Raindrops on cobwebs
It’s Saturday.
The day after your funeral.
.
This morning our boys play football.
A 7am wake up call for an away game in Margate.
.
One team loses.
They’re out of the cup.
Our boy puts his arm around his crying friend’s shoulder.
.
The other one wins.
He rues missed chances to score.
But takes pride in the opportunities he created for others.
.
Our daughter travels to Essex for a gymnastics competition.
She falls off the bar doing a forward roll.
She gets up, gets back on and comes home with a bronze, a silver and a gold.
.
Afterwards, off to friends for sleepovers.
.
They amaze me.
.
Meanwhile I do what surely every newly widowed middle aged man does the day after his wife’s funeral and I jet wash our driveway.
.
It takes a lot longer than I anticipated.
.
Finally all the bricks are clean.
I wonder to myself if that was a good use of my time.
.
Eventually I land on the sofa.
.
The dog arrives home from her two day stay at the kennels (she gets a lift).
.
We sit together.
She and I
In the quiet of the house.
.
A peacefulness that used to feel precious.
No iPads blaring.
No muddy boots in the hallway.
No meals to prep.
.
The footrest and remote control all mine for once.
The paper spread out.
The fire lit.
A frozen ready meal in the oven.
.
Three 0% Scottish beers lined up next to me.
Joni Mitchell on the record deck.
Her namesake asleep at my feet.
.
I could drink a case of you
.
The news is full of stories about cancer.
The King.
The Princess.
BowelBabe.
.
More under 50s are being diagnosed with the disease than ever before.
.
Meanwhile a man writes to the agony aunt and tells her he’s been with the same woman for 20 years and is starting to date again but feels nervous about being with someone new.
.
Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star.
.
Eventually the food is gone.
The cans are empty.
The record finishes and begins its rhythmic
thwump
thwump
thwump
to signal it is time to turn it over.
The fire dies down to the whistle of wind pulled upwards through the chimney above a pile of ash.
.
Suddenly
the heavens open.
It rains and it rains and it rains.
.
The digital doorbell tells me there is someone at the door.
.
You’ve come home.
.
But is is just the motion of raindrops on cobwebs.
.
The dog barks at the sound of footsteps upstairs.
.
You’re heading to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
.
But it’s just our semi-detached neighbours changing their sheets.
.
My phone pings.
.
You’re messaging me from the hospice to say goodnight.
.
But it’s just our friends and family correctly guessing at my crushing loneliness and reaching out with love.
.
Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet.
.
I clear up the kitchen and listen to the rain hammer the skylights.
I walk over to our drinks trolley.
I stand next to the bottles of gin and vermouth and premixed Negroni and Polish vodka and Campari and sherry and wine and bourbon and scotch.
.
Still I’d be on my feet.
.
I draw my hand away from the whiskey and move it towards the herbal tea.
I boil the kettle.
And pour water into a cup over a bag.
.
Before long
there is nothing left to do
but put the dog in her crate
turn off all the lights
and go quietly
to bed.
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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.
Your words are so poignant. They are so filled with love and the pain of loss that we also feel