Some things about grief.
I don't know how many.
First of all, thank you. Thank you to everyone who has upheld me, shared reflections of Alan, and reminded me that memory is a blessing. Thank you for your prayers, thoughtful messages, cups of tea, and for the flowers and meals and cards you have sent. Thank you for being people who show up and say something, when it might be easier not to. Thank you for demonstrating that the internet can be a force for good, and that kindness can exist in all sorts of ways. Thank you for letting me know that I am not alone.
This week’s permission:
You have permission to fall over for a bit whenever you need to. It’s okay. You can have a little rest and then get up again when you are ready.
My Granda Breeze* (Harry) died when I was 19. In the days afterwards we were getting organised to go somewhere, and my Dad said, ‘we’ll take two cars, there are five of us’. And my Grandma said, ‘Six, there’s Harry.’ I too have lost my ability to count, or to count myself as one. Even though Alan and I did a lot of things separately, when it came to important things we would go together. And everything now seems important, and so I am counting wrong.
I went to Quaker Meeting on Sunday morning. It was really hard. Hard to receive so much love and compassion. Hard to sit in silence**. Hard to be open to the Light. But I did it, and I’m glad I did. And when I came home, I did the general knowledge crossword that Alan and I always did on a Sunday, and one of the answers was Portsmouth, which is the place Alan grew up. I know this is a coincidence, but it was also a way of feeling held.
I have done some firsts this week. First big crossword. First Quaker meeting. First trip to Barter Books (thank you, Julie).
And first trip to the ice cream parlour without Alan. I had rhubarb and custard, Auntie Susan had salted caramel. My Dad arrived and Harvey and Lily, who suspected they were going to get a taste of his (hazelnut and Jersey***), were Very Good Dogs until they did.
Here’s something I hadn’t thought about, about grief. You make almost everyone you talk to sad.
And here’s something I’ve learned about grief. People want to help, and you (I) should let them.
Although my impulse has been to say, when asked, ‘I don’t think I need anything,’ I’ve made myself override that. I’ve asked people who know about gardens to help me to sort mine out (I hadn’t so much as looked at it from the time Alan went into hospital). I’ve given people recycling to take away or bags to put in their bins (I forgot to put my bin out in the days after Alan died). A friend is going to scan some photos for me ahead of Alan’s Celebration of Life. When I was feeling a bit wobbly after paying the funeral director this morning****, I called one of the friends who said ‘call me anytime’ and had a cry and let myself be comforted.
Because the world keeps turning, and because all of the emotional turmoil doesn’t stop the need to make a living, and because Alan was so very proud of my writing career, please forgive me for letting you know that, for all of June, THE SECOND CHANCE BOOK CLUB is 99p/99c on Kindle (UK here and US here). I’ve also just realised that the paperback of THE SECOND CHANCE BOOK CLUB is currently £3 on Amazon: I have no idea for how long.
And the Lost For Words shop is open for business, here. I saw my first piece of merch in the wild this week, and it was a genuine moment of joy.
I think that’s all I have in the tank for now. More anon*****.
Until next time,
Stephanie x
*Breeze was my Granda’s surname, this is not a mad nickname
**I also cried in silence, which was not deliberate. The tears just came and came, and I let them.
***two flavours, not one
****to be absolutely clear: it’s because I don’t want to make Alan’s death true, nothing to do with the actual fee
*****by which I mean, I have absolutely no idea when