And…how are you?

It’s been five weeks already. What feels like inching forward on good days is countered with the sensation of falling into and struggling out of deep holes on the bad days. A process that’s not satisfied with taking me once around the block. No, the repeat play setting appears to be the only option, so the melody of mourning sticks and becomes a troublesome ear worm. Aside from the necessary chores I try to keep myself occupied. Occasionally writing in short bursts, attempting an escape through reading the words of others, pottering in the garden. Moving stuff around. Yesterday I put two pairs of Mags’ ankle boots in the wardrobe. This morning I put them back on the shoe rack. Most evenings I lose myself in TV land. Documentaries early on while I’m still alert enough to look, listen and digest. I’ve enjoyed ‘My Life as a Rolling Stone’ and I’m currently watching ‘The Andy Warhol Diaries’ on Netflix. Anything that keeps me on the edge of my seat, or at least awake past 20.00 is a must.

Everyone grieves in their own unique way. For nearly three weeks I haven’t shed a single tear yet at times my heart is so heavy with hurt that the slow painful breaking of it is undeniable.  As a carer I’ve kept going for three years, but just as my high energy levels and resilience surprised me during that time so the heavy layers of fatigue have caught me out in the days since Mags died. The legal obligation to notify various organisations and the informing of friends and family is exhausting. Hearing myself repeating the same message over and over and feeling my voice catch on her name is unbearably tough. Wishing my good nights to that side of the bed where she took her last breath just feels weird yet, at the same time, immensely comforting. Mags was cremated on Saturday. The process she called her “recycling”. There was no service and no family or friends in attendance. A decision we made for ourselves years ago. Instead, Heather and I walked one of her favourite walks early that