Y is for...Year's End

If journeys end with lovers meeting, what do years end with? I never really enjoy New Year at the best of times and 2014 has not been the best of times for me. It’s been a tough year, marked heavily by the loss of Dad in the autumn. The loss catches me at the strangest times and never when I expect it, when I can brace myself against it. Christmas Day, for example, passed without too many tears but before Christmas, oh the sadness of writing a plan of my Christmas shopping that didn’t have “Dad” written at the top under “Mum”. I missed going into bookshops, seeking out new or rare SciFi novels Dad might not yet have read, wrapping those fat rectangle parcels that could only be books, would only ever be books. 

2014 was a bad year, then, for what I lost, but I cannot quite write it off that easily. 2014 is also the year I saw my eldest niece finish school and become a sharp young woman at college. It is the year my youngest niece started school, the year my nephew shone with wonder and kindness at every turn. Sometimes it feels like Dad is getting further away from us, but time spins us all around a clock face and those circles can bring us back to where we began. Hannah has all the love of live music her Granddad had, Jack has inherited the sharp and silly humour both his Granddads gave him, Milla has the same stubborn set to her determination that could drive us crazy about Dad. 

This is the year I discovered depths of strength I never thought I’d have. Days after we lost Dad, I was back in my writing class with a waver in my voice but a stubborn set in my heart. I was a pall bearer at the funeral and I didn’t stumble or buckle under the weight of it. My sisters, my niece and I spoke to people about the Dad we knew; we cried, laughed, kept our promise even when our hearts were breaking and danced when we remembered him. Dad’s last gift to me, then; immeasurable strength to remain standing.

Give over, as Dad would say, things really aren’t so bad. This is also the year I learned more and improved more than I ever thought I could in my writing, the year I saw incredible plays and music with friends and family and made memories that will last a lifetime; I finally made it to the Edinburgh Festival I’d dreamed of visiting for years. It’s been a year of finding new friends in sometimes unexpected places and of old friends showing such kindness and care that even in my darkest hours, I’ve never felt entirely alone and sometimes puzzle over how I deserve such good people to catch me every single time I fall. 

What can I say, then, about this year’s end? Time passes and we try to balance what we’ve gained against what we lost and can never quite reconcile the two. We move forward - we try again, try something new, keep trying - and accept these recent times as something to settle into the landscape of our past. Perhaps the truth is this simple: years end. 

X is for… Substitute for x

I’ve been thinking a lot about words recently – OK, I’ve been thinking even more about words than I usually do – both about how inadequate they can be in times of grief and how carelessly people can use them. Perhaps both come down to a failure in vocabulary, but it’s also something to do with a lack of care and attention to detail when we express ourselves. Why don’t we want to be more particular about how we share ourselves with the world?

I should start all this by saying that of course I have been guilty of this in the past and I’m not pointing any fingers here, there’s no covert passive aggressive message aimed at anyone at all, it’s just something that is on my mind.

On returning to work after the loss of my Dad, I’ve had to listen to colleagues complain about what a “nightmare” it is to have had to pick up some of my work during my absence. We won’t dwell on the insensitivity here. Nightmare seems to me to be a strange word to describe the feeling of having to work a bit harder than normal. If I could, in my dreams, be given seven fiddly things to do before five o’clock and then get to go and have coffee and a cheese scone with my Dad, I’d never consider that a nightmare. It is not that I am saying only my suffering counts or that the nightmare is MINE and how dare they suggest otherwise. It is more that the word doesn’t stand up – a nightmare is something that scares you while you’re asleep before you wake up and discover that all is well and there is no reason to be afraid. Any tough time in life is the exact opposite – you wake up relaxed and bleary eyed for just a second before the world and all of reality comes crashing down on you to hurt you anew. Give me imaginary giant spiders any day.

I know this has been commented on before, the misappropriation of language. People use the word “depressed” so casually when they just mean “sad” or “a bit fed up” or “disappointed”. For the record, I am not currently depressed, I am sad because my Dad died and there is a difference; it may be a long road to travel but there is a way out for me in a way that there isn’t for people afflicted with depression. There is an excellent Dylan Moran sketch on the overuse of the word “awesome”, asking what word you use to describe a majestic sunset if you’ve already labelled a bag of crisps as awesome. (He, of course, says this much more wittily than I ever could.) We are all “starving” and never just “hungry”. It seems at the root of this there is a process of exaggeration going on – we never seem to misuse words to minimise what we feel.

This leads to something of the boy who cried wolf syndrome. If a daily commute is, for example, a “total nightmare” then what do we say when something really bad happens? You’ve already used nightmare to indicate a bad situation and surely this new thing doesn’t compare… This is what leads to the failure of language – it’s all our own fault, we shouldn’t be allowed nice things, should we? There are two things to consider here. The first is why we tend to blow up every minor mishap and frustration as if we are plagued like Job when the chances are, life is neither any harder nor any easier than it is for anyone else. I know we all need a good rant about a bad day once in a while just as we all need the chance to enthuse over something lovely that happens but we should perhaps take more care about how and when we do this. The second is that when we talk about our day, our feelings or ourselves, isn’t it worth using language to put those into perspective and express ourselves as honestly and accurately as possible?

Next time you want to say you’re having a nightmare, substitute for x. If you don’t know another word, learn some. I’ve long been working on accuracy in my poetry – where I’d never think, ah, close enough, that word will do – but I’m going to start working on that in my speech too. Well, that and imagining giant spiders dropping on the head of any colleague who wants to tell me they’re living in a nightmare.

W is for... Week One

This morning, I did something that a week ago I would have thought was impossible: I woke up to a world without my Dad in it.

