And then what…?

August 16, 2024 Off By nickie.aven




In the immediate aftermath of a death, there is still caring and loving to be done, decisions to be made, death certificates obtained, funeral directors to contact, the death to be registered, the funeral to sort – hall, church, crematorium, celebrant, minister.

The funeral happens and, if it’s a good one, it brings mourners together with an acknowledgement of loss and visible support for those who will most profoundly feel the grief. It will honour the life of the one who has died and it will mark the necessary transition from physicality to invisibility.

And then..

And then…. everyone goes back home. For many people, ‘normal’ won’t have changed much. They still go to their jobs as teacher or car salesperson, still make dinner for 4 or coffee for 2. But you, the mourner most profoundly impacted, you no longer have a ‘normal’; you have to learn to cook less vegetables or only boil one cup’s worth of water or remember you can’t pick up the phone and tell them that difficult thing that happened. Death comes in all shapes and sizes: unexpectedly, after a long illness, shockingly, accidentally, as a relief, to those who have lived a long life and to those who have not. The death itself is likely to influence the trajectory of the griever’s journey, but I can only speak of my own and so I will speak about my grief following the death from a brain tumour of my husband.

Rhythm

And you know what? I can’t remember. Feeding the dog will have given me a reason to get up in the morning. I would have sat down to meditate as I have for over 40 years, though I remember the pain being so excruciating when I closed my eyes, that any kind of focus was impossible. I must have eaten breakfast because I would walk the dog afterwards and occasionally see people in the woods to exchange a few words with – this was the bulk of my ‘social life’. I’m sure the rhythm of my days, necessitated by caring for a dog helped, and I’m sure having him to be responsible for and filling the house with a presence which still breathed and which I could still touch, helped too. I had my husband’s (very small) estate to administer, bank accounts to close, pensions to sort. I continued to run the threshold singing group and that gave a rhythm to my week as well.

The rest?

But the rest? Where was the torrent of tears which I had expected and even desired? Frozen. Where were the gut wrenching, cathartic howls? Lost in the grey bleakness which stretched in all directions. Where was the exquisite beauty which would co-mingle with the pain? I have no idea. I lay on the sofa and napped (when I wasn’t steeling myself to call some office or another). I drank tea and read fiction which a dear friend sent me. People will have written and sent love. Some will have said, “Let me know if you need anything” – and I will have said “thank you” and never asked because, well…. no-one could give me what I needed and what else could I ask for? Some will have said, “Call me” and I won’t have done so. My darling daughter will have kept an eye on me from 1000 miles away and so will good friends. Some came and stayed or popped round and a couple of them who’d walked the path, took me out on trips. I probably looked like I was doing OK – self contained as ever, able to talk about my husband, my clothes were clean and the dog was fed.

Ghost

But I was the ghost – my feet in this world of clay, my heart reaching out towards wherever my beloved now was. Which was where? Over and over I would ask that question, calling out as I walked in the woods or wandered listlessly around the house or lay in my too big bed: “Where are you?” Only ever silence replied. In the greyness, I couldn’t find the anger and injustice people said I “must feel” having lost him and my son so close together. What I did know was that the reality I had was not the one I wanted and that however hard I wished, the old one wasn’t coming back.

So I painted my house – gone was the white and grey and in their place golds and pinks – and I commissioned two pieces of art work.

Project 1

My husband had kept his radiotherapy mask, a stiff mesh mould for his face and skull to pinpoint where radiotherapy should be directed. He had intended to use it for an art project of his own but his illness overtook him. All I knew what that it would have involved maps of places meaningful to him. I took the mask to local maker Tati Dennehy. This is what she created

How did she know to put buzzard wings at his head? Buzzards had been a totem animal for him and still, whenever I hear their whistling call, I think of him free, flying. How did she know to put his hands there, hands ready to hold, ready to mend broken things – like our camper van, like me. She made his skin from old maps and painted a river from source to ocean, running through the landscape. Hidden behind a secret door, just for me, two swans. We put it on the shed he had made himself- “To you it’s a shed, to me it’s a sanctuary,” he had said. Now I had a sanctuary, a place to sit, to remember.

Project 2

We had always lived beside rivers and so the second project was to have a river woven from willow. I asked Emma Capper, to weave it for me and having mocked it up in seaweed first, she produced this.

Within her weaving I have inserted mementoes of our story, including the braid of our handfasting from 2015. There is a bed of red rose petals and a pouch lined with feathers where his wedding ring sits.

These personal ways of honouring my beloved, brought me comfort, gave me purpose, helped me find meaning in a seemingly meaningless landscape. In the months that followed, I bought furry throws and lit fires, made cakes because the smell of the baking was comforting and because it gave me something I could share, a means to nurture, which I was sorely missing. And I wrote- poems, stories, observations and every week a letter to my darling departed.

5 years on

5 years on, I’m still learning how to do this living alone thing, how to nurture myself, how to know what I want when there’s nobody else to consider, how to have my own back. The torrents of tears and cathartic howls have never made it out into the world. But I now know three things:

  • Love remains and I am forever changed by the love we knew together and it continues to uphold me.
  • Spring can return after the bleakest of winters, imbuing the landscape with colour again.
  • I do not want to return to the me I was before any of this happened. Battered and bruised I may be but grief is a catalyst, an opportunity, a portal for transformation – but that’s another blog!

And finally… a request – or an invitation!

For now, I want to tell you just one more thing. I am writing a book called, “Not Another Day – getting through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd….. year of grief”. I am finishing the second draft and my lovely friend who edited it for me, has advised me to find readers to give me constructive feedback. It’s a simple book with short paragraphs to accompany you on the difficult days. If you would be willing to be a reader, please contact me here. I also need an agent and a publisher and someone who can do some line drawing illustration. All help in these areas, very gratefullly received. Please be in touch. Thank you so much.

With my love,

Nickie

PS I am off to see my wee family in Germany – helping at a children’s festival my daughter runs. I may be late, therefore, with next time’s blog. So see you in 2 or maybe 3 weeks!


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NEWS

Walking with Loss, Together

I know how useful creativity can be in managing loss, how much solace can be found by being in nature and the benefit of being with others who understand. This 6 week group will offer all of that in a safely held and loving space.

Emma Capper (who wove my willow river) and I are offering a space which is both nurturing and resourcing, which is safely held and honours your personal journey.

To find out more and to book, please go to the events page