“Nice colour, isn’t it?”
I bought a new car this week, or, at least, a new-to-me car. It’s a bit of a milestone. I bought my now very old car 7 years ago, immediately following my husband’s terminal diagnosis and the first debulking of his brain tumour.
“You should have something reliable,” he’d said, which at the time mine was not. It hadn’t been too much of an issue since my husband was handy, especially mechanically, and could fix most things (including changing the engine on Tilly, the ancient camper van we’d owned). With his guidance I bought a 10 year old Honda Jazz. Reliable? Absolutely. Have I liked her? Unfortunately not. Trusty as she is, she has never felt like my car and I feel travel sick driving her. My husband understood.
“When you change it”, he said “go for Japanese or Skoda”. He didn’t give out advice often – I listened.
Effort
Since he died I have made numerous mini-concerted efforts to find ‘my’ car, all of which have come to nothing. My confidence was through the floor, I couldn’t face the upheaval, I felt alone and vulnerable. Lockdown happened. Each time I had resolved to take the plunge, I withdrew again, defeated by the effort and confusion.
A few weeks back, seemingly randomly, I popped into a local garage.
“My late husband advised Japanese or Skoda”, I said, gauging the salesman’s integrity, “is that good advice?”. Bless that young man:
“You won’t go far wrong with that”, he said without a patronising trace in his voice. I popped back this Friday to find a Suzuki; on Saturday I read reviews, test drove, questioned and negotiated; read more reviews on Sunday and my resolve held firm through to deposit time on Monday (sounds like a Craig David song, doesn’t it!?).
It feels like some kind of measure on the grief road. Has it really taken me 5 ½ years to trust myself? In the early days of loss, I had to steel myself to pick up the phone and call the bank; travelling alone to Germany to see my daughter, a journey I had made numerous times before, felt overwhelming; what colour to paint the front door seemed a monumental decision. I felt raw, naked, unprotected, as if all of my resilience had been stripped from me, used up in the effort of nursing and advocating for a husband and watching him untether from his poor bloated body, while grieving a son. The last shreds of it, enabled me to stay standing.
Only at home could I feel safe: lying on the sofa, the dog on the footstool beside me, maybe a cup of tea, maybe a book, maybe snoozing. All of that time is a blur; I just recall it as if everything hurt, and every movement had to be gingerly made in case I fell apart in my fragility.
I had a “no more than one thing a day” rule. One social contact or one accomplishment. No more. And not every day. I wrote: stories which allowed me to live somewhere else for a few hours; poems which enabled me to uncover and language how I felt and haiku which were distillations of single moments of experience. Exhausted, I would go to my bed at night and weep at its emptiness, at my emptiness. And then do it all again – the effort, the one thing, the rawness, the getting through – the next day.
I wouldn’t say that “time is a healer”. Time is time, both an objective measure and a subjective experience. But I would say that over time my resilience has regrown – not armour, I hope never to put that around my heart – but an elderly sass, a gentle strength, a flexible astuteness sort of resilience.
Nice colour
“Nice colour, isn’t it?” Saturday’s (different) salesman said of the car.
“I was wondering,” I said, “if it might be underpowered with that ratio of engine size to the size of the car”.
Have I made a mistake, got it wrong, paid too much, compromised, been foolish? I don’t think so, I hope not, but yes, it has taken me 5 ½ years not to fall apart, to feel unafraid in a salesman’s office, to stand my ground, have my own back and trust myself.
Part of me is cheering. Part of me is wondering if I can hear my husband cheering. I want to acknowledge the courage it has taken to walk this road, and to affirm the enduring vibrancy of the human spirit, my human spirit, our’s.
And it is a nice colour – ‘my colour’ as it happens – turquoise.
With my love
Nickie
PS I have just read the most beautiful blog on Substack – Postcards from Scotland. ‘When hearts break’ is probably the best description of early, shocking grief I have read, written with compassion, hope and wit. You should find it here
NEWS
Creatively Writing Through Loss: 10th and 17th Feb, 3rd and 10th March
We have all experienced loss of one sort or another, personal, global, profound, accrued over time. We don’t always give ourselves permission to be with it, give it space and explore it, not to be self indulgent but to understand and soften to our hurt places with compassion.
If you’d like to language your feelings and distil your experience, please join me on my Creatively Writing Through loss online, 4 week course coming up very soon. Only 2 places remaining so if you’ve been thinking about it, now is the time to book here or write to me for more information.
Walking with Loss, online: 14th – 16th March
Writing this as the hail clatters on the sky light and the wind howls down the street, I think what a good idea Emma Capper and I had, to offer our Walking With Loss weekend, online!
To give you an idea how it will work:
Friday evening we will meet together online
Saturday morning we will meet again and together think about an aspect of grief. We will offer you a couple of creative invitations in nature and a way of tuning into the natural world with all of your senses (this will also be recorded for you to take with you).
The rest of Saturday morning and the afternoon is for you to dodge the showers – or luxuriate int he sunshine – and venture out as far or as near as you want to with our guidance.
Saturday evening we connect again to share our experiences.
Sunday morning is a similar format but coming together for the last time in the afternoon for a beautiful and uplifting closing circle.
All this for £55 – £99 according to your means. (Bursaries may be available – please ask.)
For further information or to book please go to the events page here.
Buy me a coffee
I am very very grateful to the many of you who have been gifting me coffees. Over these last months I have been given enough to pay for my domain and website renewal for the year, with some left over. This means that the blog has become self funding and that feels wonderful. Thank you.
For those of you who would like to contribute regularly or every now and again, please know that every cup of coffee (£5) matters to me and I appreciate each one. You can do so here if you would like to at any time.
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