This blog is a place to rant and rave, a place to vent. If anything I say offends or upsets, I can only apologise in advance, it isn't my intention to hurt anyone's feelings.
After years of feminist rhetoric I am supposed to say "a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle", but the fact is that right now I need a man. If the truth be told I actually need someone, anyone or anything that can help me with the practicalities around the house. I can paint a wall, and at a push a door, but skirting boards are beyond me. The hallway has patches that need filling (thanks Tall) but I don't do ladders above a certain height, and definitely not ladders on stairs. The tap in the kitchen is dripping, but I don't know what washer I need, and I'm too scared to take it apart to try and find out. The list goes on. Helpful people say "get a man in", (everyone assumes it is a handyman), without thinking how difficult it might be for a lone female to invite a strange man into the house.
Then there is the mattress. Our mattress needs its seasonal flip. I just about managed to top-to-tail it in June, but the flip isn't something I can do alone. "Get your kids to help you." Well I could, if they actually lived closer / were physically able to and I wasn't embarrassed by the state of the mattress. You see Tall was a stubborn man and refused to sleep on a waterproof protector. He was also ill. His low immune system left him vulnerable to stomach bugs, so along with his lymphocytic colitis, a side effect of his first SCT, there were times when he was caught short in his sleep. I did what I could to spot clean the small areas where the normal protector fell short, but the mattress was still marked. Sometimes despite him thinking his fistula had stopped bleeding, it would start again in the night. Tall's low platelets left him pouring sometimes, but they weren't low enough for the hospital to bother doing anything. Again I spot cleaned, but blood is a tricky foe. "Get a new mattress!!" Well I will one day, but for now I am comforted by being able to sleep on the bed Tall died in. I like to see the dip where he lay, and sometimes I lie in the hollow just so I can feel close to him. Yes one day I will buy a new mattress, but not today.
I am a damsel in distress on many levels.
Friday 25 October 2019
Wednesday 23 October 2019
Bereavement Top Trumps
When Tall died people tried so hard to comfort me with their kind words and, what to me felt like, platitudes. I knew they meant well, that they were trying to help, so I stopped myself from screaming at them. Saying something is better than saying nothing in my book. One of the things that was said to me was that losing Tall was like a deep wound, that with time would heal, but the scar would always be there and like a war wound when the weather was cold or wet there would be twinges.
I have come to realise that the other problem with a wound is, that if it is knocked before being completely healed, it bleeds. On Sunday I sent a message to a friend saying I was thinking of her, as she had said her mother wasn't doing too well. She replied saying that she and her brother were currently sitting with the mother and that she hadn't got long. The memories can flooding back and when she messaged me later to say her mother had passed away the floodgates opened. So much grief.
Which brings me to the title of my post. I found myself yesterday wrongly playing a game of Bereavement Top Trumps in my head. I'm sure you all know the game of Top Trumps, but in case you don't, it's a card game where you have to name something printed on your card that is bigger / better in a certain category than your opponent's. I wrongly started to compare my friend losing her parent to me losing my soulmate. I bitterly became angry that she had her brother and her husband to help her through the paperwork and arrangements. I'm not proud of myself, I'm ashamed. I felt I had to share it though as it is another part of my journey, part of my grieving process. I'm sure I'm not alone, even if others don't admit to it.
Today I know that no two people are the same and so no two people suffering bereavements are the same. I cannot possibly know how someone who has lost a parent feels, I never had one to lose. For now the wound has stopped bleeding and is only niggling slightly.
I have come to realise that the other problem with a wound is, that if it is knocked before being completely healed, it bleeds. On Sunday I sent a message to a friend saying I was thinking of her, as she had said her mother wasn't doing too well. She replied saying that she and her brother were currently sitting with the mother and that she hadn't got long. The memories can flooding back and when she messaged me later to say her mother had passed away the floodgates opened. So much grief.
Which brings me to the title of my post. I found myself yesterday wrongly playing a game of Bereavement Top Trumps in my head. I'm sure you all know the game of Top Trumps, but in case you don't, it's a card game where you have to name something printed on your card that is bigger / better in a certain category than your opponent's. I wrongly started to compare my friend losing her parent to me losing my soulmate. I bitterly became angry that she had her brother and her husband to help her through the paperwork and arrangements. I'm not proud of myself, I'm ashamed. I felt I had to share it though as it is another part of my journey, part of my grieving process. I'm sure I'm not alone, even if others don't admit to it.
