Tears sting my eyes and I look up to stop them falling. Hanging across the roof is a black plastic package. It looks like a small wrapped body, but it’s the fake Christmas tree we put up in the kitchen; alongside it, the stand for the giant real Christmas tree we always have in the front room. My heart breaks at the thought of Christmases past and those yet to come without him. And then there are the ladders: folding, extending, step. There are so many questions I long to ask my husband, but right now, ‘What’s with all the ladders, JS?’ is first on the list.
I press the switch on the wall and the garage door shuts. I sidle past my car to the side door whilst realising I’m not alone: every giant spider in north London is partying around me.
I unlock the door to the garden and closing it behind me, pick my way through an orgy of slugs.
Finally, I get to the front door. The Hound is on full alert having heard the garage open, and he greets me with noisy excitement. It’s lovely to see him, but we missed the class at Puppy School where they taught him how to flick the kettle on. He has lots to say, but even if I could translate his barks, I doubt he’d be asking, ‘How was your evening?’
I decide that I won’t come in through the garage again, but it doesn’t matter anymore because I’ve solved the problem of coming in at night.
I no longer go out.
THE VELVET ROPE
I recently had cause to think of my grandmother, who died of stomach cancer in 1975. She was in a ward with flowers (long before flowers carried MRSA, etc.) and was adamant that a ‘man’ brought her flowers each night and sat with her. She smiled a knowing smile, and that of course had to be my grandfather, or so I wish to believe. ~ Deena
The Grim Reaper chose the wrong person on 27th February 2011, for so many reasons, one of which was that whilst JS avoided talking about what he wanted should he die before me (he promised me he’d live to be 100), I had my funeral all sorted out: a plumed horse-drawn glass hearse (you have to know me to appreciate the irony of the ostentation – even bows on ballet flats are too OTT for me); a wreath in the shape of a dachshund; a Keynote presentation featuring photos of my life and dogs and three tunes: Blue Öyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’, all nine minutes and six seconds of Lynard Skynard’s ‘Freebird’ and ‘Help’ by The Beatles. And in case you think this was all said tongue-in-cheek, it wasn’t and JS knew it.
But the one area of my funeral JS couldn’t agree with was that I wanted my body to be left to medical science. ‘Not if you go before me!’ he’d protest indignantly. ‘I wouldn’t want someone messing around with you.’ I’d come over all sanctimonious and respond primly, ‘The body is just an overcoat for the soul. What happens to it after death is immaterial.’ And I meant it, I really did, and something I witnessed years ago seemed to further underline my position.
One busy Sunday summer afternoon on the seafront in Broad-stairs on the east Kent coast, an elderly woman collapsed. She was smartly dressed and on her own, and because there was an event happening in the town, an ambulance crew arrived on the scene within moments. As the paramedics worked on her, I had a very strong sense that her ‘soul’ had departed. I wish I could tell you that I saw a white light or some ghostly form float away, but there was nothing other than a powerful feeling that some essence of her had left her body, which was being frantically pummelled and shocked and injected in an attempt to bring it back to life. Shortly after I ‘felt’ her ‘soul’ leave, the ambulance crew stopped their efforts, exchanged glances and pulled a blanket over her body. JS commented that it was a wonderful way to go – quickly and in the sunshine. I slightly disagreed: the lady’s skirt had hitched up in the commotion. I would have liked to push past the paramedics and pull it down to preserve her modesty.
Not only did I plan my own funeral, I didn’t fear death. I feared the process of dying should it involve pain or suffering, but as to what happened beyond death, after Karen died I can honestly say that death held no fear for me. I used to say to JS that if there was something on the other side then it meant I would see Karen again, but if there was nothing, if death meant the end of everything including consciousness, then I wouldn’t know anything about it anyway. It seemed, at the time, a win-win situation.
But JS didn’t live to be 100 – the Grim Reaper came on holiday with us and saw to that – and whilst the terrible circus surrounding my husband’s death on the beach meant there was no chance to coolly observe what was happening as I did that afternoon in Kent, I still believe that consciousness survives the body.
On that basis, was it possible that Karen and JS were together?
It was this very thought that floated into my mind one sobby morning as I was making a list of things to buy at Sainsbury’s: bleach; bog roll; Mr Kipling Almond Slices (again). One of the things I’m desperate (but unlikely) to know is that JS is OK. I’d read in one of my many ‘Life after Death’ books that the souls of those who die suddenly and unexpectedly are in turmoil for a while, the thought of which puts me in turmoil, and so the circle of turmoil tightens. If Karen could be there (where?) for JS in some way (how?), guiding him through his new form, I’d find it comforting, but by that ‘logic’, if JS is with Karen, who else might be with him, easing his journey?
I abandon the bleach and the bog roll and start making a list of people JS was close to who have died: friends, family, work colleagues. The list is long. I miss some of those people too; some of them I ache to see again, to laugh with, to share a drink with, to reminisce with, though none so much as my husband.
I survey my list – it looks fantastic – full of interesting, witty and warm people, some I’ve never met but heard about and would like to have known. I imagine JS being welcomed by those he lost and has now found: catching up on publishing news with John B, Michael and Don; swapping family gossip with Kay and Aunt Emmeline; discussing cricket with Robert and Lance; embracing his parents; telling Ernest that his children and grandchildren are a family to be proud of; laughing with Barry; telling Karen that I miss her, still, every day, maybe even seeing our old dog, Rufus.
I look around the soulless silent kitchen. ‘No wonder JS hasn’t sent me pennies from heaven or white feathers,’ I think. ‘He’s too busy having a good time on the other side to give me signs.’ I long for JS to be at peace, but what about me? I’m not at peace, I’m stuck here, heartbroken and lonely. Bizarrely, I feel as if I am behind one of those velvet ropes outside a nightclub, shivering in the cold, peering ahead, excluded. I haven’t been to a club since I was in my twenties, but I can still remember the anxiety of inching closer to that rope, wondering if I looked cool enough or pretty enough to join the in-crowd.
This time, I know there is no way back through that rope, that it is a one-way invitation, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be at the party. But of course, if I tried to push my way to the front of the queue, invite myself, there’s a risk that they wouldn’t let me in, or worse, that I finally discover there is no party after all . . .
ACCEPTING THE UNACCEPTABLE
I have accepted Jane’s death from the moment it happened, but I haven’t accepted my new life yet, and this will take a loooong time. ~ Marieke
One of the things I find heartening about internet bereavement groups is not only the support they offer, but the way in which people who feel shattered and flattened with grief still manage to summon up enough energy to participate in discussions. This is particularly the case when a subject sparks lively debate; we may feel we have no interest in life, but the indignant feelings some