Today is the two year anniversary of mum’s death.
A few weeks ago my dad called my sister to ask her permission to take his new ‘friend’ to our holiday home on Andros. He told my sister he wasn’t sure how to broach it with me. When I called him, he told me they were just friends, nothing more. But when I later messaged to ask if he’d had a good time, he messaged back raving about how lovely she is. So many exclamation marks. He said she is so much like mum, just a “gentler” version.
He went swimming with her, and explored the island. Mum always begged him to do those things and he never did. In his message he said that “at last” he could swim and see more of Andros. As though it had always been mum holding him back. As that famous Philip Larkin poem goes… “They fuck you up, your mum and dad…”
The brat in me also had a little internal tantrum: how come my soon-to-be ninety dad has a girlfriend and I don’t’ have a partner? It’s not fair! Of course in reality, I’m happy if he’s happy. I just wish he would leave mum out of it.
The exchange got me thinking about grieving. Hurtling towards the four year mark from J’s suicide, I probably have enough distance from it to be able to look back more objectively. I grieved so differently from his family. In the thick of the grief, heightened emotions and chaos, it was hard to accept their way of grieving. Just as I’m sure it was hard for them to accept mine.
When J was in the induced coma for three days, I visited him once. His family were there most of the time. I can see now that they might have thought I was cold, emotionless. But I was the one who found him, I knew in my gut he was gone already.
I didn’t want anything to do with the funeral. I wouldn’t have even had a funeral if I could have avoided it. But of course I couldn’t, so me and J’s mum made the arrangements. J’s sister printed out hundreds of photos of J and decorated the venue where we had the wake. At the funeral service she created a table with thoughtfully curated objects to represent him. A trowel to show his love of gardening. A globe to show his love of travelling. I didn’t care about any of that stuff. It wouldn’t bring him back. I just wanted to be left alone.
There was a coroner’s inquest, because he died by suicide. I was asked to write a statement. I had no idea what I was supposed to write, I felt like I was being asked to convince a jury that it was suicide. The administrator from the coroner’s office called me up and explained I just had to write about what J was like. His family all went to the inquest. I didn’t understand what they hoped to gain. There was a part of me that felt they went because they blamed me.
His dad asked me to return every single item belonging to J. I know I’ve mentioned this before. Maybe it still stings a little. I left everything out for him to collect. He messaged me to say there were items missing. When I said I was keeping them (they were not valuable, or of sentimental value), he said he would take legal advice if I didn’t return them. OK it does still stings a little.
They wanted to keep the cause of J’s death private. I wanted to talk to everyone about it. They said it was because J was such a private person, and he was. But I felt that in dying by suicide he removed his right to privacy. Talking about it helped me come to terms with it.
J’s mum and sister wanted to stay in touch. I wanted to close the door on the whole thing and try to move forward. I did meet up with them sporadically. Leading up to the meeting I would feel a knot of anxiety start to form in my stomach. And each time I would end up enjoying seeing them and feel relieved afterwards. It’s nothing personal – seeing them pulls me backwards while I try to move forwards. I haven’t seen either of them in over a year.
I don’t visit his grave. His family go regularly. It’s a lovely woodland burial site, but his spirit isn’t there. It’s here, in the home and the memories he made with us. I don’t have to go to his burial site to feel connected with him.
When I read this back, other than demanding for all his belongings back (yep, definitely still stings!), I think their way of grieving might have been more ‘normal’ than mine. Normal is the wrong word, of course, as there is nothing normal about grieving. Maybe ‘usual’ is better? But I had to grieve in a way that allowed me to heal and move forward. And to be there for my kids. So I did what I needed to do.
I had planned to finish this post with a petty comment about how my dad grieved for my mum by finding a replacement in less than two years. But when I got home from work I saw I had a message from him. I felt a bit of dread opening it – today was not the day for me to hear about what wonderful things he’s being doing with his girlfriend. But his message started: “It has been a sad day for me today and even the weather has been gloomy.” So now I feel guilty for being so hard on him.
He’s grieving for mum, it’s just that he’s doing it his own way. He’s doing what he needs to do.
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