Today I know that no two people are the same and so no two people suffering bereavements are the same. I cannot possibly know how someone who has lost a parent feels, I never had one to lose. For now the wound has stopped bleeding and is only niggling slightly.
Sunday 13 October 2019
Five months on.
My darling Tall, is it really five months since you lay there smiling at me? Time seems to be twisted like a mobius strip by grief, weeks can feel like a month, a month feels like only yesterday and sometimes I feel I have walked miles only to find myself back where I started.
After five months I find that I still weep for you, the tears are flowing freely as I type this letter. Yet, I am starting to do things by myself, for myself. On Friday I went to the hairdresser's for the first time since you died. I know that most people won't understand how difficult it was, may be if I were to tell them that Ade was also your hairdresser, that we would often go together and take it in turns to sit on the large red sofa watching the other being attended to. I have to admit that I did shed a tear sitting there waiting on Friday, I could see you sitting in Ade's chair, chatting away as he cut your curly locks.
I have moved a few items of furniture around, with help, and started to clear things that I will never use. I am beginning to make my own decisions. I know you would be pleased, even when I tell you that I had to kick the builder into touch. The inappropriate texts began again and even when I made it clear they weren't welcome, they continued. For a few days I felt guilty, that I should have stopped it earlier, that I must have said or done something that gave MP the idea that I was interested in him. Then I realised it wasn't me, and I remembered a phone call that you had had in the garden, when someone else had told you that MP had been sending texts to his sister. That you hadn't believed it. That you had called MP and told him what had been said, and that you didn't believe it. At that moment I became angry, not for myself, but because MP had betrayed you and your trust in him. How can I ever trust him again? So now I am in limbo, so many jobs around the house that you had asked MP to deal with, and me not trusting that I can find someone who I can trust. I will get there and even if I don't, the house won't fall down, it just won't be a show house.
I am beginning to see a chink of light and that in a way scares me. What if people think I didn't love you as much as I claim? I know how much you meant to me, I know that you knew how much I loved you, it was the last thing you heard. I will always love you and I know I can never find a love so special ever again. I can only hope that outsiders understand that even if I start to live for myself, it doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be living for us.
My endless love
Good Cheer Pixie x x x
After five months I find that I still weep for you, the tears are flowing freely as I type this letter. Yet, I am starting to do things by myself, for myself. On Friday I went to the hairdresser's for the first time since you died. I know that most people won't understand how difficult it was, may be if I were to tell them that Ade was also your hairdresser, that we would often go together and take it in turns to sit on the large red sofa watching the other being attended to. I have to admit that I did shed a tear sitting there waiting on Friday, I could see you sitting in Ade's chair, chatting away as he cut your curly locks.
I have moved a few items of furniture around, with help, and started to clear things that I will never use. I am beginning to make my own decisions. I know you would be pleased, even when I tell you that I had to kick the builder into touch. The inappropriate texts began again and even when I made it clear they weren't welcome, they continued. For a few days I felt guilty, that I should have stopped it earlier, that I must have said or done something that gave MP the idea that I was interested in him. Then I realised it wasn't me, and I remembered a phone call that you had had in the garden, when someone else had told you that MP had been sending texts to his sister. That you hadn't believed it. That you had called MP and told him what had been said, and that you didn't believe it. At that moment I became angry, not for myself, but because MP had betrayed you and your trust in him. How can I ever trust him again? So now I am in limbo, so many jobs around the house that you had asked MP to deal with, and me not trusting that I can find someone who I can trust. I will get there and even if I don't, the house won't fall down, it just won't be a show house.
I am beginning to see a chink of light and that in a way scares me. What if people think I didn't love you as much as I claim? I know how much you meant to me, I know that you knew how much I loved you, it was the last thing you heard. I will always love you and I know I can never find a love so special ever again. I can only hope that outsiders understand that even if I start to live for myself, it doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be living for us.
My endless love
Good Cheer Pixie x x x
Friday 11 October 2019
My mental health day.
