Every morning, two words fizzle through my head. 

‘Oh no.’

Then, I remember. I remember, remember, remember what has happened, and I realise where I am in time and space.

I am emerging from a dream… a dream… 

Oh no.

It was just a dream. A place I’d rather inhabit. Someone, please make it real, an architect or a magician. The dream where everyone is back. We are very happy. Settled, calm. And joy buzzes about like mayflies.  

Grief is not a straight line. It’s unique, yet universal. A march through unknown territory, it has no concept of gravity. Uncanny, the way it makes the familiar, strange. It is a language without a dictionary. 

I am so sorry to say that my grandfather died in May 2023, my Dad died in May 2024, and my grandmother died a few weeks later, in June. So, I have been navigating the quagmire of grief for a little while. 

My grandparents were the most wonderful grandparents. I feel so fortunate to have been extremely close to both. Sunday lunches, midweek dinners, summer holidays, Christmases, Easters, birthdays. Did I mention Saturday teas? Bliss! Each season, punctuated by laughter. I feel better for revisiting those days in the sun (and rain and snow), just now, only briefly. Riffling through memories, holding each one up to the light. I like doing that. It is an immediate comfort, a soothing balm. Funny stories, conversations, warmth, happiness. Support, we were one another’s gauze too, during loss and pain. We held up torches in the dark. Love and life intertwined, inseparable. The way a song can take you back. 

Though sadness prevails, I can knit some philosophy when I think about my grandparents. They both enjoyed long and very happy lives, and, while their ages don’t make it any less of a loss, I found I was able to remember them, with comfort and content, shortly after they died. Only occasionally did I crumble into a complete gibbering wreck when finding a photograph of them, somewhere unexpected.   

Losing my Dad was different. Every minute of every day felt wrong. He had been very unwell for many years but somehow his death did come as a shock. A mixed shock. I felt numb as sorrow swirled through my veins. It had only been about a year since my grandfather died, and my grandmother was extremely ill in hospital at the time, so processing my Dad’s death, the unimaginable, felt unthinkable. 

That year, grief felt like a dreadful, all-consuming weather front, drawn out and inescapable. 

I kept believing that my Dad was in hospital after he died. Some days, I would be convinced that he was on a business trip (for the first time!) somewhere nice and far away, but, not to worry, he’ll be back soon. Actually, it’s been a while since he’s phoned, I’d realise, with a jolt. And then I’d remember, re-remember, because, of course I hadn’t forgotten, I just hadn’t taken it in – that he’s not upstairs in the study, and he’s not tinkering about in the garden either. 

Grief starts to spiral. So I stop and say: who is to say he’s not here? His chair would stare blankly at me each time I’d turn around to see if he’d nipped back, a shadow, a silvery silhouette, something, something, anything, anything, but I didn’t feel discouraged. I couldn’t help but sense his presence, his energy, with us. Words cannot describe what a comfort that is, still, now. He was an artist and sculptor, and I have found real strength from having his work around me. Each time I pause to admire one of his drawings, I feel as though my batteries are being recharged. Something I never knew before: the true power of art. Method, creativity, confidence. 

Precisely what I was lacking. Through my abject misery, I had lost the ability to focus and concentrate, let alone be creative. The prospect of reading a novel felt like climbing Mount Everest, concentration – a friend, altered beyond recognition. 

Poetry was palatable, thank goodness. Punchy prose, bitesize imagery, I became grateful for those. Miniature escapism allowed me to rediscover my imagination. Bit by bit, like a plant finding its flowers. Poets who rally humour through their prose remain a source of delight.  

I still feel unanchored, and anxious. Panic attacks are part of my juggling act, worries and fear, two constant companions. I am desperately sad. Often, it will feel like I’ve been plunged back to the week my Dad died, the shock, so real. It was sunny, then. My Dad lit up the sky. 

I know things will never be the same. Good news won’t taste as sweet as before, my ceiling of happiness has been lowered. But I can try and work on lassoing some of my old life into this new realm.

Grief buckles, that bad weather returns. I felt worse last year than the year before. (And I’m still shielding because of chronic asthma, etc.) 

But we try and get through each day, one at a time. Listen to reassurance when it whispers. 

Slotted into my spine are memories that help me stand up straight. 

Breathe and breathe. 

Remember, you can’t control your dreams.

But, perhaps that’s for the best. 

(Sharing this, and wearing my feelings like a scarf (one that’s too tight!) for all to see doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve always thought you have to reach a certain place in your bereavement before being able to talk about it, and I’m not there yet. That, and I have always been a very private person. But grief has brought a strange sense of isolation with it too. So, I thought it might help someone who is going through the same, or similar, emotions and situation, and to try and help them feel that they are not alone. Even if they feel unutterably so.)