TW: Death, loss, grief, hospitals
I thought the worst of the pain of you being wrenched from my life was over.
In two days time, it will be ten months since your heart gave it's last beat. I've been gaining inevitable distance from that day, inch by excruciating inch. Happening in the midst of memoirising my life; your death took over the words, forced me to gulp it down like scalding coffee.
To sit with the ugly shape of a world without you, every day, no matter the weather, season, hour, or how much energy I have.
To hold the absence of you, an eggshell in my palm, as I keep mum afloat in her chaos, swim against my own tide.
Talk to doctors, funeral planners, friends, family, your pension fund, the people who sent you emails and bills, who do not know you are dead.
See the unread emails from friends in your inbox, sent the day before, ignoring the belief that their words will resurrect you.
Listen to the golden music you loved that pushed a ten-inch blade through the core of me, to pick five fitting for a funeral.
Dance, just to feel in my body, in my gym shorts on a hot day in my living-room, like nobody can see.
This body has let me down more than once, terrifying, non-verbal episodes of dissociation, of shut-down coming in waves.
We got to the other side of something - left the year behind. But there's danger in closing doors.
Grating, knawing chest-pain reaches peak, day three, I decide to wait no longer.
Pull up at A&E, this is fine, I can handle it.
Sit in reception reading psychology articles on family systems. Wait forever, it's busy for a Sunday night.
Blood pressure taken in the hall, ECG on a hurried bed in a non-stop room.
Hours tick by, doctor comes. I'm just trying to find a room.
Just round this corner, the room where they tried to save you.
I have a room, it's just this way -
Walk past, avert my eyes. Go through doors, 'viewing room' - I whisper to my husband - 'that's where they put him'.
Doctor stops too soon, arm raised, found a nice -
- quiet room - I know the door sign -
no no no no no
shake head, hands over mouth, eyes burn, heart collapses beyond what any stethoscope or bleeping monitor can capture.
'I can't go in there
it's where they told us he died'
Where I held her
instead of letting myself implode
My husband articulates for me.
Kind doctor brings a tissue, gently takes my blood in the hall instead, such care in his hands, once a pianist; now here to witness the red of this pain, to cup it, fill vials with it.
He shades it from my eyes
takes it away
to be tested
in the same room as your blood was
ten months ago
in two days time.