*otherwise known as what I have learned so far in the last year*
1) Did you notice the ‘so far’ above? That’s because I have learned that grief is not what I expected it to be. I’m not even sure what those expectations were to be honest. It’s just this thing that invades you, sometimes without notice, and you can just be going about your business and thinking things aren’t too bad and actually, you might be enjoying something again and then. Bam. The next day, your jaw aches. Your teeth itch. You feel like you’re catching the flu. You cannot be bothered to be a grown up but you have to.
So I have learned to try and accept that I have no idea what to expect and ride each thing out as it comes. The tiredness, the exhaustion though. That can do one.
2) That I love my children but I don’t always treasure every moment. I want to clonk their heads together and eat them for my tea because the very core of me wants to explode with love. You feel like that about your own too right? I do not need to tell you to hug them a little tighter and count your blessings.
The truth is, a lot of the time I also want to run a mile away from them and relish in solitude. I lose my sh*t with them and then sneak in an apology hug later. This is life. I don’t regret losing my temper with RD, or feeling the same things about my time when he was alive. He was delicious but he required very deep reserves of patience at times. Very, very deep… ones that I didn’t always have.
3) That my mind constantly wants to justify the pain it feels. This means that sometimes I think some very odd things. Uncomfortable and unspeakable things. All I can do is acknowledge them as just that: a grapple to salve my soul and leave it there.
4) That I am changed. That in spite of best appearance I feel the old me caught in my throat when I talk. My spark is dulled, my anxiety about what people may judge of me is heightened. I question myself when I don’t talk about RD: am I being true to the fact that he fills my thoughts? I question myself when I do: does this seem like attention seeking?
I also worry about my Resting Grief Face. That I might seem rude, or disinterested. Or walk right past you and not see you. I’m only aware of it when I feel the wind change and I’m scared it might be stuck in that wrangled furrow.
5) That I am not changed but you may assume I have. I still love to hear, see and laugh about good things in your life. I want to be able to help if things are not so good. I still have a dark sense of humour, if anything, it’s even more warped now. I still love meaningless pretty things like tiles, wallpaper, good jumpers, crap telly and lipstick.
I am not saintly because my son died. I’m just like you but a bit more grief-y.
6) That sometimes it doesn’t feel right when you are described as strong. Really what it feels like is you’re just about keeping a cap on the crazy. I often think the worse I look, the more comfortable I’m feeling in my grief coat. I’m still not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. However, I do always appreciate a compliment.
7) That just because I’ve experienced grief, I’m not that much better in the face of other people’s grief than I was before. I still stumble for words, worry about saying the wrong thing.
So don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. Or not finding a way of sliding it into conversation.
8) That it makes people do odd things. In the face of this awful, awful thing it might seem like the only thing to talk about is that your newly oiled worktops are still a bit tacky.
One thing I’ve learned is that often the current action is just a reaction to point seven.
9) That there are just never enough photos. Never enough videos. Record the mundane and the extraordinary. Share them or don’t, whatever you prefer.
I didn’t ever take a photo on RD’s first day of school. I have photos of him waiting for his bus or taxi. Photos of him wearing a bit of token uniform. But I am still sad that I didn’t stop to do that. So now, with DD and BD I do, I will.
10) That now life goes on. It has a rhythm and cadence from young children that is familiar. Some days are just that, familiar and the loss feels background. Some days I feel like I can’t get around the house as it fills every room to the corners.
Sometimes I try to live in the moment and be grateful for all I have, fearful that still, something else might take someone I love away from me. However, I still need time to breathe and reflect on my own, as that’s the time I’m actually never alone, I’m back with RD.
So I’m trying to learn to be kind to myself. Kind to my husband, and his sock fluff on the bedroom carpet. Kind to my children and their demands, bum wipes and tantrums. And remember I’m not a saint.