*
I woke in a dark room, disorientated for a few minutes, unsure of where I was. It scared me, I felt lost and afraid. It took a couple of minutes for everything to come back into focus and for me to remember the pain, and more importantly, where I was.
I stumbled across my living room in the dark and felt the wall, hands circling across the cool surface until I found what I was looking for. I switched on the light and stood for a moment before I closed the curtains, locked the door and checked the clock. Almost 10pm. I had been asleep for a few hours, but it had neither refreshed me, nor given me any peace.
I didn’t feel hungry, no not that, I didn’t even think about food. It was not that I avoided it, it just was not part of my consciousness.
Drink, though, that was part of my consciousness and I helped myself to a large glass of ice-cold (like my heart) Pinot Grigio and returned to the sofa where I wrapped myself up in the blanket once more and turned on the TV, hoping for some mindless film to distance me from my thoughts.
I didn’t get a call from Ed to say he was home, not that I expected one. I didn’t know what to expect, but as much as I wanted him to tell me it was all a mistake and he loved me, I actually needed him to stay away so that I could mourn the death of the relationship, allow me time to heal and rebuild my life and then, hopefully, find a new equilibrium. I doubt Ed even gave me, or my needs, let alone my heart, any thought. He stayed away. Maybe he did, at least, give my feelings some thought.
thirteen.
Time to dust myself off
As summer turned to autumn and the nights began to draw in I was finally starting to rebuild my life. I had revitalised old friendships and was planning a meet-up every weekend to keep me active. Being with friends was good for my mental state. That, and music, made me happy.
I kept myself busy, finding new energy and drive. I started sewing again, making a mountain of cushions, cafetière warmers, tea cosies and wine gift bags. I had no idea what I was going to do with them all but it was therapeutic. Being creative soothed my soul and my spare room slowly filled up with fabrics and finished products.
Despite all the good intentions and efforts to stay positive the autumnal weather was starting to reflect my mood, or vice versa.
As I drove to work on those cold mornings, the mist hung over the harvested fields as the sun slowly rose above the horizon and I felt a cold mist creep into me.
I was working hard, as I always did – early starts, stressful days, late evenings. I was struggling to sleep, often waking in a cold sweat with work on my mind. I would switch on the bedside light and write a list of the things occupying my head in the hope that once they were committed to paper I would be able to sleep. Even with that accomplished I struggled to find peace, either returning to my pen and paper to add more to the list or tossing and turning, trying all sorts of ways to distract me from myself and my thoughts. ‘And sleep’, ‘And sleep’, ‘And sleep’ became my monotonous mantra to stop my mind wandering, but it didn’t work.
My drinking, during those days, became exponentially heavy. I have to confess that I was aware of it and it concerned me, but I found it helped me get to sleep, even if it didn’t help me to stay asleep.
Looking back now I can see this was a dark time in my life. This was not a revelation. I knew at the time that I was rapidly sinking to a place I didn’t want to be in.
Some nights as I lay in bed waiting for blessed sleep to fall upon me I thought about taking my life. I couldn’t see a way out of my misery. Work was eating at my mental state but I had to work. I had to pay the mortgage, bills, food all of which cost money. Whilst the luxuries like clothes and gifts could be reduced, the monthly essentials didn’t go away.
Lying there one night it did occur to me that I had an easy way to take my life. The truth was, I didn’t want to die. I just wanted life to be better, to be more fun, worth living, less hard.
I admonished myself as I lay there feeling sorry for myself. Here I lay in a peaceful town, in my own home, surrounded by friends and family. What right did I have to feel sorry for myself?
Friends, good, honest, young people, with families had cancer. Such a cruel and debilitating disease that sucked the breath out of the diagnosed. It had taken my beautiful mother. Even in her darkest, most painful hours, she didn’t give in to self-pity. It broke my heart to see family and friends fighting it both mentally and physically. Even those who had been given the blessed ‘all clear’, the ones who got to ring the bell on the cancer ward to signify the end of their treatment, were never truly free of its grip with ongoing, crucial check-ups, always fearful it may return.
I had helped with my mother’s care, taking her to hospital for appointments with the consultant, for chemo and/or for blood transfusions. I was grateful to be able to give something back after all she had done for me and the times she had sat by my bedside as a child.
I was grateful because I got some precious time in the last year of her life. Not that we knew that at the time. Mum slept a lot during her treatments, but when she was awake we talked and talked.
After a year of treatment we were given the devastating news that it was no longer working and the only treatment left on offer was palliative care. The blood transfusions and platelets would continue but the chemo would stop.
When the end came it was sudden, but not unexpected. I was lucky, I guess, as I was able to spend her last few days with her. My boss allowed me to work from my parents’ house so I could help with medication. On the Wednesday mum had a terrible headache which she could not shake, but when I left to go home on Thursday she was feeling a bit brighter, was sitting up in bed and was even trying to eat some supper.
By Friday she could not eat or drink and was fading fast.
