Remember remember - how can I forget?

The tree is left scarred

By the spinning Catherine wheel

That never sparkled

Loose matches rattle

In the pocket of your coat

Worn that November

We had a good time

Created bright memories

Just for a moment

Grief is expected – how you grieve is optional

The outpouring of grief since the Queen died has been phenomenal. Carpets of flowers, crowds of people and then there’s THE QUEUE, which can probably be seen from space!

I’ll confess I’m a bit ambivalent about all the fuss, I understand the need for a release of emotion but the flowers to me are a waste, and the pageantry and protocol seems over the top.

tributes for the Queen - image from Metro

My biggest concern is for the wellbeing of the immediate family and close friends, how abhorrent it must be to be filmed at every turn, practically every tear measured. When King Charles had a fit at the leaky pen my heart went out to him. For all his privilege and wealth this is intrusive. He is a seventy something year old man mourning the loss of his beloved mother, not that long after laying his father to rest.

This is the part he was always born to play but at such a time as this his emotions will be all over the place. And the same goes for the rest of the royals, from the oldest to youngest, those used to being in the public eye and those more used to being on the periphery, suddenly being scrutinised far more than usual.

The media can be a voracious beast devouring its prey and all too often those of us looking on lap it up.

If only there could be a halt on proceeding, a chance to just breathe, some space away from twenty-four-hour news.

I guess it won’t be long until this news cycle is over and most of the family can retreat and process their grief more privately, some member won’t get that luxury.

There is now some deliberation as to whether Prince George will make an appearance at his great granny’s funeral. That is a huge ask of a nine-year-old, only his parents can make that informed decision. There will be critics either way.

I was thirteen when my great nana died and hers was the first funeral I went to, co-incidentally she was 96, a good age, an expected funeral, the perfect introduction to the ritual.

The first funeral my youngest son went to was his dad’s – that’s a bit harsh when you are a month shy of being eleven. However, he was old enough to know what was happening and certainly old enough to know his own mind and how he wanted to honour his dad.

Andrew’s coffin was wheeled into the crematorium rather than carried, One of Andrew’s brothers wanted to be involved, the other vehemently refused, one nephew volunteered, one didn’t. Oldest son stepped forward and then youngest said with determination he wanted to help too. It was a proud moment watching them with tears in my eyes, but the scene was only witnessed by very close family. It wasn’t a public spectacle.

I do hope the young royals get some choice in how they wish to proceed. And I hope all of them get the private space to mourn in the ways that are best for them.

Grief is inevitable but how we grieve is both optional and never-ending.

I have been slightly surprised by how much of my own grief has resurfaced at this time, memories of losing grandparents, my dad and of course losing Andrew. The afternoon of the Queen’s death we were scattering ashes of my aunt and uncle, followed up with tea and cake. A family gathering that foreshadowed the royal announcement.

Death is all around us, very much a part of life and yet the subject is still very much taboo. When Andrew died it took me months to even understand what grieving was all about. I thought it was finite and never knew it came in many shades of grey and blue not one size fits all BLACK.

My best piece of advice to anyone grieving is do what you need to do to get through each day, whether you laugh, cry or scream, every emotion is valid.

Let’s hope the royals get the chance to grieve without worrying how the world sees them because they have lost a loved one who means more to them than she could even mean to us.

The Secret Code of Holding Hands

You said we would always hold hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter. We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.

Abi and Me

The dust jacket is matt pink, scruffy black letters, which appear to have been scrawled with a sooty finger, or stick of crumbly charcoal, announce “This is not a Pity Memoir”. When the outer cover slips the sugar pink clashes with glossy bold yellow like a Battenburg cake full of E numbers. The words hidden beneath - “It’s a love story.” 

My copy is signed in the same scribbly hand – “To Sarah, Happy reading, crying (?) Abi Morgan”

Since trying to fashion my own story into a memoir I’ve been reading more true stories, especially those written by writers.

