Grieving during a pandemic

Everybody’s grieving process is different.  It’s a very solitary experience in itself because we are all different, but grieving during a pandemic, juggling restrictions and mental health issues brings on a whole set of new challenges and experiences.

I genuinely believe that I started grieving in a very small way for my Dad back at the end of last year, when we got the news that his cancer was terminal.  I had seen him in June of last year and then again in October, when we got the news, and the deterioration in him in those three months was quite drastic.  There was talk that he could last anything up to another two years but I think I knew that he wouldn’t make it that long.  My first focus was hoping he would get through to Christmas.  There was that little bit of light that the radiotherapy could shrink the tumours but we never found out if it worked or not. 

From the day Dad got home from the hospital (the week before Christmas) to the day he died, I suppose the grieving intensified.  Mum was trying to stay positive that Dad could carry on for quite some time yet.  I was already convinced that he wouldn’t make it to Easter.  He was certainly never going to see another one of my birthdays in July.  My sister was of a similar view.  She turned 50 during December 2020 and it was a tough day for her because Dad was still in hospital at the time and she couldn’t see Mum and Dad and she knew that Dad wouldn’t see another of her birthdays either.  But was it grieving, or was it just pure sadness at the situation?

After seeing Dad when he came out of hospital and over Christmas, I knew it wouldn’t be long.  We weren’t talking as we used to and I knew that I was losing my Dad, six weeks before he actually died.  Every drive back home after a visit was full of tears and on more than one occasion, I had to pull over at a service station to give myself a minute to regroup and get back on the road.  The man that I knew as my Dad was gone forever.  He was the most intelligent and sarcastic and funny man I have ever had the privilege to know and he just wasn’t there anymore.  There were flashes of his sense of humour – the odd roll of the eyes, the odd comment – but there was no consistency to it anymore.  It became increasingly difficult to make each visit full of happy memories and laughter.  I tried printing out super large photos of us lot and the grandchildren so that he could see them.  That didn’t seem to work.  I tried just talking to him about what the grandchildren were doing (after speaking to my sister) and whilst there were flashes of a smile, it still wasn’t enough. 

The deterioration in Dad was so rapid, my brain did struggle to keep up.  It was so noticeable between visits.  Even in only a few short days, Dad was deteriorating.  Mum was living it 24/7 and I don’t really know how noticeable she found it but given that I was not with them every day, it was so evident to me after each visit.  One of the last visits I had with Dad and one of the last times I spoke with him, was me shouting at him.  He didn’t know where he was, he was in great distress and he was calling Mum a liar.  I walked into his bedroom and just said “Dad, it’s Julie, Mum is not a liar, she is just trying to do her best”.  One of the last things I said to my Dad was out of anger and shouting.  Anger that we were losing him, anger that this wasn’t my Dad; this was some strange person in my Dad’s body who was treating my Mum in such an appalling fashion; anger that my sister wasn’t here to see it because of the COVID-19 restrictions; anger at the pandemic itself because this could have been caught earlier if Dad had been seen by medical professionals sooner.  I have never shouted at Dad in my life – even in those hormonal teenage years – and it was one of the last things I did to the man that I absolutely adored and cherished.  I now have to live with that. 

Then, after Jill’s Dad died and her Mum so soon afterwards, I felt I couldn’t really reach out to Jill.  My Dad, after all, was still alive (albeit in a very fragile state).  Jill and I talked every day on the phone, we cried on the phone.  We couldn’t really work out what was worse – to have both parents die so suddenly or to have to watch your absolute hero deteriorate in front of your eyes and the man that you have loved your entire life, completely disappear.  He just turned into a shell.  At least Jill’s parents were still her parents in their spirit when they died.  This man that I was seeing on the weekends was most certainly not my Dad.  So, I went down the route of telling Jill that I was holding up okay and that I was more worried about her, which I genuinely was and I didn’t want to let on how desperately sad I was (and still am).  I wanted to be her support.  Even though she kept saying that we would support each other, I felt her pain was so much bigger than mine, I didn’t deserve to be supported when she was going through so much (and still do). 

I didn’t have anyone that could just give me a hug and let me cry into their shoulders or arms.  Not even someone just to make me a cup of coffee and try to tell me all of the normal platitudes of “he’s in a better place” or “he’s not in pain anymore”.  I cried into my pillow at night (and still do) and didn’t (and still don’t) want to burden Jill with how sad I am because she had lost both of her parents within a week and I had only lost my Dad.  Only!  What a word.  Nobody’s pain and grief is comparable but you do have to think that losing both beloved parents within a week has got to be worse than watching one parent deteriorate. 

Dad’s funeral was in the middle of March and everyone kept telling me that I would get some closure from the funeral; that I would feel different afterwards.  Bollocks.  There was no closure.  If anything, it started to bring it home to me that Dad was actually gone.  I shall explain…

Although we are a very tight knit little unit of Mum, Dad, Sis and I, we are spread out across England so we don’t get to physically see each other very often.  We do, however, keep in very regular contact and when anything happens (good or bad), we drop everything and run (well, drive actually).  I started to think quite early on after Dad died that it would actually get harder for me as more time passed after I had seen him last. 

