Something

 

 

6.24. Anxious. Had to get something out. Relieve the brick on my chest. I read some of Alan Bennet’s Untold Stories about his Mam’s illness and depression. It was good. I was taking it in but I needed something to come out. I pulled off my covers. Bazil turned his furry head, shuck it vigorously then lay it back down on his tiny black paws. No panic. I swung my legs. My cold feet touched down on the grimy floor. I pushed myself up. I moved along the bed to the desk under the window. It faced out on Sophie’s school. It was grey, rainy grey. I lifted my laptop lid – ‘the fuzzy’ as we called it. It had a soft grey case and a detachable keyboard. All my writings were in there, my life and others incomplete, unraveled, unwrapped, unsaved, unsafe, unseen.

 

I opened my Gmail account. I scanned down. There, past a Prime cancellation notification, mentor support, LinkedIn, Meet Up, Classic Rock, a contact from One Parent that I had skimmed before. I read it now with more intent. I was sorry I missed the call mentioned. But I was doing all sorts - Music Monday, Mindful Walk and Grow Support on Tuesday, visiting my wife, Cookery on Wednesday, Crafts on Thursday in the school, Art on Friday mornings, sometimes swimming before lunch, before Daisy came in for lunch. Shut and Write on Saturday – one in the morning, one in the afternoon, WRAP squeezed in between – Wellness Recovery Action Plan it was – where I could share and vent, exploring ‘indecision’ yesterday. Church on Sunday morning. I was now in the band. Two hymns to learn and play. Writing Groups on Tuesday, and Sunday nights plus Peerclass and Long Form. That was loads. Enough?

Bazil stirred, curious, came to my shoulder, and nuzzled my neck. I reached around, I petted him, and read.

Hi again,

As I have already suggested, if we could talk, I could discover what support you would find helpful.

 

In the meantime have a look at the following link which I hope may be consoling in some way www.mariecurie.org.uk/information/end-of-life/supporting-child-teenager-when-someone-has-terminal-illness 

 

Once again, you are more than welcome to speak with us on the Helpline.

 

Take care.

 

I replied.                         

 

I'm so sorry I missed you. It would have been so nice to talk. You're so nice to reach out to me. 

 

I'm finding things very difficult at the moment. Being in the house causes me a lot of anxiety. Coming home without another adult here, without another parent here, just a third person to come home to when I've been out with my daughter. She feels it too. We discussed it last night.

 

Although my wife is still around, now receiving care in hospital soon-to-be hospice care, I have virtually brought Sophie up on my own. Sophie is now 14. I wish she had more company and support in her life. Unfortunately, this time last year I became suicidal and ended up in hospital. I was very lonely. I spoke to Sophie about the lack of a 'mother/wife' in our lives and she agreed that we needed more company, more interactions with others, and someone to come home to. Clearly, you guys can’t supply that. I just wish I wasn't so overwhelmingly anxious and lonely. I'm not sure what to do but I do know I need emotional support and, in time, someone to share my life. Does that make sense?

 

I sent it – 7.31. It was great, great to reach out, to talk, but I needed more, needed to express something, some more. So, I wrote a free write poem, letting in out to soften the brick - a purge, catharsis, a bleed:

 

I miss the bliss of knowing

it will be ok. 

 

I miss the old house,

the tree with the swing

I miss everything. 

 

Someone to nod 

without saying hello

Somewhere new to go.

 

Somewhere wild

Someone for the child.

 

Something tame.

Something just the same.

 

Someone to give

Someone to concede. 

 

A kiss

A cuddle

A cure.

 

To be caged

To be freed

to succeed. 

 

To labour 

To toil

Be a foil

 

Be a friend

Never end

 

Break up

Break down

No frown.

 

Be certain

Be me

Set free.

--

Bazil popped up on my lap. His snout pushed out. He loved me. He kissed me. He purred.

 

 

 

 

The Monster's Loose

I arrived at oncology. I had come through town. Traffic had been bad. I arrived with a sense of urgency. This was immediately halted by the sight of Margaret was in the chair by the door. Her bobble hat was cute. Its childlike quality made her appear vulnerable. She was vulnerable. I looked down at her shoes. Her little six 6. Her feet were swollen. We were called into the consultation room.

"I wish it was good news," the consultant said from behind her desk, from behind her screen. The screen displayed Margaret's latest MRI result. MRI stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Its like an x-ray.

"I wish it was good news," she began, turning the screen to view. "but it's not."

The room took a breath, a short intake of breath.

"The tumour has spread."

"Oh."

"It's moved out of the target area," she said at least that's what I thought she said - target area.

The monster's loose, I thought. It was. It was loose.

"Can I look at the scan?" I said.

"Ok," she said. She glanced over at Margaret, indicating she could look too. 

"No, I'm ok. I'd rather not."

I got up, moved around the table and began looking over the consultant's shoulder. Through x-ray black, grey and white, white dots had appeared where there had been none before. Yes, the monster was loose. And the monster wouldn't leave until it had consumed Margaret whole.