Abi Morgan is a screen writer and I confess I knew little about her except she wrote “The Split” for the BBC and I am a huge fan. Listening to her at discuss her memoir at the Primadonna festival with Kit de Waal I realised just how many similarities there are between my story and Abi’s.

Both of us were born in 1968 – I add her to the list of “famous” people born that year, Kylie, Jason, Catherine Tate and of course Daniel Craig. I note Abi’s birthday is in September, I am still just a smidge older than all of them!

Both us find our husbands collapsed after severe headaches – only Abi’s husband isn’t really her husband, they never married and the outcomes are starkly different.

Subsequently in the wake of one family trauma we both develop cancer – her breast, me bowel.

Yes, many similarities but also our stories are poles apart. We are like spinning tops which clash and career off in opposite directions rather than balloons benignly nudging each other on the breeze.

Am I waxing lyrical, of course, my writing so often coloured by the style of narrative I am reading, Abi’s stream of consciousness somehow taking my own words along with hers.

I didn’t like her style at first, I’m not sure I will enjoy this, I thought, but then something clicked, her lists, her pop culture references and her brutal honesty started to resonate as I tuned into her wavelength.

Grabbing some post-it notes I began reading like a writer (thanks Kit de Waal for that advice) not only noting what I enjoyed but marking the pages where our stories converged.

We had both written to Jim’ll Fix It – neither of us had our letters answered. We both count our blessings for that – phew! What charmed lives we led.

Although Abi never travelled abroad until she was eighteen, she has made up for it since and recounts many skiing trips and foreign family holidays. She even manages to take her two teenage children, one boy, one girl, away to their holiday home in Italy when her beloved Jacob is in hospital. 

Our family could never manage holidays when Andrew was still alive, I remember only too well the stress at the airport flying to Paris, defusing and calming what could have been a major incident. I still find holidays hard to do.

Do I envy Abi’s “glamourous” lifestyle? Perhaps - not really - I wish the home screen on my computer was Andrew and I standing somewhere more exotic than on Redcar beach. But that is my life and my memories, we can’t make anymore together because Andrew died.

Meanwhile Jacob lived and Abi wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t. Would life be better or just different? She ponders a carefree life as a widow - sorry love that's not all its cracked up to be!

I certainly don’t envy her looking after a man who is her “husband” and yet isn’t – he doesn’t even recognise her – she is NOT the REAL Abi Morgan. A side affect of his debilitating neurological condition.

My heart breaks at the thought and I know full well that I would not have handled that situation as well. If Andrew lived and needed full time care it would have driven me mad, I couldn’t have done it. Only I am allowed to say it but, I do believe it was for the best Andrew’s heart attack was fatal.

Jacob suffers from MS and then develops Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis – 80% of people have a good outcome with treatment, but his prognosis is not so great, they never get fully out of the woods.

I’m not sure what the percentage is of people having heart attacks fully recovering?  I daren’t look it up. It probably quite high and Andrew could have been perfectly fine but from family history I know that his dad was never the same after his first heart attack at the same age of 48. I know how stoic my mother-in-law was but how looking after her husband wore her down and how the ripples scarred the family.

Abi’s grief is so raw and visceral, you can still grieve if someone survives, you still mourn what was lost. 

Many of our challenges were different, I was spared financial worries, the mortgage paid off once I produced the death certificate – I burst into tears when the letter arrived.

Coming on top of all we both lost our cancer diagnoses seemed a cruel twist of fate, far too dramatic for even a weekly soap opera. 

We both think of our children and the unfairness of the situation, already being a family with “one man down”. 

Abi appears to have struggled more than me with the procedures of her own treatment, but she was also caring for Jacob, two hospital stories knotted together – how I admire her for that.

I had been a widow for eight years when I was diagnosed and I had my dad beside me during chemo, we sat side by side being drip fed our individual poisonous cocktails  – “family outings”, that my mum now admits she was weirdly jealous of.

It’s strange what you see in others, you wonder if you would cope differently. Be braver? Fall apart? Stay or leave?

