The support group was full of people who had ghastly stories, terrible losses. We sat in the ubiquitous circle, and each person shared their pain and what they called their ‘journey’. And a pattern emerged – a pattern of recovery and healing. People talked about how, with time, it was getting easier. There was even a mother who’d lost two children, both to cancer, who said that she knew one day she’d be able to remember her children with peace, and she just wished that day would come. And I couldn’t understand them at all. I knew that for me there was no journey towards peace and healing and happiness. For me there was just learning to live with the pain well enough to take care of Julia. That was all I could do. Until that moment I’d thought there must be lots of people like me – going through the motions, but dead inside. All the support group showed me was that I was alone.
As the stories moved around the circle, I became petrified that Nerina would tell her story, because her story was my story and Nerina knew everything. Everything. I did not want my story to be shared with these people. I was relieved when a few people shook their heads and remained silent, and then it came to Nerina and she opened her mouth to speak and I felt suffused with dread. But she said, ‘Not this time,’ and the circle moved on.
When Nerina and I got into my car – she avoided driving whenever possible – I was about to say, ‘Well, that was ghastly. Never again,’ but Nerina spoke first.
‘That really helped,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘It helped hearing that people feel better. That I will feel better. It gave me hope.’
I turned to look at her.
‘Watch the road,’ she said calmly.
‘But what if we don’t feel better? Those people . . . It was weird.’ I couldn’t verbalise it.
‘We will feel better, Helen,’ she said. ‘That’s how grief works. We’ll always be changed, but one day we won’t wake up and want to die. I know that, and so do you.’
But I didn’t know that. I was pretty sure, even then, that I would never feel better.
‘Maybe it’s different for me with Mike . . .’ I said.
‘Maybe, but there was that guy whose wife had had dementia for so long, and he’s got a whole other life now.’
I didn’t want to be like that man. I didn’t want a whole other life. I wanted the life I’d had, the life Nerina’s husband had stolen from me.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘Okay,’ said Nerina. ‘But I am.’
It’s not that Nerina and I stopped being friends then and there. We still saw each other for a while, and she phoned crying just like she always had. But over the next few months she started talking about feeling better. She started using phrases like ‘moving on’ and ‘getting closure’. She went to a therapist, and I think the therapist told her I was bad for her, because she started contacting me less and less.
And I was glad. I didn’t need friends. I couldn’t have friends – I was too damaged. I had Julia, and I had Mike, and that would be enough.
And it was. Until now.
Suddenly I’m a person with friends again – not one set, but two. I know for other people this sounds like a poor allocation, but it’s a bounty I had never expected to enjoy again. It makes me feel good, but also strange and guilty.
It makes me think that other people might say I’m moving on. But I know it’s because of the baby; it’s because I know I can die soon that I’m free to relax and make friends.
Nobody said life made sense.
Claire
The day starts badly. Mackenzie’s school has a sports day so I’ll have to spend the afternoon watching. Which means less time to work, and I’d hoped to drop off a casserole for Ivy from the pottery class, because she’s had a hip replacement and I’m worried she has too few people – except the other pottery widows – to help her. I sigh, thinking how in the old days I could’ve asked Daniel to take Mackenzie to school to buy some time . . . and then I realise I still can.
I think about phoning, but I have an absolute fear of hearing Julia’s voice in the background or, even worse, having her pick up the phone – as unlikely a scenario as that is. So I message him and I’m really nice, remembering that my last message wasn’t exactly supportive.
Any chance you could take Mackenzie to school this morning? Bit swamped, I type.
Within seconds, my phone beeps: Not today. Xx
What the hell? He hasn’t even given a reason, and he has the audacity to send kisses. But then I wonder why I’m even surprised. It’s typical Daniel – if something doesn’t suit him, he just doesn’t do it. He doesn’t explain – he just says no. There must be a million examples of me asking for his help and him – charmingly, sweetly – shrugging it off. Even if he still lived with us, he wouldn’t have taken Mackenzie. He would have smiled, and laughed maybe, and said, ‘Not today, babe,’ and it would have turned out that he wanted to go to the gym, or pick up a coffee, or he had a mad hankering for a scenic drive before work, or really just fancied a bit more sleep. Only occasionally was it an actual excuse – a meeting, or an appointment. I chose to see it as charming that he never lied. And I would shrug and smile, and rearrange my day to accommodate the task, telling myself that it wasn’t that big a deal.
And suddenly I’m furious about all those