In the last week, I have cried, I have curled up in bed at all times of the day because I want this pain to stop, but I have also walked along the harbour in Emsworth, fed the ducks, cooked meals, attended my writing class and written something new, talked and - once more in the realm of the impossible - laughed with my beautiful, brave sisters and my friends, whose kindness I will spend the rest of my life trying to repay. I have been trying, very hard, to live in a world without my Dad in it.

I don’t have any wisdom to share - I don’t know how I’m doing it, but I am doing it and that will have to do for now. Some aspects of these days have been surreal. My sisters and I are planning the funeral and at times I really can’t wrap my head around the fact that he won’t be there. Grief must turn everyone into an idiot.

The truth is, he will be there with us; he is there every day. When I was mustering whatever it was I needed to get to university on Wednesday, it was Dad’s voice in my head I could hear, not letting me give up and miss out on something I love. I think this is partly because I know how proud he was of me for my writing and partly just an echo of all those times he used to tell us there was nothing wrong with us and we should get up and go to school. I can assure you, being the child of two nurses is the worst possible set up for anyone hoping to skive from anything; I never thought I would be grateful for that.

He is there because neither he nor my Mum ever left any doubt about the fact that they are proud of me and support whatever I do. I’ve never had to earn their faith in me, never had to prove myself all. I only now realise how lucky that makes me - now he’s gone, I have no doubts about how much he loved me. He never failed to have my back and I know whatever else happens in these coming days, he would let me take my time and know that I will get to where I need to be eventually. I also know my Mum will never let me down, she will continue as a one-woman cheering squad for whatever daft or seemingly unfeasible dreams I may harbour. My sisters will have stern words to say to anyone who thinks I’m an oddball. My nieces and nephew will never see me as anything other than Awesome Auntie Z. 

We’re not a gushing family - we don’t hug and call each other darling. We show our love in small ways, in ways that don’t need to be spoken aloud because that love and respect is understood. Whoever we are, whatever we do, there is a heart of home we can always come back to and be safe.

I take that back - it’s not a small thing at all. It’s all I need to keep going, to breathe in and out for each long hour, each day stretched out beyond what I think I can bear.

I’m doing it, Dad, OK? I’m keeping my promise and I will do my best to live all my days as fully as you’d want me to. I know my best is good enough.

V is for... Valentine

‘Here come the muttons.’

A comment like this can only come from the next generation. Though also unattached on Valentine’s  day, these women in their twenties are so dazzled by their own youth they can’t see how close they are to their own criticism.

Why shouldn’t anyone wear what they want, if it makes them feel happy and comfortable? Why should we assume desperation by the fine lines of a tailor’s thread? It seems wasteful to eradicate a wardrobe once you hit 40 – to say ‘you’re done with these – it’s all twin sets and pearls now, no more sequins, nothing sheer – except your tights, love.’

That will be me too one day – and sooner than I think, if I want to avoid the harshest words. Already I pick through my wardrobe and decry the low-cut dress, say no to the glitter, and provide a rigorous undercoat if lace is on the agenda. I’m conscious of dressing for the next box on the checklist. I want to be ahead of time – the idea of casual insults from strangers does that to me.

I recently worked my way through my wardrobe, failing to discard anything but the most threadbare items, and holding tightly to the summer dresses, the shorts that barely fit, the spaghetti straps. I want to wear them all again – if only the diet would work, or the right invite would fall through the door. All these conditional circumstances, that’s what I tell myself as the darkened wardrobe shelters these items from the sun, from dust, from use. This wardrobe also shelters my memories, woven into the fabric they house.

I pull out one of my favourite dresses, green with a halter neck and nipped-in waist. I wore this a few times, but one day in particular stands out. It was hot, scorching, and I’d lathered sun cream on for several sticky minutes while I pondered what to wear. I was going for lunch with someone I’d fallen hard for, and we were going to meet an old friend of his and his wife. I wanted to make a good impression, and there were several fail-safe choices I could have picked, but at the last moment my hand clasped the cool green cotton and the decision was made. I stepped into the fabric (definitely right for the heat), pulled the full skirt over my hips and zipped up the body, folding myself into the layers of green. It was going to be a good day.

He picked me up an hour later. We decided we’d walk to lunch along the riverbank, build up an appetite. I was wearing sandals, a woody brown with a cork heel that started out as a comfortable choice that perfectly complemented my dress, and quickly shifted to ill-advised decision dictated by fashion as we stumbled along the overgrown path. My feet began to ache, each step kindling a blister to life. He hadn’t noticed my shoes. By the time we arrived at lunch my hair hung limp in the heat, my dress was creased with the humidity, my feet burned and my face flushed pink. But once we sat down in the shade and ordered a cool glass of water and a chilled white wine, order restored itself – I sat up straight, leaned intently into conversations… felt the future lay stones before me. Regardless of my blistered feet, I’d chosen just the right thing to wear, because I loved it so much and it made me happy. He hadn’t seen the choices I made or my dishevelled appearance after the walk, but those green threads hold my memories tight in their grasp.

Should I declare this dress a no-go zone now that I’m a thirty-something and not a twenty-something? I hardly see why, the future that pulled at the hem of that dress is my life now. I know that one day, perhaps soon, I might not feel I’m presenting my best self in this dress. But right now, when cruelty could knock on my door any day, I feel reluctant to cave in to this cat-called deadline; I think there’s a bit more life in these threads. Maybe I’ll let time catch me after all.

V is for... Votes for women

Suffragette 

Knelt like a woman braced for a race horse

to trample her, I bow my head in the kiss

of an honest prayer. 

Deep in my throat like a suffragette’s tube -

tied to her life in a prison cell, fed

every man’s desire -

or chained to the cold and rusted railing

of him: use your best metaphors, girls. He 

votes over my tits.