Somewhere on my travels, I’d picked up a leaflet for a ‘Soul Therapist’. I dig it out. This sounds exactly what I need, a counsellor who practises healing and spiritual enlightenment.
After an exchange of emails outlining what has happened, I book an appointment for Thursday afternoon at two.
The day arrives; it’s unseasonably warm. Full of hope that Soul Therapy is the way forward, I put on my manky but comfortable trainers, and walk from my home in north London, down the hill to the therapist’s practice. I’m early – way too early. Aimlessly mooching around the area to kill time, I wander into a delicatessen. Displayed on the counter is a single fat slab of carrot cake smothered in cream cheese icing. The cake looks tempting, but because of the heat, I delay its purchase. The last thing I need is a sad greasy puddle of icing by the time I get home. The plan is, if I’m still hungry after my session, I’ll go back and get it.
The woman who greets me at the therapy rooms reminds me of Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, right down to the slightly puppetish nodding of her head. She gives me a smile, the type of smile with which I am now depressingly familiar – tight and sad and full of pity – this time from a mouth painted in an alarming shade of orangey-red lipstick. I know within seconds that Lady Penelope is kind, but not for me.
She asks me to tell her again about the accident, so, sobbing, I recount that fateful morning. She suggests that before we move on to other areas, we use this first session to do some healing to replenish my energy levels. She talks about chakras, points me towards the couch, and as I am about to swing my legs onto the pristine covering, I clock my shoes: dirty and battered. I go to take them off and, apologising for their disgusting state, explain that I walked here. She sounds surprised that I have made the trek. I assure her that in this heat I will get the bus back up the hill.
I lie down and close my eyes, aware of her hands hovering over my body.
Within seconds, my stomach starts to rumble.
I apologise.
Lady P tells me that the rumbling is a sign my chakras are opening; energy is moving around my body. I have a degree in Physiology, and whilst I haven’t used it for 25 years, I’m pretty certain the curriculum didn’t cover chakras as a reason for digestive disturbance.
The rumbling gets worse and I begin to stress that I might fart.
I wonder if Lady P will explain it as my chakras exploding.
I tense my bum and start obsessing about the carrot cake. I should have bought it before the session and not worried about the icing. What if it’s gone? It’s the only thing that’s whetted my appetite for ages and now someone else – someone who isn’t grief-stricken, just greedy – might have bought it. The more I think about the carrot cake, the more my stomach rumbles. I mentally walk into the shop: I can see the cake and – Oh! – there were sausage rolls too. I could have a sausage roll and a slice of carrot cake. But what if they have both gone?
The session is over. Lady P asks me if I have seen any lights, felt any warmth, experienced any tingling?
I tell her the truth and say I felt nothing, withholding my feelings of anxiety over carrot cake and my rumbling gut.
She says she has a strong sense that my emotional energy is very weak, but that my physical energy is surprisingly strong. As I lace up my trainers, I cynically reflect that anyone could have deduced this from my walking/sobbing combo.
Lady P is kind, sincere and means well, but as I hand over my money, we both know I won’t be back.
I’m in the deli. Oh! Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy! The carrot cake is still there, along with an ‘artisan’ sausage roll. The girl behind the counter puts them in a bag and then squashes them with my impulse purchases – some cheese and a pork pie – but I don’t realise this until I get home.
I’m annoyed that I have spent more money on quackery, disappointed and tearful that yet another avenue of therapy has failed me. I’m still lost, frightened and grieving my husband.
24 hours pass. On Friday evening, sitting in the garden, I reflect on the day. To my surprise, I realise that it has been the calmest day since the accident, almost peaceful with minimal tears. Perhaps it was just the calm before the next storm as the feeling didn’t last, but weeks later, the day after my Soul Therapy session still stands out as the calmest I have felt in the last four months.
I haven’t been back to Lady Penelope – there was no connection – but as for healing being a waste of time? Now, I’m not so sure.
LONELINESS AND THE LATE NIGHT GARAGE
Our world has been smashed into millions of tiny shards and that is extremely disorientating. I didn’t return home for months after Phil died suddenly, and before I did come back, my parents had to redecorate and box up Phil’s things for me. The razor on the sink, shoes on the mat, laundry in the basket and coat on the hook eviscerated my soul to the point of screaming madness. I returned once, to choose the clothes we were burying him in. That was and will always be the hardest thing I will ever do. The colossal weight of the grief, shock, loss was so immense as I took out some carefully folded underwear and his favourite well-worn jeans, I really thought it might kill me. ~ Sam
One evening, a long time ago (two decades) in a land far away (Northumberland), my best friend’s father jumped up to answer the phone and died of a heart attack. I’d come across death before, but only in the old or very ill. Mr P was fun, feisty and barely into his fifties, a larger-than-life character whom I adored; it seemed impossible that he was here one minute and gone the next.
During a trip home, I visited his widow. ‘What have you been doing?’ I enquired with all the finesse of a young elephant. Much to my surprise, instead of sobbing, ‘Nothing,’ whilst clutching a tissue and swigging Harvey’s Bristol Cream straight from the bottle, Mrs P gave me a run down of what she had been up to: going here, going there, doing this, doing that; a veritable social whirl.
‘It’s great you’re going out!’ I trilled, relieved that she appeared to be getting over her husband’s death so quickly.
Even before JS died, I still remember the bleak look in her eyes and the bitter edge in her voice as she said, ‘Oh, it’s not the going out that’s the problem – it’s the coming in.’
Now, with painful clarity, I understand what she meant.
Explaining to a friend the searing loneliness of coming in through the front gate to the front door after an evening out, he suggested I used the garage door as part of trying to establish a ‘new normal’. I’ll try anything other than potholing once, so one night as the minicab drove off before I even had my key in the lock of the gate, I decide to give it a go.
I press the ‘dibber’ on my key ring, and in the deserted street, wait for the garage door to chug open. It occurs to me that if someone wants to mug me, now would be an ideal time. ‘Bring it on!’ I think defiantly, imagining myself overpowering any mugger who dares to even glance at my wedding rings. I feel bolshy, ballsy: I’ve been out! I’m coming in! I’m establishing a new routine and I’m not crumbling in a heap of tears and yelling into the silence at the unfairness of it all! I can do this!
The garage door opens, and the security light flicks on, illuminating the interior with harsh cold light.
Any hint of bravado I was feeling drains away.
I’m like a rabbit caught in the glare of car headlights, trapped and transfixed in horror by the scene spread out before me.
Right by the door are my husband’s golf clubs with their furry animal covers. Next