death, dying, terminal

death, dying, terminal
For some reason these words have invaded my brian and consciousness, the daily vocaublary of the fears and future. I'm pretty matter of fact on them ... mostly, but today has been a thoughtful one.

Q: Things you'll miss, suze, are they not bothering you a bit?
Strangely not, and certainly not in the way a fellow traveller told me she was distraught at the thought of missing land-marks as her kids grow up. I don't have kids to miss, for a start. Tho I do feel sad that the nephews will miss their aunty and I will probably never know what great feats they will achieve, unless they get off to a very brisk start! I do allow myself to get sad for leaving them from time to time.

There must be something you'll miss most? Really, yeah I guess there is ... I can't imagine not being here to comfort B shen she is upset ... who can do that job for me? Who will be here when she is rattling round this familiar territory that we crafted between us? I fear that my very absence will be tangible to her .... and she will be sad, daily stumbling over sprinkled detritus of my daily pulse in our home and all that we've accumulated and shared here.

I hope the memories and layers here can make her happy in rememberance of how lucky we've been, and not cast her ever downwards ....

I fear I would be very cast downwards if it were me left behind ..... I'm sorry missis, so sorry to be leaving you .... I would never imagine leaving you any other way than this one, one I cannot choose to avoid .....

Late

Late home, one night, I found

she was not yet home herself.

So I got into bed and waited

under my blanket mound,

until I heard her come in

and hurry upstairs.

My back was to the door.

Without turning round,

I greeted her, but my voice

made only a hollow, parched-throated

k-, k-, k- sound,

which I could not convert into words

and which, anyway, lacked

the force to carry.

Nonplussed, but not distraught,

I listened to her undress,

then sidle along the far side

of our bed and lift the covers.

Of course, I’d forgotten she’d died.

Adjusting my arm for the usual

cuddle and caress,

I felt mattress and bedboards

welcome her weight

as she rolled and settled towards me,

but, before I caught her,

it was already too late

and she’d wisped clean away.

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I've saved this poem here because Brigid told me she had head it on Radio 4 this week.

The poet turns out the be a man, Christopher Reid, who lost his wife to brain cancer and subsequently wrote this collection of poems about the experience. This article in The Telegraph can tell you more.

For me, this poem makes tears stream down my face . . . it says so much about loss to me, about how the familiar sounds and movements of everyday life seem to turn traitor in death.

Anyone who has had a loving partner and a close relationship in life will know the fear that one day or other one of you is going to be left bereft by loss, by that resounding empty, silent space where your lover used to live.

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On Friday, when B was telling me about this poem and hearing it on the Radio on her way to work I felt chilled and tearful myself, and asked her if it had made her cry. She said no, no it hadn't made her cry. For some reason it had had an opposite effect, it had made her feel reminded of how common it is. How common it is to be left bereaved. She seemed to take some comfort in that.

I hope she continues to be so strong.

It is common. Death, loss, bereavment, common and entirely natural and a part of the deal we get when we get a life to live.

But, for me, I still think being left is worse than dying.