It wasn't exactly a sudden death. We had been given time.
We grew up with a father who was a drinker, social at first, then solitary. Alcoholism takes over slowly and grows like mould. I didn't have the best childhood but certainly not the worst. Despite the alcoholism, I knew we were loved. I should be thankful that we had 10 years of a sober Dad and 10 years of knowing that he would die early... hepatitides and cirrhosis of the liver but we ignored the fact. Ignored when he could no longer process salt. Ignored it still when his belly grew large and had to be drained. Tried to ignore the blood. Once he got to the ICU at Conquest Hospital it was time to accept that things weren't looking good. An ambulance journey to the liver ward in King's College Hospital, London where I joined my mum and my brother... waiting. Morphine given he uttered his last words "into the arms of morpheus" and slept for a whole weekend before he finally died.
Time is taken up with funeral planning and arrangements and making sure you let everyone in the family know. After the funeral my grief became overwhelming and despite the support of my family and partner, grief counselling and anti depressants the urge to wipe myself off the face of the earth became all encompassing. After a year of suicidal thoughts and only darkness I began to look forward to taking steps into the small shaft of light that had appeared in the corner of my eye - we moved, I got a new job, we tried to spend time doing happy things.
During this time my mum started shrinking... she was a big woman with a big personality and she just... got smaller. She, we, her doctor all assumed it was grief but two years later she managed to get some tests done. Cancer of the oesophagus which despite chemo (that was a shit Christmas!) spread like wildfire through her body. 6 months later she was dead too.
My parents missed watching me get married, have children, grow up (28 - 38 has been a long decade!). I miss them every day with all my heart.
So, grief does evolve and change over time but there are times when it hits you like a train. Sometimes you can plan for these - anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas - you know that they are going to be hard. Other times like when my little girl lifts her eyebrow in a particular way my dad did or when my little boy laughs like my mum did, my heart could explode from the love and pain it causes.
Paul Lee Foxall
29/05/1948 - 05/12/05
"As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent you asked for the latest party"
David Bowie, Diamond Dogs
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
I'm barely able to function. Everything is taking twice as long as it should. I feel as though I'm walking in syrup. My throat keeps contracting so I can't breathe. I'm scared. I sob on public transport. I can't sleep. When I do finally get to sleep, I can't wake up. I'm angry. I feel like screaming. I laugh. I'm manic. I stamp my foot and shout "it's not fucking fair".
Apparently these are all natural reactions to death.
I just miss my dad so fucking much.
Jan Maloney
17/08/52 - 07/07/08
I'm barely able to function. Everything is taking twice as long as it should. I feel as though I'm walking in syrup. My throat keeps contracting so I can't breathe. I'm scared. I sob on public transport. I can't sleep. When I do finally get to sleep, I can't wake up. I'm angry. I feel like screaming. I laugh. I'm manic. I stamp my foot and shout "it's not fucking fair".
Apparently these are all natural reactions to death.
I just miss my dad so fucking much.
17/08/52 - 07/07/08
I'm short of inspiration. I'm running on empty. I cannot create. I'm tired. I cannot think in a straight line. I'm worried about the future. I'm Esther crawling between the mattress and the padded bedstead.
