Freight Train From Waterloo

It's been a funny week... and by that I do not mean 'ha ha.' Monday started badly. A tiler had arrived at the house to tile the new bathrooms and he seemed to take offence when I asked him how much he charged... I mean, is this something I'm not allowed to know before he starts work? Am I supposed to just guess or, even worse, just hope that it's going to be a price I find reasonable? He made me feel like I was being a silly little woman and I felt the loss of Oli in sharp focus. In addition, I then had this man in my house who I had taken a dislike to and that grated on my nerves even more. As it turns out, whilst I think he is eye wateringly expensive, I think he is no more expensive than any other tiler and, rather annoyingly, he's done a really good job. He just wasn't part of the normal crew of builders that are lovely and I trust implicitly. In order to shake my fug I took myself off to Truro to collect some more tiles I'd ordered and then walked Mary on the beach. It was a beautiful afternoon with a low tide and I found myself alone on Porthcurnick Beach with my earpods and some cracking music and a new form of soul therapy. Dancing like a lunatic on a vast amount of sand with the waves crashing is my new happy place. I came home in a much better state than the one I left in and realised that with a little kick up the arse, it's possible to change the course of your day for the better.

On Wednesday my lovely Mum went into hospital for a back operation. I think it's a fairly common procedure and I am sure there was probably very little to worry about... but here's the thing... Before now, I would have not worried, safe in the knowledge that nothing bad really happens to my family or my life in general... bad things happen to other people - usually people that I have no connections with and have only heard about through newpapers or media programmes or a friend of a friends uncle... very occasionally it will happen as close as a friend of a friend but that's as bad as it got. But now, however, things are different. I know bad things happen and bad things happen to me and Oli and that even though a bad thing has just happened, that doesn't mean that another bad thing can't happen in close succession.... do you see where my head's at? A once totally carefree, to the point of being insanely optimistic la-la, sort of person, I am now a worrier - with an 'o' and not an 'a' unfortunately. I therefore pondered every possible scenario of mums operation, grazing over only briefly, the possibility that it was all going to go smoothly. She was operated on at 5 in the afternoon which, in my pessimistic opinion was absolutely dire... the surgeon will be knackered and not focussing properly.. or even worse, have had a terrible day and be irritable and not concentrating. What if his wife had called and told him she wanted a divorce at lunchtime? What if he'd eaten too much at lunch and was sluggish... what if he hadn't eaten enough and felt light headed. All of these thoughts went through my head and I am not a person who, at any point before this, been concerned with the outcome of anything. As it turns out, when I called mum the following morning, she also was worried that she wouldn't wake up from the op and was not only glad that the op was over but absolutely delighted that she was still alive.

I drove back to Hampshire on Friday morning so that I could be around to help with Mum's recovery. An old childhood friend, in fact my best friend through childhood, had planned to come to Cornwall for the weekend. She now lives in South Africa and was something we arranged way before Oli died. After Oli's diagnosis there was definitely two groups of friends... those who stepped up and those who stepped back and there were surprising members in both camps. Pip was definitely one who totally stepped up. Living so far away, we had grown apart over the years, only in contact maybe once or twice a year but throughout Oli's illness she called regularly to check on us and send her love. So this was a long arranged meet up... but after much discussion we decided that I needed to be with Mum and Dad and that we could meet up for the Friday night near to my parents and her sister, where she was staying. We booked a room in a 'pub with rooms' and proceeded to drink vast quantities of wine and put the world to rights. It was a lovely catch up and a reminder that friends are a very precious commodity to be treasured and nurtured... although we both felt as rough as buggery the next day.

On Saturday I took my hangover to a drinks party in the village that we lived in before Cornwall. As I got into the car, the news was on the radio and yet when I looked at the central console it stated that The Verve was playing Lucky Man.. I took it as Oli giving me a bit of courage to walk into the party on my own. It was lovely to see everyone although there were a couple of acquaintances who gave their condolences in detail, which whilst very well meaning and kind, was the last thing I needed. Not that they were supposed to know that... that's the thing about grief and being a widow.. no one really knows, including you, what you're going through at that particular moment. They don't know whether it's a good time to say something or not or whether it's better to talk about Oli or to not mention him... it's a bloody minefield as far as they are concerned ...in fact, it's a minefield as far as I'm concerned too.. I have no idea how I'm going to react to any particular communication about Oli or condolences until it lands.. it's a complete bloody lottery! I was not feeling my best, due in part to the aforementioned hangover, but also because of feeling very alone in a crowded room so I pulled the taxi forward an hour and made a dignified retreat. In the taxi, as I looked out to the night sky, crisp and clear and full of stars, feeling a little lost, I saw a shooting star. Another little nod from Ol to get me home.

Today, Sunday, included a trip to big London to meet with two school friends who, from the very instant Oli was diagnosed have been there, front and centre, with bells on. I took the train from Andover to Waterloo, which for various reasons, was a place that Oli and I loved.. a bit strange to feel such warmth to a train station but there you go. I totally underestimated the effect that Waterloo would have on me and along with my emotional hangover of the last two days made me feel a little lost throughout lunch. I caught my reflection in some mirror tiles by the table and realised just how tired and haggard I looked and felt exhausted all over again. I think the last 18 months are finally catching up with me. On the train on the way home, I could contain my emotions no more and an overwhelming sense of grief ripped through me. I could feel the tsunami of tears rise up and on a packed train from Waterloo rammed with Christmas shoppers and Panto going families I wept and wept for the entire 70 miles. In true British style, no passenger made eye contact and remained totally detached from the weeping middle aged woman with mascara running down her face. The only reaction I got was from a woman sitting across the aisle from me who surreptitiously wrapped her scarf around her nose and mouth as I presume she thought I was full of cold.

Christmas is just around the corner...