Veronica Foale

Author: Veronica Foale

  • Do you know

    We talked about death a lot in your last few months, when we knew it was coming and we couldn’t stop it. Like a freight train it hurtled towards us, yet we didn’t notice it until it was upon us. It raced into our midst, and blared its horn. You passed away in the silence left and we were thrust aside, broken and bereaved, grieving your absence.

    In the weeks following, I forced myself to cope even though I was shattered inside. I made inappropriate jokes and I woke and ate and slept at all the right times. I pushed down my grief until it was a tiny little ball in the pit of my stomach.

    Only now, it’s welling upwards. Leaving me with a feeling of panic, because like the freight train that was your death, I can’t stop it. I can merely sit and wait to ride it out and hope I don’t end up broken irreparably.

    ***

    I feel the panic rising in my throat and I swallow it back down. I force myself to breathe as the wave gets higher taking me along for the ride; an unwilling passenger.

    ***

    I’m sad.

    Why are you sad?

    I miss my Nan.

    Oh. That.

    Yes. That. He hugs me, knowing that no words will work here. He wishes he could make it better, but he can’t and so he’s inclined to ignore the fact that I am broken. Duct tape can fix many a thing, but it can’t fix me. He’s left feeling useless and I’m left feeling alone.

    On bad days I will poke my jagged edges at his face. Look. Look how I am broken. Look at me and acknowledge this.

    He lets me grieve in his arms, a safety zone. I can’t stay there forever though. I’m needed elsewhere.

    ***

    Do you know that the baby started to crawl?

    That my daughter is gluten intolerant and that is what caused all her issues?

    That my brother had a speech read in Parliament?

    Do you know that I wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe?

    That I’m certain everything is just waiting to go wrong and I think I’m out of reserves to handle it?

    Do you know that we miss you? Every day?

    ***

    In my dreams I talk to you still. Until the baby wakes and his cries jolt me to reality. I cry then, wishing that I were back inside my dream.

    Everything is wrong here in reality. Like Alice through the Looking Glass, things are backwards and nothing seems to work how it should. Left is right and happy is tainted with inexplicable sadness.

    I’m slowly learning how to traverse this new terrain. It doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it though.

    ***

    I got horses yesterday.

    I think you’d like them.

  • Angry

    His scream makes me want to claw my eyes out. His anger, thrown out into the world; loud and defiant. Screaming his only way to express himself. He’s been thwarted from his goal and I am the target, the person who denies him what he wants. He screams again and I can almost feel the blood dripping from my ears, pooling around my shoulders.

    The stress starts building and I can feel myself tightening up. I take a deep breath and drop to the ground beside him. Rolling him over, his fists flail at me, angry still. I bend and kiss his stomach; he giggles. I kiss him more and the laughter builds.

    It doesn’t take him long to forget he was angry.

    If only we were all as immediate.

    ***

    I’m working. I say. Leave me be.

    ***

    We come home from a day out at the supermarket. He brings in the bags and helps me unpack everything. Then he breezes outside, taking his cigarettes and his newspaper with him. He’s gone to have his half an hour unwind time. I’m left inside with two hungry tired children, fielding questions and grabbiness equally. I cook dinner with one child on my hip and another screeching at me from the floor. I throw crackers to the baby and pretend it doesn’t feel strange, willing him to not fall apart until I can get everything in place.

    He can’t of course, he’s just a baby, and I’m left juggling. All my balls in the air ready to fall on our heads while he sits outside, alone, unconcerned.

    I knock on the window, babe in arms and beckon him inside. He comes in, so hard done by, sighing.

    The anger wells up in my throat.

    When is it my time to have half an hour to do nothing?

    ***

    I crave the silence.

    I imagine it washing over me like a wave, sucking me down into it. A deep kiss of silence, drowning me in it’s grasp. Engulfing me and making me silent too.

    ***

    I hid today. From my children. I hid and then I felt guilty about it as my daughter searched for me and I couldn’t bring myself to come out. I hid, wishing I were alone.

    Just for a moment.

    Then I walked out of the dark room. Back into the light and the noise. After the quiet dark, everything was a little more piercing.

    But it was a little more beautiful too.

  • I need time.

