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It's 4:30 in the morning. I have yet to sleep. First day of term is tomorrow, and here I am, sitting wide awake in the dark. I have labs tomorrow, and all I can think is 'I'm alone now. I can let go.' No family, see. I'm back in student accomodation. Space to ... what? I don't know what I want to do. Except whatever it is, it doesn't appear to be sleep. Maybe ... think it through, now that I've room. Let it settle, maybe?
It's odd, you know. I don't think I've felt grief, yet. Not the way I think you're supposed to feel grief. First there was just shock. Then ... relief. Which sounds all kinds of wrong, but ... The past few months, seeing her ... She's been dying all along, and being stuck in that body, being aware in that body ... The thought of it still horrifies. I'm relieved. I'm relieved she's not stuck there anymore, and relieved that we don't have to see her that way. Gran ... that wasn't ever ... she should never have had to go through that. Stupid to say. It happened, and we had to live with it, and nothing anyone thinks will change what happened. But. She shouldn't have.
You know the first thing I thought, seeing what ... My first body, alright? And the first thing I thought was, that doesn't look like her. And the second, they should close her mouth. It wasn't ... it wasn't her. So ... I didn't feel for it. My gran ... the moment she left, she was gathered up. The moment she left, she was safe, and taken care of, and didn't ever have to come back to the body that failed her, that hurt her. She was gone by the time we came, gone and safe, and even still, even right now ... I can't grieve for her. I can't feel sorry that she's gone from that. Not when I know she's safe now.
I've cried, over the past week or so. Is it a week? There was four days, between the call and the funeral, I do know that, but after ... funeral was Steven's Day. What day is it now? Anyway. I have cried. But ... never for her. Strange. I know I'm meant to. I know I am. But ... when I cry, it's always for them. Her family. Grandad. God. He should have gone with her. They should have made it so he could go with her. He's ... not all there, anymore. Not all here. He gave me her watch, today. I love watches. No-one else would wear it, he said. He gave me her watch. I've cried for him, because no-one should lose part of themselves that way.
The ... I think it's called the wake? She was lying in state, and the family came. Her sister. My dad. Uncle Ger. My sisters. Mam and Aunt Bernie. Gareth. I didn't feel anything, didn't feel for the body in the coffin, but every time I looked at one of their faces, every time I saw ... how are people supposed to live with that kind of pain? I cried. Only when I looked at their faces. Does that even make sense?
I don't know what to do. To feel. There isn't any ... it doesn't hurt, to think of her. It hurts to think of them. To think of Grandad, alone in that house. They put a black ribbon on the door, for the funeral. How do you live in a house when they put a black ribbon on the door? How do you open the door, to go home, when you know what that ribbon means? How do you do that? She's gone, and she took half of him with her, and they put a ribbon on the door to remind him? How does that make sense?
There was an ad, over Christmas. God. That was Christmas. People have been asking, 'How was your Christmas?' I said 'complicated'. Why did I say that? But. There was an ad. How to recognise a stroke. "The sooner you act, the more of the person you save." Dad ... went still. Went away, a bit. After her. At least ... at least he comes back, after. But still.
But there's ... Do you know, the funeral home was never empty. That whole day, the wake ... I think the whole damn town came. We're in the worst cold snap for the last 40 years. There was black ice coated 2mm over the roads. And the whole damn town came anyway. We had people coming up, saying sorry but their mam couldn't come, not with the weather, almost frantic that we'd take it bad when the mam in question was in a wheelchair and we could hardly get there ourselves. And the funeral. There were two cars crashed into lamposts on the hill to the church. We couldn't get up by car. It took us half an hour to climb up that road on foot, sliding all over the place in funeral clothes. We were the family. The church was still full. They got the road gritted just for the hearse. Just to take her home. People still said sorry for those who couldn't make it.
She was ... The Church gave her the Benemerenti for a reason. She was ... part of the fabric of the town. Bedrock. People felt that. Showed that. She's gone, and it was her funeral, and I didn't feel sad. I felt proud. That was my gran. My gran was someone these people would climb a hill on ice in dress shoes to pay respects to. My gran was someone so big that the hole she left covers a town. That's who my gran was. Not the body in the coffin.
I'm all ... I'm all muddled. It was so fast. Phone call. Hospital. Sleep for a day. Her in state, and people breaking. Christmas Day. Funeral. Blur of days until I'm alone, in another city, and can think about it a bit. We had Christmas dinner in the middle of that. In her house. I don't even remember what I got for presents. They put the ribbon on the door the next day, and we put her in the ground.
I just ... what are you supposed to do, after that? What are you supposed to feel? Because me ... right now, all I feel is confused, and relieved, and proud, and I cry but it's all ... silent and weird, and it's because Dad and Grandad and ... I have college tomorrow. For some reason, I can't ... I don't know. It feels unreal. Not there. I'm in another city. It doesn't ... I don't know. I don't know anything.
It's 5:30, now. I just looked at the clock. It took me an hour to write this. Time just ... goes. I wonder if I'm missing some of it. I'm actually wondering if I missed some days, in there. It ... all seemed so very fast. If I go to sleep now ... will it be tomorrow when I wake up?
Doesn't matter, maybe. I gotta go to sleep anyway. Sleep and eat. Those two, I can actually manage. Bugger all else, maybe, but those I can do.
I don't ... Don't mind me. Writing helps me figure stuff out. Put it in order, make it ... not a big muddled lump in my head. Don't mind me. Going to sleep now.
Night. Morning. Thing. Talk to you later, ai?
From:
no subject
+hugs you+ I've worried over you. It relieved me to see you on the Way.
From:
no subject
Heh. The Way is good. Step out of the mess of my head, into someone else's for a little while. It's good.
Thank you, by the by. Sorry for worrying you. I didn't ... notice. Sorry.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Don't you ever feel any kind of shame that you don't grieve for her having gone somewhere better. She is somewhere better, and I can't believe for a second that she wouldn't want you to rejoice that she's gone to her Lord, where she'll be well, and happy, and strong and safe.
With a death like this one, after a life so blessed and so well-lived, the grief all belongs to, and for, those left behind without her.
*hugs you hard*
We're glad to see you here again, dear one. We worried.
From:
no subject
Grandad has it too. I just think at the minute he doesn't really care. Not where she is. Just that she's not with him. 57 years, side by side. They should have let him go with her.
I ... thanks. And sorry. I never think that I worry people, until they say so. I never notice. Sorry.
From:
no subject
A pair like that... Yes. My grandparents "fight" -- by which I mean mock-argue -- about which one of them ought to go first, if they can't go together. Neither one of them is going to survive the other long, and we know it. Couples like that... they should go together.
Of course, honey. *hugs* It's alright. You have had more important things on your mind than us, dear!