One foot in the grave

I remember coming home from school to be told my nanna was dead. I cried, more from the surprise than anything.

A long time later, my father died, the first intimation that I might be moving to the head of the queue. Then my mother. By that time I had children and so despite my grief my eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

When my dog died – is it wrong to write of a beloved animal friend in the same space as a parent – I cried more than for my father. Not that I loved him more, but the death of someone that you’re responsible for seems worse than the death of someone who’s responsible for you.

In February my son died, and when life gives me space to reflect (when I’m driving, for instance) I feel weighted towards death,. As if, increasingly, I’m more there, with those who are gone, than here, with those who are left. Thus the expression, one foot in the grave. So it must feel to people whose friends and relations have all died, and they’re sitting there like the last person in the bar while the staff are putting the tables away. My daughter and siblings, and life’s routine, keep me from sliding down. I’m not depressed. It’s just that my heart’s not in it any more.

You know the saying, ‘You had one job..’. Well, I had one job, and that was to keep my children alive, and I failed. On top of all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, and there have been a lot, this is by far the most catastrophic; I did not manage to avert this death. I was with him when he died, in his sleep, of multiple drug toxicity, and I didn’t save him, because I thought his dying breath was a snore, and I was half-asleep, and I didn’t know what he had taken could kill him. I failed, and now I feel unbelievably stupid, and worse than worthless, and at times overwhelmed with useless sorrow, and all this I can do nothing about, and it doesn’t get better, it just gets papered over.

One of the last things he said to me was, ‘You’re the best mother I could have had’, and it breaks my heart because it’s so ironic. All the things I did, and didn’t do, as a mother, ended in this; my son is dead. I refuse to forgive myself; this is irretrievable.

Someone said to me, earlier this year, ‘Why do you say you’d rather be dead? Is your son all that mattered? After all, you have a daughter.’ And that’s true, I do have a daughter, whom I dearly love, and she is a comfort. It’s not that, it’s the pain. There’s a story that Prometheus was condemned to have his liver torn out by eagles each day (and perpetually renewed), in punishment for giving fire to mankind. That’s how I feel, when I’m not preoccupied by the daily business of living. My punishment for being an idiot is having my heart wrenched from my body each day. I deserve it, and I can’t escape. People say things like ‘It’s not your fault’ and ‘remember the positive stuff’ and ‘what matters is that you loved him, and he loved you’ and while all these things are true, it’s an unpalatable fact about being human that we have to live with our shit.

I used to have a pretty cheerful approach to the future. I’d think, let’s see, I’ve probably got twenty or thirty years left, and there’s all these things I want to do…and when I run out of things, I’ll just sit in a rocking chair in the sun and think, with my children nearby (my son had elaborate plans to provide me with a luxurious old age, bless him). Now I think of the time left as a sort of prison sentence, which I have to endure. When I see my beautiful girl safe and happy with her own family and future, I’ll just put my pen down (figuratively speaking), tidy my notes and go to my son, my parents, and my canine best friend, wherever they are.

I’m writing about this because I can’t explain it to anyone in person – it would hurt too much – and so I want to at least explain it to myself. Perhaps the act of explaining will be healing. I’m not on the verge of a breakdown. There are moments – long moments – of enjoyment still to be had in life (flowers, my kelpie, the sea). I can still write, and that has meaning. Next year I want to write about grief (but not mine). My girl helps, a lot.

And, apparently, time heals. Let’s hope. In the meantime, I might as well keep busy, and then again, if I’m lucky, I might be given early parole.