Yesterday was World Mental Health Day. We were encouraged by the campaign to talk about mental health and wear yellow as a sign of our support. We had celebrities from royalty to pop royalty, footballers and pundits all talking about their struggles despite being rich / famous / successful. Mental health issues affect people from all walks of life. We couldn't hear from those who were most affected, their voices are silenced. People like Ellie Soutter, a promising Team GB snowboarder who committed suicide on her eighteenth birthday.
People jumped on the proverbial bandwagon, sharing and liking posts on the subject of mental health. Today they will go back to sharing "funny" videos and photos. Today they will have forgotten that the struggle for some is real, that it is every day. Today frontline services, the ambulance services and police forces across the UK will be dealing with those who are on the verge of trying to take their own lives and in some cases, dealing with those who have succeed. Talk is cheap, what we need is action. We need to actually campaign for better mental health services, with trained professionals, not expect young police officers, who have no mental health training, to talk to someone who is about to set fire to themselves.
I know my bereavement isn't strictly a mental health issue, but I can speak from experience about how people like to appear to be saying all the right things, but out of sight is out of mind and those supportive messages from the first month have all but dried up. No one wants to see or hear me sobbing, even if it is only virtually.
I would like to share something with you all. A couple of weeks ago I started to sort out the cabinets in the dining room (a loose term). Lots of things were boxed and sent to the charity shop, some things were thrown away. I created space and then refilled it, but at the end I had a storage unit that I had been using as a shelf for my cookery books and various other piles of "stuff". The unit was an old 1970s blockboard covered in laminate sort. Worth nothing on eBay, but still usable, so I put it on Freecycle. Freecycle is a site where you can offer things for free or ask for something, the idea being that less stuff gets thrown away. Within an hour I had six people asking if they could have the unit, was it still available. The first person to ask was someone who had posted several wanted ads. I contacted her and told her she could have it. She turned up the following day and when she arrived I not only gave her the unit, but I also gave her a hand blender that she had asked for on Freecycle. Clearly surprised she kept asking if I was sure, didn't I need it. I said no, I had used it to make my husband's fortified milk shakes, but now he has died I don't need it. She said the usually things about being sorry, and then gave me a hug and said she was amazed at how strong I appeared. We chatted for a bit about her baby who was three months old, me saying the usual thing of enjoy him while you have him, time flies and before you know it he will be grown up and gone. After a good chin-wag she was off. I felt very righteous because of my generosity (I know it would have been the bin but for Freecycle). I gave away several other things, but I didn't get that sense of satisfaction from any of the other things. A week later I got a text from the young mum, asking how I was doing and then again this week. That young mum has restored my faith in humanity, when some people who we once called friends are busy ignoring me, she is asking how I am doing. I gave her an old piece of furniture and in exchange I have received something worth much much more, a glimpse of the Good Cheer Pixie.
People jumped on the proverbial bandwagon, sharing and liking posts on the subject of mental health. Today they will go back to sharing "funny" videos and photos. Today they will have forgotten that the struggle for some is real, that it is every day. Today frontline services, the ambulance services and police forces across the UK will be dealing with those who are on the verge of trying to take their own lives and in some cases, dealing with those who have succeed. Talk is cheap, what we need is action. We need to actually campaign for better mental health services, with trained professionals, not expect young police officers, who have no mental health training, to talk to someone who is about to set fire to themselves.
I know my bereavement isn't strictly a mental health issue, but I can speak from experience about how people like to appear to be saying all the right things, but out of sight is out of mind and those supportive messages from the first month have all but dried up. No one wants to see or hear me sobbing, even if it is only virtually.