I called my brother and told him to come to our parents’ home as soon as possible, and my father called my mum’s sister in Orkney and told her the news.
My brother had arrived in time to speak to mum and say his farewell, promising to bring his sons, her three grandchildren, who she cherished, to see her the next day. That was about the last time my mum spoke.
Apart from half an hour when my aunt (dad’s sister) took over, I was awake all night, by mum’s side, dabbing her dry, cracked lips with water, checking her oxygen saturation levels and applying oxygen when needed, keeping a vigil. Late into the night, or possibly early the next day, she started moving her head away and mumbling, refusing the help.
The wider family – aunts, uncles, cousins and their children – were told, giving them the opportunity to say goodbye. Every member of the family who could get there in time descended on the house. Nurses and doctors came and went that Saturday, but the family stayed. All taking their turn to tell mum how much they loved her, recalling stories from their lives where she had played a part in creating the lasting memory.
It was a warm, early March day and the windows in the bedroom were open, letting in fresh air and the sounds of the youngest generation running around and playing in the garden below, their beautiful innocence unaware of what was transpiring in the room above.
We kept telling mum that her sister was en route. She had landed at Heathrow. She was on the M25. She was getting ever closer. Mum clung on with all her might.
When my aunt arrived that afternoon she collapsed onto the bed next to her beloved little sister who was, by now, gasping for breath, her face sallow and pallid. In the tenderest of moments my aunt kissed mum’s cheek and told her how much she loved her.
My father, brother, sister-in-law, aunt and I surrounded the bed, repeating our love whilst two nurses watched from the back of the room.
Mum tried to acknowledge her sister and the words of love pouring from all of us, but no words came, just the flutter of her eyelids and voiceless movements of her mouth and then she was still. Relieved of the pain that had possessed her body, free from the exhaustion and the fear. But f
illed with the love of the family that surrounded her. She was at peace.
Later a neighbour told me that she thought there had been a party at the house that day, given all the cars parked along the street outside. In a way she was right. It was a celebration of my mother’s amazing life, a celebration of who she was and how many lives she had touched, how many lives she had improved.
Back to the present
Thinking back to how mum had clung to life in those last two days made me realise that I had to fight for my own life. Lying there in the pitch black of my bedroom, reliving her last few days, my pillow sodden with the tears that flowed every time I thought (and even now think) about her, I knew how disappointed she would be in me having thoughts of ending my life when she had fought so hard to keep hers.
She was right, as always.
No, I realised, this was a cry for help. I needed to change the things in my life that were creating this state. All I had to do was work out what and how to achieve that. First I needed to rest, I was exhausted.
*
And so my life trudged on and autumn started to take a grip. The solid black stove, the heart of my sitting room, was lit as soon as I got home and I sat watching the mesmerising glow of the red and orange flames as they flickered across the glass. The warmth filled my tiny home with the comfort that was missing from my life.
The drives to and from work were getting darker – a metaphor and a reality.
Arriving home one Friday night I entered my dimly lit front room. With the curtains open the orange street lights were providing enough light for me to see the post on the doormat. I reached down to pick it up. I was pleasantly surprised, letters were so rare these days. Most companies used emails or online accounts and friends used social media. I rued the days when friends wrote actual, physical letters which were posted; the joy of finding a long letter, curling up on the sofa and discovering what a friend had been up to, then writing long letters back. Even on birthdays and Christmas these days the mail bag was lighter than it used to be in the good old days, not that I had lost touch with people, but because people just stopped sending cards, which in my mind was a sad development and not progress.
It was not my birthday and it was not Christmas. Yet there in my hand, amongst the pamphlets and brochures, was a white envelope with beautiful calligraphed black ink inscription of my name and address. I felt excited for the first time in ages.
I threw the card – it was definitely a card as I could feel the firmness between my fingers – onto the sofa and fetched a glass of wine from the kitchen. The intention was to curl up on the sofa and enjoy whatever news this unexpected card held in store for me.
I took the time to light the stove and ensure it was well underway first. I didn’t want to be disturbed.
I was putting it off of course, like the lottery. Whenever I received an email to say there was news about my ticket, whilst I was certain that it would only be the bare minimum payout, as long as I didn’t actually look at it, it kept the hopes and suspense alive. Maybe, just maybe, on this occasion it really ‘could be me’.
The same was true for the card, lying waiting on the sofa. It was probably some clever marketing ploy, trying to sell me something I didn’t want, or need, but I was enjoying the anticipation.
Time to do this, I thought, curling my feet up under me as I opened the thick, top quality envelope and pulled out the silky-smooth card and accompanying folded sheets from within. It was a wedding invitation. I stared at the card. A wedding invitation, but I don’t know anyone getting married, I thought. Turning it over in my hand, nervous now, I slowly opened the card to see who was inviting me to their nuptials.
