On the morning of my late
husband, Paul’s funeral, I was incredibly overwhelmed. This of course was to be
expected, but it wasn’t because of the deep feeling of dread that had been
cruelly inching its way up from the pit of my stomach lodging somewhere at the
back of my throat. It was because, like every other day as the mother of four
young children, I just had too much to do.
That Morning, I was running
late, with everything. The service and the wake were meant to be held on the
beach in Seattle just down the road from our house, but it had been pouring
with rain and the forecast was even worse. I knew this meant that everyone
would end up back at our house because it was big enough to accommodate the
group.
Paul spent the last two weeks
of his life at home with us, in a hospital bed set up in the living room. He
always loved a good view, so in spite of the fact that he was completely
unaware of his surroundings, there he was in the window overlooking The Puget
Sound and the Olympic Mountains. Painfully beautiful.
That Morning, the house was a
mess and a crowd of people were imminent. On top of that I was still writing
the eulogy, the children were hungry, all of the cereal bowls were in dirty
piles in the sink or stacked on the countertop encrusted with hardened pasta
from a previous dinner. Bills I was never going to be able to pay were spread
all over the floor near boxes of unruly paperwork displaying numbers that
mocked my future.
A day or two earlier the kids
and I walked to the aptly named ‘Value Village’ for a shopping trip en masse to
purchase pre-owned grieving garb with my newly acquired food stamp debit card.
At the register I was told by a rude check out clerk at the top of her voice
that ‘we don’t accept THAT kind of payment here’. Cue smirk and sideways glance
at other customers. I tried to scrunch myself up into a little ball of
widow-ness and roll out the door but instead made a flippant remark that
embarrassed my oldest daughter. I wanted so badly to scream to my judgement committee
‘have you noticed that all of the clothes in this pile are black?’ But, I
didn’t.
That Morning, my crumpled
black bargains needed ironing. My three year old, not entirely sure of what was
happening was struggling to put on her tights, my six year old had cut his own
hair the day before and needed it to be evened out. When asked why, he said he
just wanted to look like ‘a lawyer’ to match the receding hairline and
occupation of his now deceased father, my ten year old needed a button sewn on
his shirt and his trousers hemmed up and help with a poem he wanted to read at
the service, my teenage daughter dreadfully burdened by the pain just needed so
badly for me to be there for her, to listen, even when she wasn’t speaking.
Other family members were
busy getting ready at their own houses. I was so tired. Inside and out. The
emotional and physical toll hammered at my senses preventing me from
thinking straight. I just couldn’t see how in the hell I was going to get it
all done in time and what I really, really, really needed was for Paul to just
walk through the door and help me get ready for his funeral.
Just to be clear, my
multi-tasking skills are right up there. Spot on. Well worn. Top notch. I could
do ten things at once long before it fell in and out of fashion. One finger on
the pulse, nine fingers doing a bunch of other crap. In 1991, I was a
copywriter and voice over artist for an American mid-Western cable television
station. When our eldest daughter, Grace, was born, I took a short maternity
leave and then she came to the studio with me until she was nine months old. She
was strapped to the front of me while I recorded various commercials, her head
inches from the microphone never making a peep (on the other hand, I had plenty
of whingeing colleagues who clearly missed nap time on a regular basis). I was also working on my B.A. studying by the Mickey Mouse nightlight on the rare occasion that she decided to sleep.
By the time my second child, Will, came
along, I was a weekly newspaper columnist and reporter for the Daily Chronicle in Dekalb,
Illinois, a Chicago outpost. I worked mainly from home instructing the kids to
use sign language for ‘blood’ or ‘fire’ so they could determine the right time
to interrupt mommy while doing a phone interview. During that time I decided that it would be a real kick to take on an M.A., because hey I had nothing but time.
I continued writing my column
after moving to London. While I was in labour with my third child, Nick, I
wrote a column about writing a column while in labour (it was the only idea I
could come up with in between contractions). By the time my fourth child, Belle,
was born, I was carrying her in my teeth while home educating the other three
children. When my fifth (I know, I know, somebody stop this woman) and youngest
child, Charlie, was a baby, I was writing for a UK magazine, singing in a band,
conducting a choir and the vocal coach for Felix’s School of Rock in London. I
invested in a decent pair of ear defenders so he could come to work with me.
Back to That Morning. My juggling
skills were frayed. Without Paul, I had to enlist the aid of my sisters, my
parents, my Aunt, my brother-in-law, neighbours I barely knew and a preacher I
had only just met. (I had already been visited by big-hearted friends and family who flew to my rescue from all over the world.) On the beach, speeches were made. Tears flowed. Arms clutched each other.
