Not normal (My Experience Of Bereavement)

Member Name: gollygumdrops

Product:	My Experience Of Bereavement
Date:	16/10/02 (196 review reads)
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Disadvantages: Why is there a picture of an electricity pylon accompanying this piece?

Bereavement affects different people in different ways. Losing different people has affected me in different ways. An encounter with bereavement last winter affected me in a new and interesting way. My ramblings from the time appear below, slightly toned down from my original diary scribbles.

Do not read on any further if you are upset by bizarre conflicting emotions, excessively long opinions or language that is totally inappropriate for a family site.

Consider this 'opinion' to be an 18 Certificate.

Sunday morning and there's a knock on the door. I'm up, but not dressed, just mooching about in my slops. At the door there's someone I don't expect, someone I haven't seen for a while. It's my ex's brother.

- Shit. What does he want now? Why can't he just leave me alone. It's been almost eighteen months since John and I were together and although the intensity has died down I can always count on him to rain on my parade with a soppy birthday gift or valentines flowers, or just turn up on high days and holidays to tell me that he wants me back. Get the message mate - I don't want you back. Ten years. You dumped me, I cried, I'm moving on.

"Hello" is what I actually say. It's not Peter's fault. He looks tense and stares at me. I invite him in. I have the horrible realisation that John's mother has died and he's sent his brother around to see if I'll go to the funeral and make nice.

- I don't want to go. Let's face it, your mum and I were hardly bosom pals, and if I turn up for you this time you'll think I love you and have just been playing hard to get for years.

"I've got some bad news" he says, "John's dead".

- Whoump. The room expands in front of me. My vision blurs. I know what Peter said, I just can't make sense of it. The air sounds loud and
starts to press down on me. He's still talking. I know he's telling me what happened, but I only have two words in my head.

I sit down. He shuffles nervously. He looks worn out. I haven't seen him for ages, his wife was ill, I wonder how she is. What? Why do I care? Shit. I don't know how I feel. I'm conscious I'm just staring at Peter. He starts talking again. I decide to talk.

"I don't know". That's it. No end to the sentence. I don't have one. "I feel..."

"It's OK", he's in reassuring mode, "you were together a long time. I know it hasn't been easy. Will you come to the service?".

I don't remember him giving me the details. I don't know what I said. I don't remember him leaving. I sat for a while, trying to process the information.

- Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm vaguely aware that I'm punching the bed and throwing pillows and clothes everywhere. The swearing and hitting dies down and I collapse into a heap of sobs.

I get up. I start tidying the house. I wash up, clean up the mess I made in the bedroom and put a load of laundry on. It won't really have much of an effect on me. After all, I did my grieving years ago, he was already dead to me. I had plans to go out that evening. I decided not to cancel, but to tell my very close buddies what had happened. Being good Catholic kids we handled it the best way we knew how. They took me out and got me wasted without mentioning the news once.

I get up. I go to work. Bit of a sore head but basically fine. I've decided I don't want to go to the funeral. I don't want to replay everything. I'm just going to carry on as before, after all, nothing's really changed. I'm in the office til late, plenty to do, just keep focussed and don't think about it.

I decide I might go to the f
uneral. I reschedule some meetings so I can take the morning off if I need to. Back to work nice and easy.

- Why now? It took me long enough to get back into the swing of dating. I was really back on my feet. Woah - new emotion coming in. Relief. Face it. I'm glad you're dead. It's a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to worry about you showing up all the time. Boom. I didn't realise I thought that. What a bitch. I don't mean it. I wanted you to be happy. It's my fault you're dead. Face it Golly - you killed him. Maybe you didn't actually shoot the guy, but if he'd still been with you this wouldn't have happened. He didn't kill himself either, but everybody knows he'd be alive today if it wasn't for you. Guilt.

It's the day of the funeral. I'm anxious to get it over with and put it behind me. I've been fine. I even scheduled myself last evening to wallow in self pity and grief, but I didn't need it. No matter how hard I tried I couldn't make myself cry. I did all my crying when we broke up.

I'm there a little early and take a stroll. Someone comes up and talks to me. "Terrible shock, are you waiting for someone, would you like to sit with us?" He knows me, I don't know him. I wander off. I see one of John's colleagues. We used to get on like a house on fire. I muster a brave smile. He looks at me like I'm the devil incarnate. I look down. Some of my friends and family are there. I acknowledge their existence, but it's clear to them that I'm in no mood to chat. The hearse arrives, then the family. His sister in law waves at me like a long lost friend. I don't respond. In that moment I realise he's dead.

- He's dead, oh dear God he's dead. What am I going to do? Big fat tears roll down my face. I know my chins gone all dimply, my glasses have steamed up and my bo

ttom lip is sticking out and wobbling. W
hat right have you got to stand there crying - bitch. He's not yours anymore. This isn't about you. It's about his parents and his brothers and sisters and their kids, not you, you self indulgent cow. Too late.

I'm looking at his brothers and friends carrying the coffin. His dad steps forward, but then back. He can't do it. A colleague steps forward to take his place and in that moment I know exactly what John's wearing in that coffin. I almost smile as snot mingles with my tears.

The service was hideous. Part secular, part half assed religious. The minister has clearly been given a crib sheet to talk about John. The facts are all there, but he's talking crap.

- I want to step up and say something. Anything real about him. Good or bad, it doesn't really matter, just some indication that John was a real person, some tiny insignificant detail of his life. I don't. I sit and listen to the piped music and inane readings as rage builds up inside me. Just hold on Golly. A few more minutes and you can walk out of here, straight into the car and home without talking to anyone.

No such luck. The chapel is arranged in such a way that you have to walk out past everybody as they examine the flowers. I stay in the chapel for as long as possible, hoping they'll have gone. They haven't.

- Fuck off! People are looking at the flowers. It's not a bloody flower show. I feel violated. I chose the colour and type of flowers, along with a message that means nothing to anyone else except John. Quit gawking you fucking freaks.

I'm rooted to the spot. There's no way out except past all the family. Non family members are staring at me. Peter comes over. My mouth moves, but I can't think of anything to say. "Thanks for coming" he says, "It means a lot. Will you come back to the hou
se?".

- Are you insane?

&qu
ot;No, I can't" is all I manage. "Sure you can, we all want you to" is his response as he hugs me. I'm conscious of having left a trail of snot on his obviously new suit.

I see a gap in the crowd, I plan to walk boldly through straight to the car. John's dad, Bob, appears in my way.

- Shit. What's he going to say? What do I say? Fuck.

"Thanks, it's good to see you", he says. He moves to hug me. I hug him back. "You know he should never have treated you that way. You were the best thing that happened to him". I don't speak. I can't. Bob is shaking in my arms. He's not just weeping, he's sobbing. Loud. I look around, hoping to pass him on to a family member, but everyone is just staring at me, like I know how to make it better. I don't.

It gets worse before it gets better but I manage to leave without going back to John's house.

I'm home, crying like I did when he left. I don't know why I feel so bereft. I would never have taken him back.

Time moves on, so do I. I remember why I loved John, I also remember why I hated him. I've been through denial, anger, depression and bargaining several times, with added stops at hatred, bitterness, guilt and relief. I think I've found acceptance. I know I've found that reactions to death vary, not just between the bereaved, but within individuals, depending on their loss.

Oddly, writing about it helped at the time. A friend who felt they were experiencing the 'wrong' emotions after a parents' death took a look recently. It got us talkng about how we were supposed to feel.

Reactions arent predictable, there is no normal.

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