Wednesday, 30 April 2014
I flick through the radio stations, French, not picking up due to the clouds covering the vast sky ahead, Classic, makes me feel too pensive, Radio 4, a topic I can't bear to listen about, nothing is fulfilling the need to drown out my mind noise on the way to see you.
That's what this is.
The days I am good, I feel life is 'doable'; life is beautiful in a very different way. Then the days I plummet, When I can't bear to face it without you, soul crawling round beneath a weight of darkness shrouding it, grieving for my man.
I am learning to live this way now.
I won't see you for a few days, I am going to London.
I am honoured and so grateful to Hugo Southwell, retiring captain of the Wasps, as he is doing his Testimonial and Dinner in benefit of you. How generous, how wonderful, how much it will mean. But I will have to speak a bit, in front of 400 guests.
I am stepping out of my comfort zone, I am no longer any good in social events, even a neighbour's Barbecue with less than 10 people sent me off to the bathroom to breathe through a major panic attack.
I am no good without you by my side, and yet I keep having to face things without you, do things on my own, for you.
I would swop it all honey, all of it in a breath to have you back, to be sat on the sofa, cup of tea in hand in my pyjamas next to the old you…
Only I cannot be.
I won't ever be.
So it is moving forward with what we have, with who we are now.
Turning changed eyes to God, eyes filled with sadness, longing for hope and help.
And living in between.
The good days and the bad.
Posted by Manic Mum at 14:27
Sunday, 27 April 2014
Lawn mower passes over someone's lawn in the distance, warm sun sets after a rainy day. It sets on another of our evening phone calls. It sets on a life we once lived.
I haven't been able to write much.
I don't know who I write to anymore.
I once wrote to who I thought would be coming back.
I once wrote through pain and heartache and an experience I thought you would sit down, read with me one day…catch up with my version of events.
I write to a stranger.
Someone I have lost in this life.
This is why I barely write at the moment Alex,
Because I write to a fantasy.
I write to a husband I once had, the man I once knew.
And the pain is too great.
I can't record it, I cannot express it, I do my best, my utmost to avoid it.
Only the evening strikes, the sun goes down and the loneliness of the night ensues. An empty bed, bedtime for 4 children conducted by their mummy again.
It is almost that we are all realising something. Lola stayed at her friend's last night. The lovely daddy there makes her come back and want to talk to me. She opens up about all her memories of you in the hospital, before you were whisked away from us. Before her 6-year-old heart was shattered and one of babies lost their daddy. She talks to me, through sobs of the day I told them of your operation, how well she remembers it. I hold our girl, I hold her tight to me, I kiss her blond head and don't let her go, don't let her see the agony in her mummy's eyes.
You left us all Alex.
You didn't choose to, I know.
But I know you are not coming back.
Posted by Manic Mum at 21:07