    I turn around and there’s another appointment; another request for someone to see the children. The paperwork piles up behind me and I spin around, knocking it all to the floor. Carefully I transcribe appointment dates onto a calendar, using a hand that doesn’t work too well. A calendar to dictate our days, whether we stay or go, venture out into the world, or stay at home, bundled up with hot drinks and gardens that need weeding.

    I open up my word document, determined to write. I look at it, trying to make my fingers bleed words onto the page. It doesn’t work, and staring at it doesn’t help.

    Sighing, I click away.

    Not today.

    Not tonight.

    I wander through the house talking to myself. I could lie and say I was talking to the children, but neither of them are listening to me anyway. My partner looks at me strangely and then looks away. He’s used to my talking. It helps me move through the day, talking about what I need to do. Like looking at my feet helps me walk.

    I stop to fold some laundry before drifting away again. It’s too hard to settle.

    I need some time. Some space to just,

    stop.

    Before starting again.

    To be more than a mother, more than just the sum of my parts.

    There are words inside me, I just can’t find the valve to turn them back on.

    So instead I will just

    stop.

    And let them build up again. Until, like a pipe unblocking they burst free and run down my fingers, dripping into my computer.

    To build my story again.

    I need time.

  • Heartsore

    Three months ago, to the day, she died.

    We sat in the room, a group of strong women and vowed not to leave until it was over. We drew strength from each other, in the being there together. We sat and loved the one of us who was failing, who wouldn’t make it to the evening. My brother and uncle joined us and added to our strength.

    Her breathing, which had been laboured all day, got raspier and she pulled the oxygen mask off her face. Her hands flailed a little, unsure of her place anymore. We stood around her, an armoured guard; a support team. Our backs to the world we circled her and kept her safe. Holding hands we showed her that it was safe to leave us; that we would be okay in her absence. We lied of course, but that is what you do when someone is dying. You tell them what they need to hear to be at peace.

    She turned towards her mother and looking at her, she stopped breathing. Collectively we breathed out together.

    Her eyes glazed over and we said stupid things

    It’s over

    Peaceful

    No more pain

    as our eyes dripped tears and we knew that we were lying to ourselves, to each other.

    ***

    Mum and I told her we loved her, shortly before she drew her last breath. I will be forever grateful for that, along with the hours preceding when I sat holding her hand.

    It was not an easy goodbye. Goodbyes rarely are.

  • Searchable

    Somewhere, a bot trawls this site. Deeming it not spam, a little switch is flicked and suddenly I’m searchable. My name, linked to my writing, out there on the internet.

    I imagine old school friends randomly Googling for me and pulling up this site. What would they think? But then, maybe I’m the only one who Googles for people to see what shows up.

    I remind myself to breathe, this is what I wanted. A personal side of the professional me. A declaration that I am a writer. This is what I do, I write.

    ***

    Sitting down at my laptop, I open my word document and sit down to write. Two sentences in, my daughter asks for food and my son gets himself stuck under the futon. I press save and sighing, I close my laptop. Working with the children around is impossible.

    I put my computer away and grab some food. Laying down on the floor we all eat together. The children take turns clambering over me and soon I’m covered in sticky kisses and drool.

    It’s not the work I’d intending on doing, but it’s my job nonetheless. I enjoy this as much as I enjoy the silence of writing.

    ***

    Blearily I stumble out of bed, summoned by the baby’s cries. I trip over imaginary things as I walk into his bedroom and lift him up for a feed. He snuggles down into my arms and snuffles at my breast before settling in for a feed. His eyes shut almost instantly and I contort myself towards the nightlight to read my watch.

    5.30am

    I should stay awake and work while the children are sleeping.

    I really should.

    My head drops forwards and I doze lightly while he feeds. I’m still incredibly tired.

    The baby snuffles and sighs deeply waking me up. His feed finished I put him back down and leave the room.

    Stumbling again, I head back to bed. The warmth of my partner envelopes me as I snuggle into his back. He mumbles a little and then lets me rest my cold feet against his legs. He’s nice like that when he’s asleep. For a moment, I regret that I’m not working. Only for a moment though.

    My pillows are soft and soon my feet will defrost. Giving into my need for more rest, I let sleep claim me.

    Soon both children will be awake and I can attempt to work through breakfast.

    Up until the point when they need me and I end up on the floor, covered in sticky kisses and drool.

    Again.