the evening and, around 2am the next morning, had a heart attack and died. Resuscitation went on for a long time and she was pronounced dead at around 5am. I was never telephoned during that evening and didn't have any say in her care or get a chance to speak to her.
I have snatches of memories from those first few months. The house was very, very busy. It felt as if it was constantly full of people, bustling and milling and filling in the blanks with soup and hugs. Lots of flowers. Eating only biscuits for days. Staring at the floor for hours. Every morning I felt newly traumatised having to know it wasn't all a dream. All of her teachers coming at the same time and being unsure whether to hug them or scream at them.
I remember being very, very quiet for a very long time. I was flattened, crushed under the weight of such a burden. Everything felt broken into constituent parts and there was no compound sophistication- conversation was one line at a time, food was basic, coffee was black, Claire and I were within arms reach, every corner of the house felt cluttered, too much stimulus. It was the hottest, driest summer for years and I sat on the lawn for days. Even though I knew the sky may have been the clearest and bluest for years and the lawn was probably vivid green to others colours were bleak and washed out and, although I got sun-burned, I couldn't detect any heat.
I was genuinely, clinically exhausted. Everything was tiring.
I ruminated on mental images for hours on end- fissures in a cliff face, empty seas, wood grain, painted walls, seismic shifts under mountains. I felt anxiety for the first time in my life. My first time out the house, except to a local shop for daily provisions, was to a restaurant for my 40th birthday with my closest friends two months after Ruby died. I did what I thought was expected of me- I drank a little wine and ate three probably beautiful courses at this fancy place and then promptly vomited the whole thing back up, had a panic attack and got a cab straight home.
We started new habits. We made a goal every day, usually involving getting to the local shop for bread and milk and we would try to take as long as possible. Previously it felt as if there wasn't enough time in the day to fit everything in. Now we couldn't understand why time went so slow, it had changed so much, and why our days were so long. In the mornings we found ourselves wondering how early we could get back to bed that evening.
Oddly now I look back, I thought I was doing well those first few months but thereafter realised I was in shock. I started to read a little, having not read for months, about ways of coping with grief during this period whilst waiting for the shock to wear off. And it did wear off and I fell apart for months again. It was during this time I discovered humanism as a way of helping me.
I returned to work five months after Ruby died which was probably too early but had no financial choice. I was lucky to have that long.
In many ways I am lucky- I have the grounding of a loving upbringing which initially anchored me, I have had good friendships that have influenced my personality, I have training, experience and insight in mental health, I have a strong marriage and amazing wife- and so I expect certain feelings and I know I need to do certain things that help. Primarily, over those first few months, I cried and talked. I did little else.
Then:
I made small goals and allowed myself small successes. I put myself under no pressure. I took medication when necessary, I didn't take it when it wasn't. I trusted others (adults) to take care of themselves because I was in no state to help them- my unit comprised of me, Claire and Tom. When I could eat I ate good food and drank the best coffee. I read usefully. I said no when I wanted to. I asked for help when I needed it. Time crawled relentlessly on.
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