And the winner by a country mile of the “Christmas card sent without thought” competition goes to one addressed “Adam, Helen and family” with a chirpy, handwritten message: “Have a fantastic Christmas and best New Year ever.”
It’s not from a close friend but they were at Helen’s funeral. This smarts, but short of going round there and giving the fairy some company by shoving the Christmas tree where the sun doesn’t shine, there’s nothing to do. Their crassness is symptomatic of manic busyness but the card prompts thoughts about tonight and every other new year to come.
In qualified terms, the message is right. Any year that’s not the one your wife died of fucking cancer has to be an improvement. “Best ever” though, sets the bar rather high, even if I’m grateful to have made it this far with the people I love seemingly sane and as happy as anyone could be dealing with the loss of their mother, daughter, sister, friend, colleague.
And I am looking forward to tonight’s celebrations despite the fact that it’ll be the first time in 27 years that I’ll not kiss Helen at midnight and look forward with her to a shiny, sparkly, brand new year. We’ll be with some of our closest friends whose support and love has survived the loss of the more outgoing, sociable and generally nicer one of the Golightly couple.
I’m sure my being upbeat is not bereavement mania but based on rational thought. I explain to my counsellor, Heidi: “However crap this year’s been, nothing gets close to what Helen dealt with every day of her illness, and my loss pales beside hers of absolutely everything. Being miserable is an indulgence.” Heidi is unconvinced.
“Adam, you are being emotionally fundamentalist, you’ve every right to be miserable.” For sure, but frankly I’ve had a bellyful of being miserable. It’s not who Helen was, nor who I am.
I’ll never get over the screaming injustice of her death and the rawness of it is unappeased, despite distractions and liberal application of alcohol, ending my job, buying a house, fast cars, fighting, raging libido and generally being busy. But I can, as they say, try to move on without leaving her behind. I’ve talked this through with Way (Widowed and Young) member Andy, the only person I know in my situation. His wife died a year before Helen and he has a steady girlfriend, new job and well-balanced kids. “Give yourself a break, Adam, being widowed was not a vow of chastity, a commitment to being alone for ever or a punishment. Create a new life that’ll make you happy and make the kids happy. Anyway, they’ll leave home in a few years, you’ll be alone, and by then so old and wrinkly no one will fancy you.”
More bloody tough love but speaking from his direct experience of the worst happening, Andy’s encouragement rings true.
I do now know that I’m pretty crap without a partner, confidante, lover and friend. I appear like someone who is coping well but while not hollowed out, am woefully incomplete. I’ve lived most of my adult life, indeed most of my life, conjoined to Helen – and without her my emotional wellbeing is running on fumes.
My friend, sister-in-loss and definitely non-lover Jo is moving to Scotland, which makes me realise I’ve not only survived but also thrived on her common sense and white-witch-like sensuality to keep me sane. She has filled a hole with her basic goodness, sense of what’s right and appealing idiosyncrasy. I’ve turned her way like a shrivelled flower does to the first rains after a drought.
We walk late at night with Iona, her wolf-like dog, the darkness making it easier to declare my love of her as my sister-in-loss. She’ll be the last person I text this year and the first next and she’ll call en route north tomorrow. Her legacy as she leaves is the knowledge that I haven’t emotionally atrophied.
As we gather tonight it’ll be with a sense of sadness for me but also with a resolution to run faster – not away from life but at it, arms open, lips puckered, head up ready to embrace the best of this beautiful world for myself, for Millie and Matt, and in doing so for Helen. Happy new year.
Adam Golightly is a pseudonym
