Dear P
I had been dreading this day since we discussed your funeral with Bill Boyd ten days ago. Now that it is over, and I have survived, cathartic is the most apt way to describe its impact. That your mum, dad and I spoke with such apparent composure (when we were anything but) leaves me thinking that we did you proud. For the first time in two weeks I am in a state of tainted joy.
It was not so this morning. Wracked by fear ahead of the arrival of your courtege, I tried anything that would take my mind off things. Giving lifts, making small talk, mowing the lawn or simply staring vacantly at the bedroom ceiling.
And before I knew it you had arrived. Black tie on, jacket on, flies checked, alarm on, front door locked and out. Out into the Avenue where family units of neighbour looked on. I could feel their sympathetic eyes staring at me. I am the centre of attention, the grieving husband. It is a miserable feeling and it intensifies as we drive up to Bushbury Crematorium. Here there are hundreds and the sight of so many folk instills real doubt that I can carry things off. These feelings are not helped by an anguished wait,before you are taken into the chapel.
We follow and then shoehorn ourselves, somewhat inelegantly, into the front pew. Either side it's standing room only. Bill was right. The place is packed which is wonderful and dreadful in equal measure. He walks to the pulpit, waits for calm and then begins.
The time races and before I know it, we are through the first hymn. We all sit, bar your mum, who makes her way to the pulpit to read from First Corinthians vs 1 - 13 ".... but if I am without love I am a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal". She is incredible, seemingly so calm and word perfect.
No sooner has she finished than it's me. I know folk are with me but it's still very hard. Every time I have practised my address, I have broken down. I walk to the pulpit, take a deep breath and say "Good afternoon". Mercifully I am in control. There are moments when I feel as if I am losing it, but they pass and before I know it I'm reading the final sentence (go to www.catherinebrennand.co.uk and click on funeral service for my address). And then it's over. The sense of relief is indescribable. There is not a sound as I make my way back to the pew. I place my head in my hands and just weep.
Another hymn; "Love Divine All Love Excelling", before your dad gives his moving tribute, again with such apparent calm. A final hymn, and then the commital and redemption. At previous funerals I have dreaded the moment when the coffin disappears but they've changed the configuration and it is a relief to experience something which is not too harrowing. As your coffin is enclosed I say goodbye, and just weep.
And then we are being ushered outside, into blessed sunshine. Within minutes we are being hugged and kissed by a never ending procession of mourners. The experience is incredible and a couple of days later I write these words:
The fifteen minutes that we spent in the grounds of the crematorium, after the funeral, provided a high that I have never before, nor am likely ever again, to experience. I am not sure what we did today but the way folk reacted to how John, Jill and I conducted ourselves was incredible. It was as if we had touched them in a way they had not been touched before. Warmth, respect and admiration were all evident in their words, handshakes and hugs. However dreadful I had felt in the run up to the funeral, however fearful, all those thoughts and emotions could now be, temporarily at least, laid to rest.
Lest I get carried away, I am only too aware that this inner glow will soon pass as people return to their lives and I begin the struggle of raising two young boys on my own. But I need something to hang onto, something to cherish that will help me cope duing the dark months ahead. The warmth and respect that emanated during those fifteen minutes will be my crutch. Above all else I know that I did the right thing for Catherine. To have no regrets at our parting is a wonderful feeling.
With all my love
M xxx
Dear P
We are on the cusp of your funeral and relatives from afar have begun to arrive. Your cousin's Juliet and Caroline from France, your mum's parents from Lincolnshire, Tim & Shirley from York and Pamela and Keith from Kent. We are all trying to maintain a brave face but it's a sober gathering. Nobody can comprehend the finality of what has happened. We are all in shock even though we've known that you have been living with this terrible disease for four years. That sense of shock is just further evidence of just how successful you were in preserving an aura of normality, during a time which was anything but normal. What an astounding feat.
I took the boys to St Michael's Church in the evening to meet with Bill Boyd so that they can say a personal goodbye. He conducted a moving service in which we light a candle for you and say our farewell prayers. They both cry, for the first time in a forthnight. I'm relieved that at last they are able to shed some emotion.
In the evening I practise my eulogy for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time I start sobbing before I get to the end. This is not good. I have decided to give Bill a copy of what I will say, so that if I do break down during the funeral I can hand over to him. For your sake however, I'm determined that it will not happen.
And so to my lonely bed. It sounds terrible but there have been a number of occasions during the last three years when I have thought about your funeral. And now were are all but here.
Love
M
Dear P
Around midnight I needed a spoonful of Night Nurse to get me to sleep. Thankfully it did the trick which was just as well, since I had arranged to play golf at 8.00am. When my car wouldn't start there ensued a mad round of telephone calls which eventually tracked down Ossie, who subsequently came to collect me. I'm lucky that I live so close to the course. Maintaining my weekly game of golf is one of the routines which will help me in the weeks and months ahead. Not just the enjoyment of playing but the banter in the bar afterwards. It will be my therapy.
