Just over thirteen weeks, and I wish I could bring you some cheer. Not yet, I am afraid.
How am I feeling?
It feels like I have been carrying around with me, scrabbling in the pit of my stomach, some wild, hungry creature that threatens, all the time, to tear through, emitting a scream which is beyond language and reason. It is a demanding and unpredictable creature, this thing that is my grief.
Oh, I am so very good at whipping it into heel, this creature (which is more than can be said for the orphaned Hounds!). After all, the world does not want to glimpse this raw and real human emotion, particularly so long (ha ha!) after the funeral.
I do think it is a pity we have abandoned the idea of a formal mourning period – the Victorian variety with lots of black and veils, worn for at least a year. I could do, just now, with some visible signs that I am still not really, not even nearly, ‘myself’ – whatever ‘myself’ might turn out to be without my love who has been the warp and weft of all my adult life.
Such visible signals would perhaps help prevent the tactlessness and insensitivity with which I have had to contend in this world that is so bad at dealing with illness and grief.
Shall I give a sampler of some of this insensitivity?
There was the woman who came into Jonathan’s studio while I was trying, ineffectually, to make some decisions about what is to be done with everything – worrying about what can be sold and what must find a home in the garage.
“I hear that the nice chappy who was here is dead. Such a shame, ” she drawls.
Of course, she is horrified when I say that the ‘nice chappie’ was my husband.
And then there is some of the strangeness from my women ‘friends.’
How is this for a corker?
To avoid being on my own for yet another long evening, I am walking with two friends, one single, one divorced. (Yes – the two remaining Hounds are there.) Surprise, surprise they are soon talking about ‘relationships.’ They are walking a little ahead of me as they chatter.
“You’ll learn that all the best men are married, or you might catch one who is going through a divorce,” chirps one of these friends, turning round to me with a grin.
I am still feeling queasy about that one, as you can imagine.
And another:
A good friend seems to be claiming some sort of ‘psychic’ connection with Jonathan because they once had a chat about that sort of thing in the car and, she tells me in an email, ‘You wouldn’t understand …’ What exactly I wouldn’t understand, I am not sure. Her uncanny closeness to my husband? Hmm – maybe not the time to bring it up, when I am longing for any paranormal sign which might tell me that he is still with me.
As one or two male friends have pointed out, because of my new single status, my relationships with women friends is going to change. One, a biologist, puts it all down to women needing to protect the nest. I think he sees all women as very unevolved – completely biologically determined. But I think there might be a point here about these women friends and it has come as complete shock to me.
One final thing: if anyone else tells me that they know how I feel because they have ‘lost’ an aunt, a mother, a father, a second cousin once removed, I think I will hit them.
I have experienced the death of both my parents, who I adored.
This is nothing, nothing like that.
Of course, I had Jonathan to help me through those deaths.
This brings me back to the idea of mourning clothes: if we lived in a society that expected a formal mourning period, with heavy veils, I would be wearing the deepest black. I very much feel the need of some protection.
Oh yes – and a black band round the car would be a good idea – I think other drivers need to be warned that I am really not safe behind the wheel …
Lots of love to you all.
