I kind of jokingly tweeted that I’d come up with a set of ‘grief tips’ a few days (week/weeks?) ago. I haven’t got any yet. Antony and the Johnsons, who sat so well in the very early days, soon became a bit irritating. I’ve been randomly selecting music since, none of which I want to listen to. The only thing I have noticed, is the importance of space/s. Sam, ‘little sis’, alerted me to the dangers of being in a car alone early on. Yep. Best avoided. An intense space in which the full horror/distress/misery/nightmare dominates.
We’ve been lucky enough not to have had a lot of time alone so far. With other people around I can forget, or avoid, temporarily. And being outside is marginally better for me. Indoors, pacing is the thing. This new space, of non work, non anything, is so empty, it screams to me to do something. The trouble is, I’m too tired to really do anything. I’ve been dog tired but unable to sleep. Yesterday afternoon I gave the settee a whirl. I was asleep instantly, and slept for a good hour or so. But then it’s waking, thinking, remembering, screaming (internally) and crying.
At the moment, I’m really trying not to remember LB though he keeps crashing into my thoughts/movements (at home, out and about, visiting mates) because of dense layers of memories, both expected and unexpected. Rich and I had breakfast in a local cafe yesterday morning. Baby steps with pain. An undercover police operation was happening at the end of our road, and in the London Road. The road that now incorporates LB’s love of London trips, buses, discussions with a funeral director, and his do procession. The intense interest LB would have gained from these activities is physically winding. We all chuckle about how he would have made sense of the past couple of weeks. How, in the couple of minutes silence during the do, he would have repeatedly asked ‘Is he dead Mum?’
‘Pat Butcher’ walked past us, as we sat outside the cafe. And smiled. Yes. Really. Pat Cabs Pat. In our peculiar suburb which I’ve always loved for its diversity. And local characters. A space now framed with the continual scream – ‘HE WAS LEFT ALONE TO DIE IN THE BATH… IN HOSPITAL’. What do we do with this? Where do we go with it? Where will we ever go with it? I don’t know. But we’re off to London to meet the solicitor on Wednesday. New spaces interacting with familiar ones. Some action to fill the emptiness.