amount of telly and re-emerge when I’m sixty-one. I’d meet some man who’d been a widower for about ten minutes – they go fast, bereaved men, snapped up quickly, according to Zoe – and he could be my boyfriend. We’d go on a mini-break to Florence to look at paintings – by then I’d have developed an interest in art (it would kick in around the same time that I started to lose control of my bladder – nature’s barter system). Myself and the widower – Clive? – would never have any fights. No sex, either, but that was okay.
Of course, his daughters would hate me. They’d hiss, ‘I’ll never call you Mum!’ Gently I’d reply, ‘Your mum was a wonderful woman. I know I can never replace her.’ Then they’d like me and we would all celebrate Christmas together, but secretly, just to spite the bitchy daughters, I’d whisper to the grandchildren, ‘I’m your granny now.’
I tell myself that someday in my future I’ll be happy again. A different sort of happy to the one I’ve just lost. A far duller sort.
But it’s not going to happen for a long time, so I’d better bunker down and get used to the loneliness.
I contemplate having a glass of wine, but it’s a bit early for that. Wearily I abandon my new purchases in the hall and climb the stairs and, still in my clothes, get into bed.
I’m a strong person, I tell myself miserably, as I pull the duvet over my head. I’ve survived hardship – emotional, physical and financial. It’s just a question of being positive, of looking forward. Of
never
looking back. Of adjusting to the new normal, the present reality, of riding the roller coaster oflife, as I believe I said myself in my first book. Accepting all that is given to me and all that is taken away. Recognizing that even loss and pain are gifts.
… Did I
really
write that shit? And people actually believed it? In fact I think I even believed it myself at the time.
I’d always thought that you grew out of heartbreak, that the older you got, the less it hurt, until it entirely stopped having any impact. But I’ve discovered the hard way that heartbreak is just as bad when you’re old. The pain is still awful.
Worse
, if anything, because of – Zoe explained this to me – the accumulator-effect: the loss stacks up on every previous one and you feel the full weight of them all.
But wailing and streeling around being heartbroken is a lot less dignified at my age. Once you pass forty, you’re expected to be wise, to be philosophical, to calmly settle yourself in your Eileen Fisher coordinating separates and say, ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Camomile tea, anyone?’
‘Not everyone can find a cure for cancer. Someone has to make the dinners and sort the socks.’
Extract from
One Blink at a Time
‘I know you must be blaming yourself for getting this disease,’ Betsy said, with great earnestness. ‘Just remember, Mom, you may have done bad things, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.’
… Don’t!
‘You probably wish you’d never been born. But –’ she squeezed my hand fiercely – ‘you must never think that. Life is a precious gift!’
… Er …
‘I know you and Dad have your issues …’
Do we?
For a moment I was wildly irritated. It was all so intense and serious with her; everything had to be analysed and found wanting and eventually resolved.
‘But you being paralysed and him having to drive us to school will bring you closer together.’ She smiled a horribly euphoric smile. ‘You simply need to have faith.’
She must be going to that holy youth club, she
must
be! I could almost
see
the creepy group leaders, a man and a woman, both in their early twenties – the man would have longish hair and strange flared jeans and the woman would wear a tartan tabard over a white skinny-knit polo-neck jumper. It was only a matter of time before they came inhere with their guitars and tambourines and
Of course, his daughters would hate me. They’d hiss, ‘I’ll never call you Mum!’ Gently I’d reply, ‘Your mum was a wonderful woman. I know I can never replace her.’ Then they’d like me and we would all celebrate Christmas together, but secretly, just to spite the bitchy daughters, I’d whisper to the grandchildren, ‘I’m your granny now.’
I tell myself that someday in my future I’ll be happy again. A different sort of happy to the one I’ve just lost. A far duller sort.
But it’s not going to happen for a long time, so I’d better bunker down and get used to the loneliness.
I contemplate having a glass of wine, but it’s a bit early for that. Wearily I abandon my new purchases in the hall and climb the stairs and, still in my clothes, get into bed.
I’m a strong person, I tell myself miserably, as I pull the duvet over my head. I’ve survived hardship – emotional, physical and financial. It’s just a question of being positive, of looking forward. Of
never
looking back. Of adjusting to the new normal, the present reality, of riding the roller coaster oflife, as I believe I said myself in my first book. Accepting all that is given to me and all that is taken away. Recognizing that even loss and pain are gifts.
… Did I
really
write that shit? And people actually believed it? In fact I think I even believed it myself at the time.
I’d always thought that you grew out of heartbreak, that the older you got, the less it hurt, until it entirely stopped having any impact. But I’ve discovered the hard way that heartbreak is just as bad when you’re old. The pain is still awful.
Worse
, if anything, because of – Zoe explained this to me – the accumulator-effect: the loss stacks up on every previous one and you feel the full weight of them all.
But wailing and streeling around being heartbroken is a lot less dignified at my age. Once you pass forty, you’re expected to be wise, to be philosophical, to calmly settle yourself in your Eileen Fisher coordinating separates and say, ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Camomile tea, anyone?’
‘Not everyone can find a cure for cancer. Someone has to make the dinners and sort the socks.’
Extract from
One Blink at a Time
‘I know you must be blaming yourself for getting this disease,’ Betsy said, with great earnestness. ‘Just remember, Mom, you may have done bad things, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.’
… Don’t!
‘You probably wish you’d never been born. But –’ she squeezed my hand fiercely – ‘you must never think that. Life is a precious gift!’
… Er …
‘I know you and Dad have your issues …’
Do we?
For a moment I was wildly irritated. It was all so intense and serious with her; everything had to be analysed and found wanting and eventually resolved.
‘But you being paralysed and him having to drive us to school will bring you closer together.’ She smiled a horribly euphoric smile. ‘You simply need to have faith.’
She must be going to that holy youth club, she
must
be! I could almost
see
the creepy group leaders, a man and a woman, both in their early twenties – the man would have longish hair and strange flared jeans and the woman would wear a tartan tabard over a white skinny-knit polo-neck jumper. It was only a matter of time before they came inhere with their guitars and tambourines and
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