He wasn’t there. When it was all over, a solitary, thunderous wind came out of
nowhere roaring vigorously through the trees. We all looked at each other.
When I think of how much he
has missed, I am engulfed with sadness. A lifetime has passed since his ended,
abruptly, tragically. We were, the children and I, stunned.
I’ve missed the history we
had between us, the funny little stories and private jokes, the sound of his
voice, the feel of his hand in mine, the looks we exchanged when admiring one
of the children, those special glances that parents give each other when they
suddenly share a moment of overwhelming love and joy for the child they created
together.
What he has missed is
altogether different. The assumption is that the important occasions like
births, weddings, birthdays, mother’s and father’s days are the tragic losses
of the dearly departed and the sacred times when we mortals might catch a
glimpse of their spirit. And, while I did have a very strong and very
unexpected sense of him that day on the Seattle beach and one other time years
later during our oldest daughter’s University graduation ceremony, my own
experience is that the big events are well, rather uneventful when it comes to
this issue.
What he has missed are the tiniest
of moments, the barely notice-ables that are a fraction of themselves, singular
in their existence, but collectively form a salient whole. The touch of a small
hand, sticky fingers interlaced in mine, a wisp of fine hair across a soft
cheek, the weight of a sleeping child heavy in my arms.
So many things went unnoticed
before, in our old life, together. Bereavement heightened my senses. Many times
over the last ten years I have quietly been in awe of exactly what I had, that
he no longer did. His death made the details more visible.
They were there all along,
these glorious nothings of my world. Tissues, Lego and socks on the floor.
Wiping noses, bottoms, tears, and toothpaste out of the sink. Breaking up
arguments. Chopping up veggies. Slicing up cheese. Worrying about money,
worrying about the children, worrying about war, worrying about things I can
change and things I can’t, worrying about worrying. Getting stuck in traffic.
Homework, teacher meetings, packed lunches, the school run. Muddy shoes. Dirty
sheets. Office politics. Being late for a meeting. Missing a deadline. Paper
cuts. Stubbed toes. Broken glass. Broken promises. Broken hearts. Eating
something delicious. Eating something disgusting. Drinking a glass of freshly
squeezed orange juice, a cup of Earl Grey tea, a glass of Shiraz. Leaving the
fridge door open, the toilet seat up, the shower dripping, the lid to the milk
off and the lights on. Ironing a shirt. Folding a towel. Wrapping a Christmas present. Smelling a flower. Having coffee with a friend.
Dropping my phone. Losing my phone. Ringing my phone from another phone in an
attempt to find my damn phone. Forgetting stuff. Remembering stuff.
This is what he has missed.
That Morning, I mistakenly,
foolishly, optimistically assumed that Paul and I would begin a new
supernatural, beyond-the-grave sort of existence, whereby I could ‘feel his
presence’ as is always said. Over the years, I tried summoning him when I was
raging with anger over his death, terrified at the future, desperately missing
him, terribly sad for the grief I witnessed but could not repair in our
children’s hearts, extremely pissed off at the rest of the world for seemingly,
heartlessly carrying on with their lives as if the loss of his never made a ripple.
I assumed that the love we shared would allow me special access to him. But,
that was just not the case. I wondered over and over if the fleeting
connections would be because our bond was so strong or because it was not
strong enough to transcend death?
Mostly, I just felt that
there was only one reality. He is simply ‘gone’.
Maybe.
We scattered his ashes on his
beloved River Thames foreshore in London where he spent countless happy hours
mudlarking, an amateur archaeologist with a remarkable eye for artefacts. After debating
for ages, I carefully tipped out the essence of a man, my husband, their father. Immediately, the
wind blew it back at us, little grey flecks on our hats and scarves.
Eight years after he died, I
sat in a bright, white marquee watching my gorgeous oldest daughter graduate
from University. It was a stormy day and as soon as we were all seated, the
wind invited itself to the ceremony whipping around with fearless glee. Next to
me was my second husband, Vinnie, his hand in mine as we beamed with pride. And
then, like magic, the sound of the wind interrupted my thoughts and I suddenly
felt Paul’s hand instead, markedly different, softer and rounder than Vin’s
long, thin fingers. I stopped breathing. It was extraordinary.
He’s been gone for 3,652
days. 10 years. A decade. Quantifiable only as a specific measure of time that
we all share exactly. But, to count the beautifully mundane everyday moments
that constitute living would be like trying to capture the wind. Impossible.
Today while I write, a cool
Australian Autumn breeze blows hard through the open window wrangling for my
attention, slapping the palm tree leaves, jangling Paul's wind chime urn,
displacing the papers on my desk, chilling my shoulders and warming my heart.
