Loss

Sweet Charity

Posted on by billyblagg

All charities are suffering under the Coronavirus lockdown, so it was no great surprise when I got an urgent appeal through from the Hospice who provided counselling to me last year.

I’m happy to help obviously and I have several large bags of clothes they can have too when this madness ends. In the short term though, they have suffered a devastating loss of income recently and I feel it’s only right to donate, particularly as the six sessions I had with this Hospice were completely free. The centre helps people facing incurable illness and bereavement, providing support for them, their families, friends and carers, visiting them in their homes and providing 24/7 advice and care. It would be churlish not to support them.

That being the case though, it’s quite difficult to write about my own experiences with them. Having tried Psychotherapy after, I was asked on one occasion by my Counsellor there  ‘What did I expect to get from the sessions?’ and I found it hard to answer. In essence I suppose, I expected to get something I wasn’t expecting; some insight into bereavement that I hadn’t considered, something that might make it easier for me. In real terms, of course, this meant I couldn’t truthfully answer the question; how I could describe what I wanted when I didn’t know what was on offer? Frankly, six months after I’m still really not sure what I made of it.

I’ve spoken of the circumstances of what happened in Cut A Long Story  and in terms of fairness I need to deal with the two sessions separately. So the charity first: Well, in real terms, this just seemed like to somewhere to go for a chat and talk about Gail with someone who had never met her. I felt like I spent the six weeks explaining why she was important to me but didn’t get any further than that.

When I’ve seen therapy depicted on TV or in books, the therapist usually asks pertinent questions designed to encourage the patient (is that what I would be? ) to open up and expand on things they may have difficult confronting. But my Counsellor didn’t seem to say anything and I found the whole transaction emotionally draining (Or is that the point perhaps?). I feel I should have something to show for the experience but other than a poignant memory of the sessions themselves, I can’t seem to recollect anything said either way. To be perfectly honest, at the barrel of a gun I couldn’t even tell you the name of the woman I spoke to for six weeks. That may be my failing, of course. Who can say?

There must be more to doing the job than just listening though or surely everyone could do it? I didn’t feel it was enough to pick up on what I was saying and feed back the usual platitudes that you hear when you’re grieving; I’d heard them all and I needed more but wasn’t sure what I needed more of.

My overriding feeling about grief counselling was it was somewhere to talk about Gail for six hours in that difficult period leading up to Christmas. It was nice to talk about her and I did get upset and release some pent-up emotion during it, gulping back air and swallowing something hard and jagged on occasion, but I never released the wracking sobs and tears of frustration I felt inside. I did get some immediate relief – a slightly euphoric feel just after leaving – but it didn’t last long and I become frustrated by what I wasn’t saying.

Perhaps I spoke too much? I have wondered. At a party last New Year someone was talking to me about Gail and then suddenly stopped, held a hand against their throat and whispered “I’m so sorry, do you mind if I talk about her?”. The dramatic gesture made me laugh and I had to explain that talking about her wasn’t the issue, it was NOT talking about her that caused me problems. So perhaps that’s it? The counsellor maybe didn’t get a word in or thought it best to allow me to keep talking? I don’t know.

In many ways I’d have quite like to have got some appraisal at the end. You know the type of thing: ‘This gentleman obviously loved his wife but seems to have had trouble recognising his failure in dealing with her illness and I sense his feelings of loss mask inadequacies in his own life’ or something like that.

So, helping out an admirable establishment at  a time of crisis? That’s fine. But hand on heart I would have to say I would have been very upset if I’d actually paid for the sessions.

Which brings me to Psychotherapy.

Cards On The Table

Posted on by billyblagg

September 30th: Two months since Gail left me and a month since the funeral, so time the cards came down. Thank you for every one of them and the heartfelt messages inside. I had a good bawl this morning reading them. I will, of course, be keeping them all.

One of the (only) amusing aspects of the past 60 odd days is well-meaning friends, family and acquaintances telling me ‘Gail would have loved this’ with scant idea of what she actually liked. I’m afraid you’d be pretty surprised by what Gail did, where she went and who she went with just to be polite, be supportive or not want to offend. Similarly, at home ‘Gail would have loved these cards’. Oh no, she wouldn’t! She hated cards apart from those we sent to each other, and all Christmas / birthday cards had to go in my office if I wanted them up. (Sorry if this offends anyone, but it’s a fact).

