Keep Talking

Tuesday 10 July 2018

Sometimes it can be the little things that knock me down.

I can be looking at my phone and see that the battery gauge is at, say, 62% and I'll think of Shani and the way that whilst she was in hospital we would continually watch the numbers, in particular her oxygen saturation percentage, the number that for most of us is normally at around 98% and for Shani was more like 70% for most of her life, and worry when it dropped to low 60's% as that meant that things weren't going well and that the nurses might need to intervene, or worse might not be able to intervene.

I can be looking at my phone and see that the battery gauge is at, say, 62% and I'll think of Shani and my breathing will get a little shorter, my anxiety level will rise slightly, I'll stop thinking about whatever I was doing, I'll start to feel down, my eyes will begin to moisten, my face crumple.

Sometimes the feeling will pass and I'll get back to doing whatever I was doing.

But sometimes the dam will break a little more and I'll fall, into despair, unable to do much apart from feel sad or angry or helpless, reliving the final dark dark days.

There's a silence surrounding me
I feel like I'm drowning.

Keep Talking, Pink Floyd

Sometimes just breathing leads to sadness.

I try to focus on breathing to cope with stress and grief - mindfulness helps steadiness in a storm of emotion or trauma.
But deep breathing, filling myself with life-giving oxygen, sometimes reminds of what Shani could not do.
And from there, sadness.

And then the times where nothing in particular triggers sorrow and rage.
An empty house.
A day out without her.
A difficult meeting.
A stubbed toe.

The way back can be simple - the storm passes.

But it can be hard, and there are things that can help.

One of them is finding space and breathing.

And one of them is talking.

This is talking.

Keep talking.

Keep Talking, Pink Floyd

For millions of years mankind lived just like the animals
Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination
We learned to talk

There's a silence surrounding me
I can't seem to think straight
I'll sit in the corner
No one can bother me

I think I should speak now
Why won't you talk to me
I can't seem to speak now
You never talk to me

My words won't come out right
What are you thinking
I feel like I'm drowning
What are you feeling

I'm feeling weak now
You never talk to me
But I can't show my weakness

What are you thinking
I sometimes wonder
What are you feeling

Where do we go from here?

It doesn't have to be like this
All we need to do is make sure we keep talking

The Wall

Monday 09 July 2018

I was in Israel last month for a wonderful few days celebrating the Barmitzvah of our very good friends' son.
J and I had an amazing time, including a couple of days relaxing just the two of us in Tel Aviv.

Barring one night away last year, where I had to leave the hotel early to get to Shani's hearing at the Coroner's Court, it was the first time that just the two of us had been away on holiday since before Shani was born, over seven years ago.

We definitely needed that time together - I hadn't realised how little time we'd spent with each other recently!

After the Barmitzvah a couple of us went into Jerusalem to go to the Kotel (the Western Wall) and to meet up with some of my cousins.

I arrived at the Kotel without having really thought about what I might feel when I got there, and I was taken aback by the scale of the emotions that roared through me on approaching the Wall.

I'd been there a few times since Shani was born and each time I had arrived with thoughts of hope and healing, that somehow things would be ok, that the Divine might help to make her better, that with some help Shani would find a way to keep her magic going and continue to dodge the dark clouds overhead.

Those visits were full of anguish, but there was also hope.

Now there is no hope.

Instead there was despair and rage and tears and anger and sorrow ... and silence.

I have a searing hole at the core of my reality.
At the Kotel, all of the barriers fell away that I had built around it to cope with life.

But I was not alone.

I had a friend with me, a wonderful friend, a brother.

He was there to guide me back to the shore, 
out of the raging torrent, 
holding firm to provide a route back to life, 
and a way to enjoy the remainder of our holiday in Israel.