And so, we’ve completed another trip around the sun without you. Six years since that fateful day when I got the call to tell me that all hope was lost. Since we had to say goodbye to you via a Skype call. Since I begged people to help me make sure you weren’t forgotten.
Every year since then, I’ve written a blog to mark this day. I’ve tended to write them in advance so that I can tweak them as I go. Make sure I’m completely happy with them before I post. Not this year though. This year, I’ve struggled to write one. I’ve just not known what to say. And I always said I would only write when I had something to say.
I’ve been beating myself up a little bit about this over the last 48 hours. Why haven’t I been able to think of something to write to mark this day this year? It’s certainly not because I care less. I guess in a way it’s almost just snuck up on me, and I can’t actually believe we’re here again. Maybe that’s a sign I’m getting old. That time is going quicker.
Or maybe that’s a sign as to how we all grow around our grief. It’s still there, ever present but life continues around it. And I think that’s why I’ve struggled to write something before now, because life has just been so full on lately. The juggle has been beyond real. Time hasn’t really been my friend.
But yesterday, something started whirring in my brain about what I could write today. It happened in my grandparents’ house as we were doing the final clean. As I was thinking about the fact that today is the last day this house will be in our family. I couldn’t think of a more poetic day really. Tomorrow it’s gone. It’s the right thing to do but that doesn’t mean it’s hurting any less. That I didn’t stand in the lounge and cry. But I know it’s the right decision. Because it’s time.
And there you have what clicked for me. Time.
I started thinking about you and the early days of the pandemic. Listening to the then Prime Minister say, “I must level with you, the British public. Many more families are going to lose their loved ones before their time.” The heated discussion you had with someone about this statement (side note, she was right though). Your frustration at this was borne from your belief that if people died it would mean that it was their time. Your firm belief that we’ve all got our time on this earth.
You might have had this belief, but I still don’t really understand how it was your time. 45 years old just doesn’t feel right to me. And now I’m 45, I’m understanding it even less. I can’t imagine my life being extinguished and over this year. God willing, it won’t be. But there’s just no sense in how much time we have. While their house might be being sold, Nan is very much alive at the age of 95, Wednesday night’s A&E trip with her proved that. She’s probably going to outlive me to be honest. Because it’s baffling how everyone’s time is different.
I wonder what you’d be doing now if it hadn’t been your time. Where life would have taken you. How many more board games we’d be trying to find homes for. How many more Jim Shore ornaments we’d be trying to put out at Christmas. What you’d be making of having a teenage girl in the house. You’d be eminently proud of her I know that much, but teenage girls are a law unto themselves!
I wonder where life would have taken me if you were still here. I thought about this while have a cuppa and watching my WAY Widowed and Young running shirt blowing on the washing line. Don’t fall off your chair, I haven’t taken up running but was wearing it at PoundFit yesterday. I wouldn’t have known about this charity, become a Trustee and met some fabulous people. I certainly don’t think I’d have started writing in the way that I have. Funny where life can take you.
There’s so much about our life that’s still the same as it was before this fateful day six years ago. The family photos that still adorn the walls. The lounge wallpaper that you chose. The same friends. The two-hour video calls going down tangent boulevard on more than one occasion (I’m sure you can work out who with from that description). The juggle of the dance runs and rehearsal schedules. My commute to London.
There are, of course, differences too. The dog we now have (can’t help but wonder if you’d say he was a proper dog because he’s not the biggest). The Jason Donovan photos that now adorn the walls, to be honest, I still consider this to be my biggest rebellious act since you died. The house renovations I’ve made. The new people in my life. The fact that in less than two months our daughter will leave school. The fact that I am now a published author. I often wonder what you would make of it all.
Yet what I underestimated about this last point is how much this would help with this moment from six years ago today:
I made a few more calls that night and did speak to some friends and family. I’d love to be able to tell you exactly who I spoke to, but I simply can’t. Trauma and shock were already putting me in a protective bubble. Letting me function but not really knowing what I was doing. I dread to think what I said to people. I like to hope that I came across as vaguely coherent, but I can’t swear to it. All I can really remember from each of the calls I made was begging people at the end of the phone to help me keep his memory alive. To help me help Rebekah to remember him. I just kept saying, “Please don’t let him be forgotten.”
That’s a paragraph I wrote in Is Daddy Going to Be OK?, the book I published telling our story. The reviews from people telling me that they feel like they made and lost a friend when reading it. The people who have told me that they feel like they really got to know you by reading it. Never in a million years did I expect that this would happen. I just wanted to tell our story, the real story of the pandemic and make sure you had a legacy. I didn’t really join the dots between writing a book and you never being forgotten, I thought that was something that only family and friends could help with. Because only they knew you while had your time on earth. The fact that this book has helped with people feeling like they know you is humbling. I like it. It makes me happy to think that your name is being spoken by so many people.
That’s what matters. The legacy and memories that we leave. I’ve felt this even more so recently. Emptying a house that’s been in the family for 62 years and only keeping a couple of boxes. Doesn’t mean we’ll forget any of the time that we spent in that house, or the memories that we made. But my grandparent’s material things don’t mean anything to us. That’s not what’s in our hearts.
It’s really made me think about what we do actually “need.” Six years on and I still can’t bring myself to do anything with your CDs, music was such a big part of your life after all. But do I need these to remember you? I do know the answer to this really. I’ve started sorting and getting rid of the board games, some of which didn’t even arrive until after you’d died, but the CDs I’m oddly attached to. Even though the majority of them haven’t even played since April 2020. I’ve got my “Dead Charlie Box” (nothing like being blunt is there?) which has got items in that I deem to be important, the Marvel lounge pants you were taken to hospital in, they have been washed, don’t fret. But in the years to come when our daughter has to sort through my belongings, I know it won’t be the material things she remembers about you or me. The Jason Donovan photos will no doubt be the first things to go in the bin.
Because what she will remember and hold onto will be the love. The love you gave her for those 10 years will be more important to her than the CDs. She’ll hold onto the memories we made as a family of three and then as a team of two. The time we had together. Six years ago today, I felt that all hope was lost. I couldn’t see a way forward without you. I didn’t know how to live after loss. How to make sure love would live on. The enormity and magnitude of what had happened to us was just too huge. But I think in that moment I forgot one thing. I believe in hope. It’s everything. Without it, I don’t think I’d have made it this far. And I know that once that house is officially sold tomorrow, we’ll be ok. However much it’s been stinging this weekend.
I can’t work out whether you’re eye rolling me or nodding along with me at this. Whether you’re thinking what is she blithering on about now? You should count yourself lucky that you’ve missed my perimenopausal era. The random waffle and forgetfulness that is part of my everyday now.
Yet it hasn’t made me forget you. The life we had. The memories we made.
After all this time? Always.
Life is a rollercoaster 