Calling me
This place calls to me; silky smooth, I want to trail my hands up and down its length.
Write on me it says as I wander about the house, procrastinating. I need you. You need me. Write on me.
This place of mine that bears my name, I itch to fill it with words. To feel it swell and grow with me, to feel it take on a life of its own. I want to be known. I want people to know who I am, to say, that’s her, she’s a writer. I knew her. I taught her. I helped her birth her baby, I know her and now her name is known.
I want that, but the wanting feels selfish.
***
Open your soul and sell your words. Spew them forth onto the page and scream your story.
It’s not my story though. It’s her story. And she’s gone quiet these last few days, leaving me staring at a word document and longing to feel her breathe down my neck, telling me what to say.
***
I’ve not had a panic attack in a few days. At first, I thought it was a good thing, until I realised that it’s because I am refusing to think anymore. I’m refusing to do anything but cope.
Denying the pain works wonders for the issues arising from it. Long term though, it’s not a pretty sight.
I think that is why she is gone. I can’t feel anything at the moment.
I’m too caught up in coping.
And still this place, it calls to me.
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 it’s 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 think you’d like them.
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.
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