A new line of “sadness madness” perhaps but I’m obsessed with headstones and upmarket fitted kitchens. I have many obsessions masquerading as hobbies – aircraft, classic cars, motorbikes, marathons, karate, Sammy Davis Jr. The eclectic list now includes headstones of the dead and worktops of the wealthy. In my barmy, bereaved world these are linked.
Uncertainty over Helen’s ashes continues to hurt. During her illness, I overcame my fear of needles, putting in lines and using syringes to save her extra hospital trips. Now I feel my indecision is failing Helen in this last chance to care for her mortal self.
I share this with my friend Pete, a provocateur: “You want all the bloody answers, Adam, before you know the questions so end up doing nothing. You’re becoming a control freak.”
I asked for it but I’m pissed off. He laughs before nailing me with my own borrowed homily, “OK, soft lad. You say the hard part of a marathon is not the last mile but the first step. You’re avoiding this first step because you’re afraid of failing to do what’s right by Helen and the family. So you do sod all. All this crap about not wanting to think about the ashes because you don’t see them as Helen is a sideshow. Just get on with it, involve them and make a decision – you’ll know as you go if it’s right.”
This is the toughest love anyone has passed my way in months – probably since Helen herself but Pete has gentle wisdom wrapped in hammer-to-the-head helpfulness.
He has noticed something I thought hidden. In recent years, life has careered out of control due to the brutal stewardship of Helen’s cancer. Since her death, I’ve being desperately trying to reassert direction to the rudderless wreck of everything that Millie, Matt and I had thought of as normality. This “if I can’t control it, avoid it” instinct means Pete is right and so leaves Helen’s ashes heartbreakingly abandoned. No longer.
I force my own hand and revisit the cemetery and possible plot – by a bench under the tree in the older part, with sounds of laughter from a primary school playground and trains full of life rushing by. It’s beautiful, close enough to be easily accessible but not somewhere the kids need to face every day.
I start visiting often. It’s a quiet place to recalibrate when the whisky bottle has called. It’s where, imagination fuelled by red wine, I first notice that the sea of granite and marble monuments, although lovely, look like upended, upmarket kitchen worktops. No criticism of anyone who has such a monument, but this image in my head became another barrier as such conformity jars with who Helen was.
Worse still, every time I sat in someone’s kitchen, I see in their granite or marble a mocking reminder of my inability to care for her ashes. So I started wandering through any cemetery I pass, looking for inspiration for memorials that shout “Helen”.
In the end the solution was simple and Pete would approve because it came from others I’d involved and love. I’d invited Helen’s parents, Ray and Barbara, and sister, Sarah, to view the cemetery and plot. It was never going to be easy, but they seemed good with it. Suddenly one of them said, “Adam, come and look at this – it’s very Helen.” Sure enough, not 30 yards away from the plot sits a beautifully simple slate monument, a work of art as much as a memorial. It’s like none I’ve seen before and unlike any worktop I’ve drunk coffee over.
The search ends. The council’s ever kind Claire confirms, “That was done by an artist rather than a memorial stonemason. I think he’s in Wales but I’ll get some details.” And so the same evening I’m swapping thoughts with a letter carver and designer who is understanding, sensitive and supportive in creating a memorial that is Helen. It’ll take months, but that’s fine. I’ve taken the first step of what is still a marathon of uncertainty and upset but do so in step with Helen’s family. This makes the other 26.218 metaphorical miles to Helen’s interment look a lot less daunting.
Adam Golightly is a pseudonym
