Tag: goodbye

42. Life’s not that simple.

It’s been a strange day today.

A playlist of break up songs on the radio (intended to take the piss out of the current political shit storm) most of which didn’t really make a dent until Odyssey came on with the lyrics ‘So if you’re looking for a way out, I won’t stand here in your way.’

I uncovered a family height chart under the wallpaper of a house I’m renovating. From ‘mum’ and Betty G’ (who were tiny) past the kids, and ‘Sid’ and even ‘milkman’! And then it got to ‘Mike’, who was very tall.

Back at home the land line rang. It’s been quiet for so long I’ve almost forgotten we, whoops I, had one. I rush to answer it, because somehow I know I need to. The familiar sound of a dear friend on the end of the line makes me sit on the stairs. Because it’s someone he should have told. Hadn’t been brave enough to. They were the friends we stayed with in America, the last time we were really seen as a couple. Because soon after, so soon it still feels weird, we changed everything.

And I had to do the telling, again.

It doesn’t get easier. I think I’m doing well, and I am in reality. But there are times when I feel fragile all over again. When, especially, I break someone else’s heart with the news. And I have to try and explain, make sense of the situation. That’s when it’s hard. Because I don’t have an explanation. Not really. I suppose there isn’t one. Life’s not that simple. And there’s no point in me just blaming him to make it sound more straightforward, or vice versa. I have moments when I’d like to, but truly, it would only make me feel worse.

Tonight we met up with a bunch of our friends. We were saying goodbye to one of our local pubs. closing down after years of cheap beer, average food and entertaining evenings. It’s good to have the distraction of a crowd. Chatty mates catching up with tales of the daughter, work, street gossip and dog antics. I told him about the names under the wallpaper and it was lovely to hear him laugh about the milkman. But in the next breath he was tense about something I didn’t even understand. And I knew it was hard. It is hard. And I still can only say goodbye when I leave. No hug, when I hug everyone else. That is still the hardest.

 

 

26. We sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today. 

I’m alright until I think about the leaving bit. Really, I can be calmly discussing how he needs to take the stereo because it’s really his. I can make helpful suggestions about what order will be the easiest when he talked about the new place and what he’d like to do to it. I laughed about how the dog is going to have to get used to different smells as there’s a kebab shop so close.

But the moment I think about watching him go I just hollow out. It feels like tomorrow is the day of the funeral. The dreaded day that, I know, once it’s over I can start the other life, we both can, but until then it’s the dread and the weight of it presses down.

So, strangely, but nicely, we sort of had a practice ‘final goodbye’ today.

I was trying to do some work on the laptop, with not much success and very little enthusiasm. And he came into the room where I was working, and just stood. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked. ‘Not really’ I replied. “you?’ ‘No, not really’. And then that hollow feeling filled me.  ‘We ought to do some of the sorting together, because I don’t want you to come back and find empty spaces. It’ll be horrible’

So we talked about stuff. And it was ok. Not great, but ok. And I think we both felt understood and appreciated. It helped. He then made some soup so we ate together. It felt calm. Sad, but calm. He said he was setting off early tomorrow – an early dog walk for me then. And tonight he was going to the BFI to see a film. ‘I’m going to walk there’, (it’s only a couple of miles) ‘Do you fancy joining me for a bit of the way?’

That may seem an odd request, but it’s something we’ve done before. It’s a 20 minute walk down to Brixton so it’s a good stop off point for me and I hadn’t moved from the flat all day. So we walked. And slowly talked. About Christmas. About the daughter – how good she is with the generation above us when we both get so impatient. How much better you feel when you’re happy and why people (especially members of the family) seem to think their illnesses and allergies are THE most interesting thing about them. We talked about holiday plans, work coming up, even the weather.

And then came the point when I needed to go home. We needed to go in different directions. So we stopped.

Hugged.

Parted.

I walked home alone. With a pocket full of freshly damp tissues.

It won’t make the real thing any easier, but at least I’ll know how many tissues I’ll need.

24. What the hell can a good goodbye fill you with?with? 

I have a very dear friend who can’t do goodbye’s. Really can’t. She turns in to a wobbly mess if there’s a goodbye buildup. I understand how she feels. Hellos are so much more fun. They don’t come with a feeling of loss or dread. A good hello fills your heart. What the hell can a good goodbye fill you with? 

The Goodbye I cannot bring myself to say is on the horizon. Getting ever nearer and bigger and heavier. Looming, like a big rain cloud.

It’s not been an unpleasant time in the flat in spite of it’s ever increasing presence. We found a new thing to watch together for now (My Brilliant Friend, a wonderful adaptation of the Elena Ferrante novel – if you must know) which, after blog #3 is a welcome surprise. There’s the buildup to Christmas – it’s tomorrow! – so that keeps things busy, making sure we have the day prepared. There’s the fact that he brought home a Christmas tree last week which, though small, is now fully bedecked with silver beads and white lights. (The Christmas tree is often an issue as I love them and he and the surprisingly humbug daughter don’t. So getting one for me this year meant a lot.) There are presents under the tree all wrapped and labelled. From me to him and him to me.  We made no lists this year. Gave no hints or suggestions. So who knows if they’ll be liked or wanted.

But the Goodbye is still sitting about. And in order to say it without saying it I have written him a letter. I’m not sure it’s helped me and I have not idea how he will feel about it. But it feels like the right thing to do. Because I do wish him well. I do hope he’ll be happy. I do hope he finds what he’s looking for. I just find it hard to say to his face at the moment. I think Goodbye and I cry. And, quite frankly I’d like to look relatively ok for at least one day. Especially Christmas day.

So whatever else a good Goodbye might look like, mine looks like some words.

And here’s to a good Christmas.