Taking 2020 out of the equation and the COVID-19 lockdown and restrictions, there were times when, as a family, we could go anything up to three months without seeing each other.  So, when Dad first died, even though I knew he was gone, there was still a huge part of me that didn’t think it was real because it was just a few days since I’d seen him.  Even at the funeral, it had only been five/six weeks since I’d seen him and that was nothing out of the ordinary.  We are now in May, it has been exactly three months since Dad died and well over a month since the funeral and it’s starting to get harder. I have never gone so long without seeing or speaking to my Dad.

I popped home to see Mum on Good Friday and Easter Saturday and that was one of the toughest visits home since Dad died.  I was back there again before the end of April for what would have been their wedding anniversary because I didn’t want Mum to be on her own for that first anniversary.  The original plan was to take her out for some lunch and do some shopping (subject to the shops/outside seating still being open).  Knowing that Easter weekend was getting tougher, I knew that their wedding anniversary was going to be even harder.  Well, that didn’t go to plan either.  Mum and I actually spent the day collating all of the paperwork to send to the accountant for Dad’s final Tax Return!  Well, that was one hell of a distraction from the day, I must say.  Add into it the fact that with restrictions being eased, the roads were busier and it took me three hours of driving each way. 

In terms of my coping strategies, I’ve resorted to type I’m afraid.  I’ve eaten everything in sight and have put on over two stone in weight since Dad was diagnosed as terminal and I’ve been regularly self-harming again.  I phoned the crisis line about 10 days after he died.  I’m afraid they were nothing short of useless (yet again).  Nothing can be done about my medication without a psychiatrist being involved (because of the levels involved) and the chances of getting to see one of them right now are, quite frankly, non-existent. 

What is really hitting home is that I am trying to work my way through this initial stage of grief on my own.  I am genuinely alone and do feel incredibly lonely.  COVID-19 and the restrictions have fed into my love of isolation.  That in itself is going to be an issue.  As restrictions are starting to be lifted in the UK, I actually don’t want to go out.  As more people are venturing out, I can actually get an online supermarket delivery now so I just want to hide away at home.  I don’t want to see people.  I don’t want to have to try to explain to my closest friends what has been going on.  This love of isolation is something that I have had to battle against since I came out of Nutlins.  It is too easy for me to retreat back into my shell and not go out.  So much hard work has been done to try to force myself out of the house and now COVID-19 came along and told me, flat out, that I just couldn’t leave the house!  Result! I haven’t actually crossed over the threshold of my front door in two weeks.

The day after Dad died, there was a cricket Test Match – I can’t remember whether it was England v Sri Lanka or England v India.  I couldn’t watch it.  It wasn’t just about Dad; it was Grandma and Grandad as well.  That was our thing.  I’m the only one left of those four people.  I don’t have anyone to pass on my love of cricket to.  I could and can still watch the football and always check for Luton Town’s scores (our family’s team).  Watching the Six Nations rugby wasn’t a problem because having played rugby, that really is my thing.  The cricket has become a real problem.  I can watch some of the shorter format games – the TwentyTwenty games and the One Dayers but Dad was a traditionalist and loved Test Matches and I just can’t watch them.  Dad went into his funeral to the Test Match Special music! 

Talking of music, I can listen to The Shadows quite happily without getting upset.  We grew up listening to, firstly, eight track cartridges of them, then vinyl and CDs.  They were definitely Dad’s favourite.  Listening to them does actually make me feel warm.  I don’t go out of my way to play their music but when they come on when my iPod is on shuffle, there is always a slight grin.  I’ve really gone in for the hard rocking tracks to keep me going.  I’ve dug out some oldies from Thunder, Whitesnake and FM and have been very grateful for new albums for Thunder and FM to keep me going and keep me distracted. 

I feel a great sense of expectation that I should be “moving on” now that the funeral is done and it has been three months.  Bullshit.  I’m only just starting to really grieve now.  Jill is still up and down with days of holding her own and days of crying her eyes out, I’m crying more and Martha seems to be holding things together pretty well.  Martha has her kids to focus on, Jill has her family around her and I’m in my little house all on my own, just with the cat.  Martha has her husband to help her.  Jill has Jack.  As I’ve said before when I was in the first stages of recovering from my op, it’s the little things – I don’t have anyone to make me a cup of coffee, to make me a sandwich, to put the washing in the washing machine for me, even just to make the bed for me.  Nothing.  Stuff that seems so normal, so minimal has become such a challenge.  I don’t have anyone to tell that I tried to read Bumble’s book that I bought after my surgery, but couldn’t do it – it’s cricket. 

So, I’m doing what I do.  I’m forcing it down and out of the way to be dealt with another day as I try to help Mum and Sis through all of this.  I know it’s not healthy and I know it will come back and bite me on the backside later on but, right now, it’s all I can do.