I held my breath. Surely Ed wouldn’t be so cruel as to invite me to his wedding to Clare, I thought. I had never truly believed that nothing physical had happened between them. For all I knew, after all the time that had passed since we had last spoken Clare might have left her husband, realising, as Ed had done, her true feelings. But no, they wouldn’t stab me in the heart like that. Surely.
As I finally gathered my nerve and fully opened the card a piece of paper slowly fluttered down into my lap. I glanced at it momentarily, deciding to face what was in the card before turning my attention to the additional sheets.
It read, ‘Mr and Mrs Finley,’ I couldn’t place the name so read on, ‘Invite you to the wedding of their daughter Emma to Mr Dan Wiseman’. The penny dropped and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This can’t be right. Dan and Emma have invited me to their wedding. Surely this is some sort of horrible mistake. I was confused. The only logical explanation I could come up with was that they had forgotten to take me off the list. What is the etiquette for turning down an invitation that was never intended for you?
I liked Dan and Emma. I liked them a lot. They had made me feel part of the family and part of their wedding, but they couldn’t want me at it, not now, not after everything that had happened.
It was not just that Ed and I were no longer together, but both Ed and Clare would be at the wedding and that would be hellishly awkward for everyone. And, to be honest, I didn’t want to see Ed again, I still wasn’t ready, so this would need to be a polite, but firm, refusal.
I continued staring at the invitation racked by confusion and curiosity. We were all too old for games, and what sort of sick person would play a game like this, especially as it could go horribly wrong and I could accept the invitation and ruin their big day by starting a fight with some of their guests?
No, I thought, this has to be a mistake. I’ll have to choose the wording of my reply with care so as not to offend anyone.
Then I remembered the note lying ignored in my lap. I picked it up, opening it quickly, hoping for a clue or insight into what this was really all about.
It was the wedding list. ‘Emma and Dan do not expect any gifts, just your company on their day of celebration. However, should you wish to buy a gift then please view the list at…’
I was surprised to feel disappointed. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but of course it was instructions on wedding lists. The next sheet had the details and directions to the wedding and local hotels for those who couldn’t afford to stay at the venue.
I turned to the last sheet expecting some more instructions or formality with regard to the wedding. I couldn’t have been more wrong. This final sheet was a typed page, the font and layout different to the rest of the pack, no pictures, and instantly I knew this sheet was no round robin. This sheet was for my eyes only.
It read:
Dear Chloe
Yet again I find myself unsure of the words, so I will take your advice and start at the beginning.
I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry for the way I treated you and for the way I made you feel. If it is any consolation I have been racked by guilt ever since.
You were right to kick me out. I was an idiot and an imbecile. You were nothing but honest and loving towards me and I trashed that and your trust and I’m sure you will never forgive me, but I won’t forgive myself if I don’t try.
I was honest about my confusion and I was telling the truth when I said nothing physical happened. I now realise that I never really wanted anything to happen with Clare. I was confused by seeing her in that way and I was afraid of the feelings I had for you. I was afraid of things not working out, of things falling apart as they had with Clare and I took the coward’s way out, opting to sabotage the relationship before it went any further.
I realised as soon as I left you what my true feelings were, but you quite rightly didn’t want to know or to speak to me. I understand that you cut me off to save yourself.
I want you back, Chloe. I love you. I miss you. I want to be in your life and you to be in mine. I want to beg you for another chance.
I know this is a little strange, to send this in an invitation to my son’s wedding, but I talked to Dan and Emma and explained
everything. They were shocked and I have to confess, rightly, called me some choice names. But they really like you and wanted to help me.
We thought, and I hope we have not got this wrong, that if we all showed you how much you mean to us then that might open a door for us to talk, to find some way to start again. Nothing says family more than a wedding and so, in case you are wondering, this invitation is genuine. I know we have a long way to go until you can commit to attending, if you ever will.
I, we, will understand if you don’t want to know. If we do not hear from you I will understand and will accept your decision, but in my heart I know we could be fantastic together, again. If you could find it in your heart to let me back in I promise I won’t break it again. I will hold it tight and protect it, forever.
Please, please, please, give me a chance.
All my love
Ed xx
By the time I finished the letter I was in floods of tears, the paper in my hand speckled with damp teardrops. I found a tissue and wiped my eyes, leaving wet, black smudges of makeup on the tissue and streaks across my face.
I didn’t know what was going to happen or if there really was a way back from this. I didn’t know if I could trust him again. I didn’t know if we could get back to the heavenly place we had been before.
I knew I had never stopped loving him, however much I had tried. And I knew that this was the break I had been looking for. This was the hope I had longed for. This was the joy I had been missing.
I pulled my phone from my bag and through tears of happiness I typed, ‘Hello you,’ and pressed send before I could change my mind.
fourteen.
And start all over again
I had barely put the phone down when it buzzed and the screen lit up.
‘Hello, you too,’ it read, ‘I’m so glad you texted. I assume you got my letter? I know this will take time & I have to prove myself & I will.’
Loves Lost and Found Page 18