I tread water

On Coping #38

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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I sit in the chair I bought you.

The one on the patio turned towards to the sun.

Where you would rest with your pump full of chemotherapy.

.

The kids have gone to school.

It’s a Monday

which means I have

mountains

of cleaning

and tidying

and cooking

and death-admin

to get through.

.

I sit here today

three days since your funeral and 32 days since you died.

And gosh am I sad.

.

Sad in a new way.

A deeper way.

But also a more empty way.

.

I tell the dog.

.

Joni?

I am really

really

sad.

.

Okay

she says.

.

But could you chuck me that stick while you’re at it?

.

A friend messages and says that

though they were not raised in the faith

Judaism insists on a full year of mourning in recognition of the size of the hole loved ones leave behind.

.

Breathe in.

I’m not sure I can do a year of feeling like this.

.

Feeling this

bereft.

.

Breathe out.

.

Alright

I tell the dog.

.

Let’s forget the washing , the cleaning and the death-min.

Let’s sack off sitting on hold to Nationwide, and Monzo, and British Gas, and the mortgage company, and Sainsbury’s and Aviva who are so sorry to hear of your passing and would just like to ask me a few questions for security reasons.

Let’s cancel our trip to the Sittingbourne branch of the job centre where they will need to photocopy your death certificate in order to redirect the child benefit payments from your account to my account and process the bereavement payment.

.

Instead

let’s go to the beach.

.

To the sea.

To play fetch

And to swim.

.

My friend R. joins us.

A last minute

in case of emergency break glass type visit.

A drop everything and just come type visit.

.

It’s a beautiful day.

And as we drive to the coast with the top down

this begins to feel like the right decision.

.

We park up.

I open the beach hut and get changed.

The dog is straight in the water.

Tennis ball bobbing next to her in the shallow waves.

.

I step into the sea

think of you

and plunge.

.

Having swum once a week through the winter

my body is ready for the effect of

cold water

on skin.

.

It feels good.

.

I search for you in the cold sensation.

I listen for your voice carried across the waves.

I look for you in the line where sky meets sea

where sea meets shoreline

the space between.

.

I’m not sure I find you.

.

I glance around

and despite it being the warmest day of the year so far

I am the only one swimming.

.

Which is strange.

.

I tread water.

.

And as I watch R. back on the beach playing with the dog

I suddenly remember the weekend’s torrential downpour.

And how you would never go swimming in the days after it had rained.

.

I remember how

when it rains heavily here

the drains fill up

and the water companies compensate by dumping raw sewage into the sea.

.

I look down

and sure enough

the water is brown.

.

R. laughs from the safety of the shore.

At first she was sorry she’d forgotten her cossie.

I’m not so smug any more.

.

I think about turning immediately and heading for the beach.

But I’m here now.

.

I tread water.

.

I guess

sometimes

you’re swimming in the sea.

.

And sometimes

you’re just swimming in shit.

.

Back at the house

the washing waits

the papers still piled high on my desk.

.

That night

I eat my frozen dinner out of the carton

standing up in the kitchen.

.

You’d be so disappointed.

.

I thought my weight would drop without the drinking but I’m comforting myself with countless bars of chocolate.

.

You’d tell me my body is craving the absent alcohol’s sugar content.

.

Later

I’m in the bath

exfoliating the echoes of excrement from my skin

eating chilli coated cashews with one hand

and writing this on my phone with the other.

.

My eyes are sore from trying and failing to cry

and as I type the sentence above this one

I rub them

forgetting for a second

I’m using chilli dusted fingers.

.

Our son comes home from school

and joins me in the bathroom

where he finds me dunking my head repeatedly into the water

to sooth my burning corneas.

.

Daddy

he says

today someone asked me what colour hair my mum has

and I didn’t know what to say.

.

Daddy?

What should I say daddy?

.

Daddy?

.

Daddy?

.

What should I say?

Daddy?

Previous > On Coping #37: The dawn chorus | Next > On Coping #39: Retracing your steps

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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