Best laid plans
A quiet walk in the woods, I thought. Write my blog, sitting on my tree in dappled light to the sound of the river. Flask of tea and home made cookies…
My dog picked up a scent he knows well – his best friend. I recognise the eagerness, the straining on his lead (as a sheep hustler and runaway artist, he’s always on the lead).
“No,” I said, “I will not be pulled and rushed!” I’m a little fragile this morning, late nights do not agree with me and last night was late, past midnight. Fortunately, I didn’t turn into a pumpkin but this morning I am no belle of the ball. Rowcroft, the hospice I work with, put on a fundraiser last night – ‘Rowcroft Does Strictly’. Cheesy chips and a bottle of water was the extent of my excesses but late is late.
I have made it in one piece to my tree, a little ragged but relatively in tact. And it occurs to me that my best laid plans have often de-materialised and left me bedraggled. When my son was born I didn’t envisage the chaos and crisis, heroin and heartbreak. When at 54 I was finally claimed by the man I belonged with, we planned to work together, to let our love ripple out into the world in ways which served. I did not envisage his fall down the stairs a few months into our relationship – a Fall into a pit of demons – and I did not plan on parting from him finally and ultimately 6 years later.
Anniversaries
In fact, the season of special dates is upon me. I speak to others and I know I am not alone in wondering what state birthdays, death days and anniversaries will find me in and how best to navigate them. Maybe I see the day approaching in my diary; maybe it’s the quality of the light which triggers a memory; maybe certain flowers appear in hedgerows or gardens which remind me. Peonies are blooming right now and I had some in a vase, of a beautiful coral colour which a friend had sent me, the day my husband died. What to do when the year has cycled around again? Anything? Honour it? Hide?
This year my son would have been 40. My daughter came to stay with her dad and I joined them. We piled into my car with chocolate cake and good will and headed to the beach. On the way we laughed, joked, told stories. At Lyme Regis we paddled in the sea, ate chips fighting off the seagulls, walked on the Cobb, napped on the beach and ate the now melting chocolate cake. More mellow driving back, we remembered his pain and our own and in the evening we ate sausages and watched a film. It was a day he would have loved. Family. Funny. Food. All held in love and sunshine. Happy Birthday my darling boy.
Giving space
Two weeks later, on the 6th anniversary of my husband’s death and following on from taking care of others in their grief during Dying Matters Week, I felt the need to give space to my own. As many of you know, I lead a group of women singing songs for those on the threshold of life. I set up the choir in January 2018. 2 weeks later my husband was diagnosed with a brain tumour. As he grew sicker and I was unable to leave him on his own, we would practise at his bedside. One evening we’d thought he was asleep.
“Would you like cake?” I asked the women quietly. A voice from the bed:
“Did someone say cake?”
Some of the women became carers for him and as a group they sang at his funeral. They were my sisterhood and after his death the choir gave rhythm to my week and a reason for me to function. Still beside me now, they gathered with me last week on his anniversary, sitting around a fire lit in front of his shed, a vase of peonies next to his picture. A beautiful woman who had been his massage therapist and became a very dear friend to me, held the space for us as we remembered and sang.
And, yes, we ate cake – the common denominator it seems, in how I honour my beloved ones!
Uniquely yours
No matter what some models of grief or ‘experts’ tell us, there is no one size fits all. Our grief is as unique as the relationship we have had with the person who has died. Grief evidences love. But its messy, choking, poignant, regretful, disappointed, angry, disbelieving, confusing, heart-hollowing nature, belongs to us and pertains to our relationship.
One of the events I co-facilitated in Dying Matters Week, was with a lovely young woman who works for a local funeral director. We invited people to consider their own funeral*.
“Forget about funerals for a moment”, I told them, “what do you love? What really matters to you in your life? Start there.” Honour your love. In death as in life.
When we remember, do we do it for the ones who have died or for ourselves? Do they still need our love? I don’t know but I know I still have the need to love them. My love is a verb in the present tense. My love has not died with them and it needs expression. It is an expression of both my humanity and divinity.
“Every human relationship”, says Paramahansa Yogananda, “is an expression of Divine Love”.
What we have shared with another cannot be removed from our lives. What I shared with my son and my husband has contributed in bringing me to where I am now: to my quirky, funny, tiring, creative, unplanned, beautiful life. And of course, the love my husband and I found together served the world. How could it not? True love ripples outwards and touches those in its path. It is rippling still.
With my love
Nickie
*PS If you would like me to assist you in putting together a plan or an outline of your funeral, please be in touch. We can do this online or in person, one to one or in small groups. It is a life enhancing possibility. Write to me here or via my instagram below.
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