I sat on my bed, my lap top on; the morning stretching ahead. Free time, a good sleep and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
I don’t know why but it seemed better to stare into space, to fall into a dwam than to seize the chance to write. I do not think about my dad much now, it is not the ever present reminder that it was for the first week. But it is strange. All of this is strange.
When my mum called me down to help her put the gathered fallen leaves into the bin, I felt a slight sense of relief and a touch of guilt that she has carried on, just doing it all; just doing it all.
Today is the first day in ages that has been bright and sunny. A wonderful change, so much better than the dreich rain of last week where the greyness and that hanging dampness have done nothing to improve our mood. But today; well today is a good one.
We decided to go to one of the pubs that Mum and Dad used to go to. Away off at Firle; the Ram. A sprawling place with lit fires and low roofs. And there, in between eating our fish platter together, we talked about how we felt. It is a relief in a way that we both have similar feelings. Mum says she just feels different as though something has happened but she doesn’t know what. As if she is on the edge of things, as if the world is a bit further away, she doesn’t so much feel as feel numb, she doesn’t feel but her stomach feels the way it used to do before an exam. And I feel much the same, as though there is a heap of nothingness in my soul, as though I will wake up at some point and understand but maybe I won’t.
Her friends tell her this is normal, tell her that it will change, that at some point it will all become real and she will feel the full impact. I hope I don’t. I don’t particularly want that.
But she also said that there is a sense of relief. Dad had been so dependent on her and had never wanted to go out anymore. For the last two years she has left him alone only for the shortest of possible times; always rushing back, not because he asked it of her, but because she worried about him. Despite their love she had become trapped and exhausted.
She said that now she might be able to stay behind and chat after the Samaritans finishes, that she could go to friends, out for a meal, off to the cinema, or just get fed up with her own company, pack her bags and come to visit us, her children, and we both agreed that mixed feeling that this death was a blessing; that it brought to an end what was beginning to be a very difficult life.
I liked that pub, our smoked salmon, our mackerel pate, the waitresses who seemed so friendly, the fire.
We carried on afterwards to the top of the South Downs, to Firle Beacon. I remember I just missed a massive pot hole in the road and that I worried that the car would get stuck on the bumpy pebbles as we came into the car park but how after all this rain (Almost twice what normally falls) The South Downs were still dry.
On a day like this they are beautiful. So green and smooth, the soft hollows and curves, the green, green grass and the dark shadows from the occasional cloud. The far off sea; shining bright silver with the dazzling sunshine. The dark shape of a ship leaving Newhaven. The bumble of light aircraft droning above us, and neither the far off offshore windfarm nor the landbased turbines, vanes turning. Everything so still; the smoke far below, rising in a straight blue grey line from a bonfire. The whistles of a man for his dog, the bleat of a sheep, the squawk of the crows.
It was lovely and as we walked we remembered times that I had walked with mum from home to here in times past, when Dad could still drive out to meet us and take us home. I remember those times but they are a bit too distant; I could not retrace our route from memory, I would need prompting. I cannot remember the conversations but I know that every time I went walking with Mum, Dad would have been part of what we talked about as we walked along the edges of the fields and up the gentle hills.
Mum mentioned the time, when Dad could still walk properly, when they went for a long walk up here. When they got back to car, to go home, Dad patted his pockets and couldn’t find the car keys. He decided that they must have fallen out of his pocket when he went for a wee behind a bush some considerable distance away. Off they went to look for them, searched all around the bush; couldn’t find them so they decided to walk home and, just as they were nearing home, Dad took off his jacket because he was hot and realized the light jacket underneath had pockets too, in which rested the car keys! So round they turned again, back to the car to take it home. Not much of a story but the sort of story that families remember. A “Do you remember that time when?”
Now that is all we do have; memories of Dad. A strange feeling that I think I will take ages to get used to.
I have been trying to organize my injection. It has been a bit chaotic. My CPN says that last time I had to come down in a hurry that it was easy compared to this time. I registered with the doctor and they said I just needed my CPN to send a prescription to the chemist which she did, but the chemist said it was the wrong one and they needed a particular something or other which my doctor’s surgery in Scotland refused to do. Then the surgery down here called me and said that they couldn’t prescribe it themselves while I was down here as they knew nothing about me and that it would be better if my CPN contacted the community mental health team for this area. She did that and they asked for a prescription to be sent direct to them. She did but it was dated wrong! So the team down here then got one of their consultants to do their own prescription. They then phoned me not long ago to tell me to come to the clinic in Eastbourne and were very helpful; going into great detail about how to get to them.
The only sour note was when they said that my medication was very expensive and that they needed to find some way of justifying the prescription when I don’t actually live here. I found that a bit thoughtless and a bit unfair but can imagine doing something like that myself. When you have had to go to a great deal of unexpected effort you sometimes want the person you have done it for to know just how much a favor you have done for them, but still, it was unnecessary.
Wendy phoned after we got home after yesterday’s panic that she would be very late when she comes down for the funeral: my plaintive text saying I missed her so much, needed someone to talk to, to cuddle to, be with. I am so glad she changed the flight. And slightly mortified!
She said that she had thought I was managing perfectly fine and that coming down in the night would mean that she could spend more time on the weekend with the twins but still have time with me; had no idea that I might be struggling.
It is funny; she was talking about it to a friend at work who reminded her how bad men can be at saying they need help when they are not quite coping in the way everyone thinks they are. Funny to think I fit that stereotype! But I do!
Work have been fantastic with compassionate leave; I think I will have had three and half weeks off by the time I go back to work and they were so strict about me not working at all while I was off, it feels very good.
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