Ultimately Abi’s story is not a pity memoir but a true love story, just as it says on the cover. You will never know how you might react until it happens to you and I pray it never does, at least not as dramatically. It makes a good story but up close and personal is almost too much to bear.

Abi Morgan you have my full admiration.

Everyone else – go read this wonderful, honest, life affirming book and hold you loved ones just that bit tighter in gratitude.

Don't Leave Me This Way

 I recently started a short online memoir writing course and last week I was so productive I actually wrote two pieces for the our weekly task. As we were writing about memorable music I had so much scope.

Here is the second one I wrote but never submitted ...

    As Jimmy Somerville sang the long ahhhhhhh in anticipation of the next line I twirled as best I could on the sticky nightclub floor with my friends all around me. It was an elaborate display but years of dance classes starting at an early age had taught me how to spot and spin without getting dizzy, although I confess a little dizziness mixed with the sensations of a Malibu and coke or two was not an unpleasant sensation.

It was student night at the Hungry Years, the only nightclub we really frequented. It was situated near Brighton pier and is now, perhaps unsurprisingly for its location, a gay club. I wonder if it’s glitzier and more vibrant? Along the wall, as we went up the stairs, it used to portray pictures of men queuing for food in the depression.

“Don’t Leave me This Way” was guaranteed to get me up on the floor, although to be honest we pretty much danced the whole night.

Year later I sat with a green ring binder on my knee. As I had studied librarianship, I was impressed with Andrew’s catalogue of all his vinyl.  I guess it was an early version of a spreadsheet, what used to be called a database – are they even the same?

Anyway you could search for records by either artist or title.

In his spare time Andrew was a DJ, lugging big wooden flight-cases and all his gear around in a white transit van with a blue stripe. (I have such great memories of time spent in that van and maybe I’ll share them another day or just hold them closer for a comforting hug.)

Suddenly I found the one I wanted to play, I checked the number, found the correct case and flicked through the records, all housed in sturdy brown or white carboard sleeves rather than the usual coloured, flimsy paper wrappers.

777 - Don’t Leave me This Way by the Communards.

I can't survive I can't stay alive, without your love oh baby
Don't leave me this way…
No I can't exist ...
I'll surely miss your tender kiss
Don't leave me this way….

But you did leave, you died, I stayed alive and here I am all these years later and I still somehow exist without your kiss.

The song I danced to all those years ago became woven into our memories together, Andrew knew it was one of my favourites and it became one of those titles we joked about being a good funeral song.

Actually we didn’t play it at the funeral, there were songs far more appropriate for the occasion, but I hang on to the vinyl copy. I have it in my hand now, perhaps it's time for another turn, swirling together thoughts from long ago, before you, my years with you and the present, more than just surviving because after all this time I still recall the art of how to spin without becoming dizzy.

Census Done

Today is both World Poetry Day and Census Day.

I hate ticking boxes, I'd rather write an essay telling you who I am*, and why I've not had paid employment for a long time, but there is no option for that! 

(*I am a princess, a brain and a basket case - to misquote The Breakfast Club, the other two don't apply)

I've written it all before on my blog. And I've shared much of my personal history on Facebook should you need it, for your algorithms and such like. 

So instead I've written a poem on my ponderings... at least on a particular box, the one particular definition that sometimes/often/rarely makes me the person I am today... maybe!

There is so much the census doesn't tell you and it reminds you of things in black and white that are really shades of grey.

But at least it is done for another ten years...

Census done.

2 without you now.

Each snapshot a decade apart

Single three times

(just a child)

married once

(and a mother too!)

widowed twice, at least on paper.

Yet only 53!

That doesn't sound so old.

Or maybe it does

to millennials

who see me as someone

old enough to be their mum.

Not a grandma though.

Will I ever have that title

to add to my collection?

What will the records show?

What boxes will I tick

in the next decade?

Will I remain

widowed,

one - 

census done!

