Good Grief

I’ve been kind of running with the emotions that in the early days following Frank’s death I didn’t know I was capable of experiencing. I spoke to my brother the day after Frank departed, and he told me that I would be in shock for at least six months, and that I wouldn’t realise it until it went away. He is no stranger to grief: his eldest daughter died in front of his eyes at the age of ten. What a horribly tragic family we turned out to be. I admire the way that he carried, and still carries his grief. I don’t know if this is true, but I have very little memory of the weeks after Frank died, and that wasn’t entirely wine related. Honestly. I remember and rehearse the day that Frank died daily. It’s a day that I would prefer not to remember, particularly because I fear the effect the 28^th November 2012 has had, and may continue to have, on the boychild. That’s not to say that I am not concerned with the Twinset, but they weren’t there and haven’t found themselves in a hormone charged female household without notice.

I talked to each of the kidlets about bereavement counselling. Independently they looked at me devoid of credulousness: why would they want to talk to a stranger about what happened? I was pressed by a very kind friend who is a trustee of a local charity that helps children who have lost loved ones. Kate asked why would she want to hang out with kids when the only thing they had in common was that their dads were dead. I couldn’t fault her logic.

Jack does appear to be normal, whatever that epithet means. He proved on holiday recently that he’s more than capable of driving me to distraction when it suits him. He gets angry with me at times. While sunning ourselves in Sardinia he asked me if dad had wanted to go to Italy, and I told him that he did. We planned to go, but for reasons I was unable to identify, we never did. Jack was angry with me for taking us to a destination that we should have gone with dad. It was always my responsibility to book holidays, and although I sought approval Frank would always ask me, usually on the way to the departure gate, where is it we're going again? I pointed out to Jack that there were (gloriously for me) no English accents pervading the beach, no karaoke, no quizzes or fish n chips, and asked if he thought his dad would be enjoying this holiday. He replied – no, he’d be bored shitless. I normally take issue with the Little Darlings uttering profanity on the grounds that if they know how much I swear it means they’ve hacked my email or facebook. On this occasion he was fucking spot on.

Bugger – this was meant to be a happy holiday related post. I wasn’t brave enough to take the kidlets abroad alone, and was lucky enough to join forces with a friend who was taking her two daughters, friends of the Twinset, to Sardinia. We kinda invited ourselves along. Emma proved to be first class company. She loved supermarket shopping as much as Frank did, and assembled some fabulous mozzarella and cold meat meals. This led to Eve developing a mozzarella addiction – she was on three balls a day by the time we left. Not quite a ten quid bag, but nevertheless... Happily doses of Tesco value mozzarella has been for Eve more subutex than methadone to a smack head. It’s also handy going away with a multi-lingual buddy who also engages in irresponsible drinking and smoking. I am now able to order una litro casa blanco vino per fervore. As the holiday progressed it seemed to me that Italian is largely a mixture of French and Spanish with an “o” on the end. Being a consummate mime artist helped with other interactions with confused locals. I am pleased to report that I won the prize for being the most drunken and embarrassing parent. That at least was consistent with previous family holidays.

Our local was reminiscent of home: full of gossiping middle aged men. Every afternoon. Frank would have felt quite at home there had he been fluent in Italian. For fear of being characterised a dirty old woman, I have to report that there were some fabulous views of delicious young Italian men. Emma and I were taken by how cultured they seemed. One evening we were utterly absorbed by two men, probably in their late twenties, enjoying a meal together. They were sharing a bowl of mussels, drinking vino and talking. We agreed that it would be unlikely to see a similar sight in the bars of Exeter, even if anything other than ham, egg and chips was on the menu. Then, as we were gazing, their mains appeared, and simultaneously Emma and I said dreamily, “they’re having another course…” I’m probably revealing too much about the sad git I’ve become.

I did wonder what the other guests made of us – two forty-something women with five children. Did they speculate whether we were a couple of lesbians that had played fast and loose with a turkey baster? 

I am pleased to report that another in a series of new experiences without Frank, the Goddards, with some much appreciated help, have delivered once again.