Played poorly but at least it was a lovely day.
Gratitude list:
- The boys are remarkable; very little distress and just wrapped up in living for the day. Not having to shore them up emotionally is a big plus
- The ongoing help of family and friends in an atmosphere of mutual support
Love
M
Dear P
Felt tired for most of the day on account of another poor nights sleep.
Just aswell that I didn't do anything strenuous but instead listened to Test Match Special on the radio and then watched the FA Cup final. A pulsating game between Liverpool and West Ham United, which finished 3-3 and was settled on penalties. The scousers won.
Mum treated me to a meal out at Bella's in the evening with Denham and Anne. I think the last time I was there was with you. It was good to talk to Anne, who lost her husband over 20 years ago, when at a similar age to me. She gave me some sage advice.
Love
M
Dear P
Knowing how you liked a bit a retail therapy, I took a leaf out of your book today by booking a holiday at a smart hotel near Porto Vecchio in Corsica. It will either be a relaxing and uplifting time, or a complete disaster. Our three holidays to Corsica were all tremendous. So do you think I'm making a mistake by returning to a place which holds such happy memories ? Who knows. Anyway, it's too late now because I have booked the thing.
Admin today. Collected the inserts to the order of service, which look excellent, before I went to watch Jack play football for the school team against Bhylls Acre. A 7-1 win, with J performing well. Life goes on.
We indulge ourselves again in the evening by ordering fish and chips. It's a rare occurence and thus a real treat.
Love
M
Dear P
I went through some of your belongings today and came across all the drugs you have been taking. The volume and variety terrifies me. You poor, poor girl. I fill a large shoe box and have decided to keep them safe so that I can show them to the boys when they are old enough. I want them to gain a sense of what you endured to keep yourself alive.
Your mum has been a tremendous help in keeping the house ticking over whilst I go to work and basically look after myself. The three of us work well together and in the circumstances are coping remarkably.
In the afternoon I had the novel experience of going to the hairdressers for the first time in five years. You had always been our stylist, usually on a Sunday night as part of a conveyor belt that included the boys. It's these little things that trip me up. If I was ever working in the loft when you returned from a visit to town, within seconds you would telephone from below and ask, "Cup of tea ?". Never again.
Yet more beautiful letters of condolence each with a glowing tribute. They are at the once uplifting and terribly sad.
Love
M
Dear P
This is an awful time; waiting for the funeral. I am dreading the thought of the day, but I also want it to be over so that I can "move on". I hate that phrase. It's is the cliche of our times, but I cannot think of anything more appropriate. When your funeral is over, I will indeed "move on" in my new life as a single parent. I have assured you that I will cope but I know that it will be hard, both physically and mentally.
When out and about I folk know I am sad but are reluctant to ask how I feel. I'm delighted when they do because it means I can offload some of my grief. And there is no shame in that.
I cannot fault the support I'm receiving from close friends and family. Lesley popped round in the evening to make arrangements for looking after the boys during the funeral. I'm relieved that they won't be there. They are too young.
Love
M
Dear P
Who am I grateful to today:
- My employers for allowing me to work flexitime
- My brother Dave for his heartfelt letter. So well written and another of the growing pile of tributes
Despite the gratitude I feel low. After the initial shock comes the creeping realisation that you are gone. I miss you terribly but strangely feel no anger, just a terrible numbness. I have become hardened to the thought that there is nothing to be gained by moping. I have to try and live. The boys need me to be positive and in turn their natural inclination to look forward will be a good influence.
I still cannot believe it. It is so unfair. How can you of all people, with your bright outlook, have your life cut so short. "After all" as you would often say at times of reflection on your illness, "I'm only a little Poohs".
Love
M
Dear P
I went back work to today. Folk are sympathetic and it was good to get the opportunity to explain what had happened to bring you down. However, once I have relayed the sad news, that's it. There is no more to say. Quite understandably they get on with their jobs. Their lives go on as normal, whilst mine has changed irrevocably. The hard part will be three months from now, when the sympathy has all but dried up. I will have to come to terms with that.
Love
M
Dear P
Tom (7) is such a funny character but then you know that. Before we went to the Durrants for Sunday dinner, I insisted that he wear his smart shoes. The ensuing paddy was one of his better ones. He is rarely beligerent but on the occasions when he is, it tends to be caused by my desire to make him wear something that he doesn't want. On this issue he'd chosen the wrong battle and I stuck to my guns. But some time later I wondered whether it had been worth all the grief. Sound familiar ?
Thankfully it would appear to have been so because when I later put him to bed he apologised for his "stupid" behaviour. It's not the first time he's done this almost as if, on reflection, he's embarrassed. A hug and a kiss and he was fast asleep within minutes.
Love
M