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

The first Wednesday of each month is always the most creative as I click the zoom link for my writing group meeting.

It is such a joy to be able to join my writerly friends in these strange times.

Last night was no exception as we learnt all about Rondel poems, starting with one by Chaucer, Rondel of Merciless Beauty, read here by the mesmerising Jude Law…

 

We were encouraged to stick to Chaucer’s rhymes to make things easier, so of course I broke those rules immediately and didn’t! 

And we were told our love poem could be about anything, a beloved pet, a landscape or even smelly feet, “it’s just a bit of fluff” said PoetWoman who was leading the evening.

Well the word fluff stuck and I couldn’t get enough of the stuff, resulting in this little ditty….

I do hope it brightens your day 😊

 

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

 

I am bereft, can only stop and stare

My heart’s like jelly, made from wobbly stuff

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

 

Upon my word you tempt me to despair

My life from this moment on will be tough

I dry my tears upon my silken cuff

You yawn and stretch and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

The Missing Piece

I didn’t have the best night’s sleep last night. I was awake between 4 and 5 ish listening to a book on audible (This is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay – very funny but a little bit rude, so not for the faint hearted. My old bookclub read it last year and a friend recommended the audible version read by the author.  He has a pleasant voice but I was giggling too much for it to be of any soporific value).

When I did sleep, I had the most peculiar and vivid dreams.

In the first one I somehow acquired a cat, unimaginatively, for me, I named it Cat-ling. (My brother has a cat called Catia and I used to have a penpal with a rabbit called Rabbit – not very strange and sadly all true!)

I think I might have rescued the cat, and on a whim, brought it home, I was certainly ill prepared for owning one. I had no food for it and no where for it to do its business. When I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, in my dream, I discovered it had pooped on the doormat by the back door.

I added litter tray and “new” doormat to my shopping list.

My sister-in-law and nephews were also in my house but I never did establish why.

The second dream took place in our first marital home and somehow Andrew was back from the dead. I definitely hadn’t gone back in time.

I discovered him preparing walls in the bedroom for re-decorating.

“What colour are you painting it?” I enquired. After all colour is my forte.

“Blue.” A bit avant guard for the man who painted the whole house Magnolia!

“But I can choose the shade of blue?” This was of course acceptable, I was thinking a muted blue grey colour, “I could even move back in with you if you like?” I dropped casually into the conversation.

Well he has been dead over nine years, I’m not sure if it would be more of a shock for me or him to be sharing a bed together after all this time.

I acknowledged I’d got rid of the wardrobes since he’d died and we’d moved, “but that will give us more space in here and we can get some new wardrobes and put them down stairs for our clothes.” (We had an upside down split level house, that really isn’t as weird as it sounds.)

I was obviously also acknowledging that the boys had moved on and we had space to play with.

It must have been about this point I woke up; it was almost 9am!

Pondering my night-time adventures, I wrote them down on Facebook – well why not get the opinions of my 200 or so friends. Or just 6 or 7 who wanted to join in the fun!

“What’s missing in my life?”

The responses were, I should get a cat – no chance – too much responsibility and looking around the kitchen I have no where for a litter tray!

Someone else suggested I’d been eating too much cheese, but casting my mind over what I ate yesterday I had NONE – unusual for me, does the lack of dairy in your diet also stimulate your sleeping brain?

No one so far has suggested I need a new man in my life – hahaha – good job I’ve given up with that fantasy then. Not quite sure where I’d fit him in – although I’ve not really utilised the loft space since moving in – something else to ponder when I can’t sleep!

So in conclusion - it will be just me, without a cat from now on. As if there was any doubt…

But I do need a new doormat by the back door, and a bit of paint on the walls might be nice – maybe in the end that’s ALL I’m really missing!

Happy Birthday Andrew

Happy birthday darling!

Another year?

How time has flown.

You - not even a day older,

and me?

Still here alone.

I stare at your old photos.

You stare back with twinkling eyes,

I miss the warmth behind them,

deep understanding you supplied.