I would like to share something with you all. A couple of weeks ago I started to sort out the cabinets in the dining room (a loose term). Lots of things were boxed and sent to the charity shop, some things were thrown away. I created space and then refilled it, but at the end I had a storage unit that I had been using as a shelf for my cookery books and various other piles of "stuff". The unit was an old 1970s blockboard covered in laminate sort. Worth nothing on eBay, but still usable, so I put it on Freecycle. Freecycle is a site where you can offer things for free or ask for something, the idea being that less stuff gets thrown away. Within an hour I had six people asking if they could have the unit, was it still available. The first person to ask was someone who had posted several wanted ads. I contacted her and told her she could have it. She turned up the following day and when she arrived I not only gave her the unit, but I also gave her a hand blender that she had asked for on Freecycle. Clearly surprised she kept asking if I was sure, didn't I need it. I said no, I had used it to make my husband's fortified milk shakes, but now he has died I don't need it. She said the usually things about being sorry, and then gave me a hug and said she was amazed at how strong I appeared. We chatted for a bit about her baby who was three months old, me saying the usual thing of enjoy him while you have him, time flies and before you know it he will be grown up and gone. After a good chin-wag she was off. I felt very righteous because of my generosity (I know it would have been the bin but for Freecycle). I gave away several other things, but I didn't get that sense of satisfaction from any of the other things. A week later I got a text from the young mum, asking how I was doing and then again this week. That young mum has restored my faith in humanity, when some people who we once called friends are busy ignoring me, she is asking how I am doing. I gave her an old piece of furniture and in exchange I have received something worth much much more, a glimpse of the Good Cheer Pixie.
Tuesday 1 October 2019
What have I been doing?
What a good question.
I look around me and the house is a mess. I look in the fridge and there's nothing to eat, I haven't been food shopping in over a week. To be quite frank, I don't know what I have been doing.
I seem to spend my days sitting on the floor going through piles of things I should have sorted years ago. The dustbin is permanently half full and yet the cupboards, shelves and loft are still full. I find small mementos like a tram ticket from Blackpool and spend thirty minutes sobbing. Cards with Tall's handwriting, photographs meant for a passport and plane tickets. All very cathartic I'm sure, but I don't seem to be making any progress. Busy doing nothing, I only sit down to relax in the evening, when I realise I have left it too late to make a proper meal and find myself eating another sandwich.
The kitchen tap has started to drip, the panic grows with every "plop". The rain we have been getting has the gutter around the bay window overflowing, it clearly needs cleaning, the noise of the water on the window cill (sill) outside is like nails on a blackboard to my tattered nerves. The conservatory roof is leaking too, damaging the furniture I just put in there so that I could have an office space instead of a laptop on my lap. My anxiety increases with every new problem.
Get someone to fix things? That would require me feeling safe. I know it it silly, but builders and the like make a mess. Even if it is just the packaging from the new part, they just leave it where it falls. I know it all sounds so silly.
I am cross with myself for allowing things to get so bad. Just when I thought I was making progress, life has turned round and bitten me again. I know it is a cliche, but I need to win the lottery. Not a massive win, just enough to pay for the house to be altered and fixed the way I want it, while I rent somewhere else. Then enough to buy the new furniture to furnish it. Pipe dreams as I don't ever remember to buy a ticket.
I look around me and the house is a mess. I look in the fridge and there's nothing to eat, I haven't been food shopping in over a week. To be quite frank, I don't know what I have been doing.
I seem to spend my days sitting on the floor going through piles of things I should have sorted years ago. The dustbin is permanently half full and yet the cupboards, shelves and loft are still full. I find small mementos like a tram ticket from Blackpool and spend thirty minutes sobbing. Cards with Tall's handwriting, photographs meant for a passport and plane tickets. All very cathartic I'm sure, but I don't seem to be making any progress. Busy doing nothing, I only sit down to relax in the evening, when I realise I have left it too late to make a proper meal and find myself eating another sandwich.
The kitchen tap has started to drip, the panic grows with every "plop". The rain we have been getting has the gutter around the bay window overflowing, it clearly needs cleaning, the noise of the water on the window cill (sill) outside is like nails on a blackboard to my tattered nerves. The conservatory roof is leaking too, damaging the furniture I just put in there so that I could have an office space instead of a laptop on my lap. My anxiety increases with every new problem.
Get someone to fix things? That would require me feeling safe. I know it it silly, but builders and the like make a mess. Even if it is just the packaging from the new part, they just leave it where it falls. I know it all sounds so silly.
I am cross with myself for allowing things to get so bad. Just when I thought I was making progress, life has turned round and bitten me again. I know it is a cliche, but I need to win the lottery. Not a massive win, just enough to pay for the house to be altered and fixed the way I want it, while I rent somewhere else. Then enough to buy the new furniture to furnish it. Pipe dreams as I don't ever remember to buy a ticket.
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