So as I take them all down and polish the table, I can hear a voice from the great beyond: “Thank fuck for that. Now I get my table back, do I?”

The Streets Of London

Posted on by billyblagg

With my daughter due to get married in October, September seemed to just broil with stuff designed to have me gripping to reality by my fingernails.

On the 22nd was my future Son-in-Law’s stag do; a tour of the City and Central London on foot, visiting pubs on the way, the whole thing conducted by an official London guide.

So it was I found myself outside number 39 Furnival Street in Holborn. Site of a mystery building (Google it). Me? I’m staring at 37 where Gail worked (a job I helped her get) for three years. So desperate to text her and tell her about No: 39. It’s one of those moments when you consider actually typing and sending a message – and yes, I’ve done it – just to maintain your equilibrium. Of all the places in London…

The previous week I’d bought myself a cremation bracelet; a small thing to wear round my wrist that would contain a small amount of Gail’s ashes. This day was the first day I wore it; gaining comfort from having her with me everywhere I went. I know I had it on in Furnival Street but a couple of pubs later – yet completely sober – I found I didn’t have it on. I was beside myself. I’ve never found it and only admit this for the first time as I write this.

I gained solace – and grieving gives you the power to do this – in the knowledge Gail loved London and was somewhere in the City streets. Of course, she may have been picked up by some vagrant and swapped for a cup of coffee, but I prefer my version as I sleep better of a night with it.

36-37 Furnival Street

August 30th 2018

Posted on by billyblagg

The Post-THE-Day post. A day I never wanted to have and a day I would gladly not have if I could somehow wipe it. Within that though, I felt strangely elated that everything went so well. Gail would have loved it, I know.

The Ceremony was moving but lovely, I managed the 10 minute Eulogy without breaking down and even managed to get some of the humour that was so important to us into it. The Celebration of Life after was exactly that; every one remembered Gail as she would have wanted and the whole thing was held in a nearby bar / restaurant called Mimosa that was ‘very Gail’ and one she would have approved of.

It’s funny but just a year previously – with no fear that the date was impending but just one of those conversations you have sometimes – Gail said told me that when she went she only wanted me at the funeral and to just have some people back after for some sandwiches. I pointed out that there were people who loved her, who would want to say goodbye and, in any case, I needed someone there. Amusingly, I couldn’t even envisage what she was expecting with the sandwiches at home request. I’m fastidious about mess in the house and, with a latent OCD kicking in after Gail’s passing, I would have spent the whole afternoon hoovering up, walking behind people with a dustpan picking up crumbs.

Within that I was deliriously happy that I’d stumbled onto the idea of Mimosa. If we’d had the big chat closer I’m sure it was somewhere she might have suggested herself. The music she loved turned into a five hour ‘Mix Tape’; the type of thing we used to send each other back in the ’80’s. I even created it on Spotify so anyone can hear it. It was lovely hearing her favourite songs but even better hearing those ‘coded’ ones; the songs we used to speak to one another in when times were different.

Also, far from things being private and intimate, her passing being observed by just me, the whole thing became a worldwide event. With some friends of Gail unable to get to Colchester due to travel issues – Los Angeles, Greece and the Isle of Man just a few of the places where Gail’s friends lived – or ill-health (She had many friends with Lupus unable to make the journey), I’d had the whole thing recorded on Webinar so anyone could log on and see the whole thing. Friends and family were even able to go online for a month after to see the ceremony and I was able to get a downloaded copy to keep.

After the Celebration, I’d been taken to a nearby hotel to see Gail’s family down from the North-East. There were big family issues there – Gail hadn’t spoke to her closest for a few years – but I was glad everyone had been able to come and say goodbye to her. I felt it was important to try and mend the bridge; too late for it to be fully workable but good enough to hold up for anyone who needed to gingerly cross it.

After I left the hotel bar, it was past midnight of the 30th and the worst day of my life was behind me. I decided not to order a cab but walk the distance back to our house, passing a darkened Mimosa on the way. I’d had a drink but not too much – it’ s never a good idea even a year after – but I felt oddly light-headed. The day had gone as well as it could and I just knew implicitly that Gail would have approved. She’d have asked ‘HOW MUCH?’ at what I spent and then laughed as I’m famously frugal, but she’d have appreciated me getting everyone there – even those who couldn’t exactly be there – and I think she’d have appreciated me trying to fix some of the broken relationships.

I’m not proud of too many things I’ve done in my life but I am proud at what I was able to do for my wife on that day.