You were the keeper of my secrets,

holder of my heart

‘til life crumbled

on my darkest day

we were

untimely ripped.

Apart.

I can’t say that I think of you

each morning, noon and night.

You’re a presence

like a shadow

almost there

just

out

of

sight.

But as your birthday comes around,

and dark November days,

you linger longer in my thoughts

I can’t escape your gaze.

Grief is stealthily defiant

dispensing killer blows

in the least expected fashion

it shakes you head to toe.

At last

with expert timing,

we reach November’s end

but just before it’s over

Happy Birthday

Dearest friend. xxx

Love is in the air...

I’m off to a wedding this weekend, a friend on facebook has just announced she is engaged and only last week my parents celebrated their fifty third wedding anniversary.

So, with hands on hips and stamping my feet, I want to know when’s it my turn for a little romance in my life?

Last week I was at a new church course looking at our journey’s – mines been an interesting one, up a few ladders, down far too many snakes and generally going in circles and ending up exactly where I started, at least geographically.

Everyone on the course was being really honest and most admitted their own “spiritual” journey with God perhaps wasn’t so spiritual, we all fall far short and generally struggle.

But more importantly for me was when we got into smaller groups and got more personal. I had a chance to talk about Andrew and remembered why I’d fallen in love with him in the first place.

It's all too easy, when being the positive "glass half full" girl that I usually am, to dismiss the past or at the very least remember all the bad bits. My new life needs to be more hopeful than the old, so let’s colour the past in muted shades of blue and grey.

Andrew suffered with depression and was often hard work to live with, sometimes I concentrate on those aspects of his character because it is then so much easier to live without him.

I no longer have to walk on egg shells, I can leave things in a mess without comment, I can dye my hair all colours of the rainbow and squirt perfume to my heart’s content!

But I miss that person to snuggle next to on the sofa (especially now youngest is back at uni. He’s the best TV companion, in a lot of ways even better company that his dad in that respect).

I miss someone special to hold hands with and share adventures, even the little ones walking around the garden. I miss having quirky “in” jokes and being made to feel like the most important person in the room.

It was always my plan, once I’d moved, to try online dating. Hmmmm – I did try it a few years back but had very little success, actually I was probably only on it for about a week then asked for my money back! Hahaha.

The cancer diagnosis and chemo put the breaks on things but now I am all clear I have a new lease of life. And a new attitude too.

Life really is short, I am only 51, reasonably attractive and honestly I think I’m a good catch, even with the scars and baggage! I am a survivor.

I’m cautiously excited at the prospect of meeting new people, I might actually go on a date this time and not run away and cancel my subscription.

I’ve paid up for 3 months – well there was this nice-looking man who seemed perfect and if I wanted to find out more, I needed to join properly and part with my cash.

I sent a “like” to show I was interested – he’s been online since but never responded. I “liked” someone else’s profile and so far no response from him either…. Oh well I’ve waited this long, I might as well hang around for the “right” one to come along! Its their loss!!!!

One of the things I hated about online dating last time was how judgemental you become of profile pictures; you can so easily dismiss someone because their nose is too big without really finding out what their personality is like.

This time I have a new plan.

I’ve remembered what made me fall in love with Andrew, he wasn’t the handsomest of men, his hair was slightly scruffy and his dress sense was actually quite shambolic but he had really kind eyes, a killer smile and wicked sense of humour.

So let’s start with those qualities and see where it takes me….

Love is in the air at the moment – let’s just hope its infectious and I catch a jolly good dose of it!

Where the music takes me...

I thought I was such a rock chick dancing along to Def Leppard’s Animal. Thursdays were student night at the Hungry Years Nightclub. And that was the tune guaranteed to get everyone on the dance floor. “And I want, and I need, and I lust – Animal” 

Hang on a minute - I never knew until google that “lust” was in the lyrics. I was searching for love…

It was the late eighties, I was a student, probably a very naïve one, the only time I invited a boy back to my room for coffee, I really meant coffee! No lust whatsoever!

His name was Rob, I’d been eying him up all year across the dance floor or over breakfast – we were in the same halls of residence so he would have been sat three tables away and not directly opposite me with just a bowl of cornflakes and piece of toast between us.

It was nearly the end of the summer term, practically my last chance to find that elusive boyfriend before going home for the holidays.

We’d been to the ‘Years, as we used to call it, and somehow we ended up sharing a taxi home. It was probably Katie’s idea, she was also in our halls of residence and not afraid to talk to boys like I was.

So I made him coffee and we may have even swapped phone numbers and addresses but this was the era before social media and mobile phones; he never did get in touch.

Summer came and went. When we returned to the Hungry Years the music had shifted. It was all S Express and Pump up the Volume.

I spied him once more across the dance floor but by then he’d caught the eye of another girl. I think she was Scottish but where I got that idea from I’ll never know. But she certainly was a wee fresher who stomped in time to the beat. “Mini Stamper” was the moniker I gave her in my head as I glared in her direction.

Rob was captivated “I got the hots for you” as the song goes but I’m not sure if he ever looked longingly over in my direction again. Perhaps she made better coffee!

By the following summer he was all forgotten as a group of us sat on Brighton beach listening to Eternal Flame by The Bangles. By then I fancied Mike or was it Jon… If only either of them would notice me!  “Say my name, sun shines through the rain… I don’t want to lose this feeling.”

But even those flickers of fantasy turned to dying embers, the flames weren’t really as eternal as they promised.

A few years passed and then you came and turned my world around. As Whitney warbled I will always love you I knew I’d found my one and always. You were nothing like the boys of before. They were boys of summer, merely for a season.

But in the end so were you, but you were like autumn, forever.

And If I can’t have you, I will always have our song.

Last night I dreamt of Andrew...

Last night I dreamt of Andrew. It happens very rarely but last night he disturbed my sleep.

 

He returned to us from beyond the grave and disturbed my world.

He came in, took one look at our “chaotic” existence and quite literally moved the furniture in the house around to suit his own needs.

He couldn’t understand why we had changed things, why things no longer worked the way he had planned them to.

Slightly rattled I woke early, decided to get up and make a cup of tea, the panacea for all ills, particularly at half six in the morning.

I climbed back into bed and read for a while to stop my mind from wandering. I don’t want my thoughts to drift in this direction. I’m already in a fragile state.

I like to think of Andrew looking down at us with a benevolent smile on his face, proud of all we’ve achieved. Although I confess in the early days I still worried what he would think about the things I did. I know I do lots differently but people tell me we are doing well.

It’s nearly 5 years since I’ve been doing “this” solo. I won’t say it necessarily gets any easier.

Quite often I long for someone to put their loving arms around me and hold me tight – but I have youngest son to snuggle on the sofa with and given half a chance he would never let me go. A ploy to extend bedtime he has never quite grown out of.

Meanwhile our house is quieter than ever as oldest son is off at Uni – forging ahead with his own path.

As I keep saying some things change and others just stay the same.

Here I sit in the same too big house, with the big lawn surrounded by such magnificent trees.

And once more its autumn and the leaves are falling down, weeping for a time that’s lost.

And that’s the other bit of the dream - as Andrew moved the furniture and re-wired the speakers so I could listen to a CD once more, I caught a glimpse out of the window, there were fewer leaves on the lawn and maybe they were mixed with a scattering of bright red poppies.

I gazed wistfully, pondering and letting everything wash over me. Holding “same” and “different” in my head.

After reading for a while I knew it was time to get up. The radio alarm had gone off and a new day had arrived.

It would be all too easy to pull the covers over my head and hide, but I’ve not got this far by shutting myself away from the world.

So I carry on, towards Friday 13th, the fifth anniversary, knowing that if I hear a bump in the night, it’s probably just Andrew re-arranging the furniture!

I’ll put it back where I like it in the morning!!!