Tag: memories

Lola

I wrote this following piece in December 2020, more than anything I wrote it for me, I never shared it. For reasons I’ll explain later, I’m posting it today…

It’s a year to the day. If it was any other year I’d do the usual, where has the time gone speech. But really, where has the year gone?

Day after day sat on the sofa, watching the news, waiting for updates, fearing the worst, hoping for the best. But seriously, how has a year passed?

Time should have slowed down, it feels appropriate for the world to stop spinning when you are grieving. That the whole world will acknowledge your pain. The loss. The despair.

Lola was our dog. Our family. Our unconditionally loving friend.

The cats scattered everytime the doorbell went because Lola would bark and run through the house like a charging bull.

There was a dirty, slobbery, biscuit mark left by her muzzle on the front door. It was about a foot up from the floor, on the edge of the door and inside the frame, it was brown and sticky and gross. It was made everytime we came home and didn’t, by her standards, open the door fast enough. She’d squeeze that big ol’ head through the gap to get at us quicker. We were home. She was happy.

Her tip tapping across the tiled floors when dinner was seconds away from being hers. Her teddy that she chased up and down our garden. Never ripped or torn but carried back soaked with drool. Her bandana that made her look badass. Her youthful looks that despite her age had people asking if the figure in years was actually how old she was in months. Her loving looks at my husband. Her special hugs, sitting straight back into our arms, bobbing her paw if we stopped scratching her white chest. Her twisted claw, that never grew back quite right, after too many wild moments over the fields. Her loud, hurried crunching noises at her bowl and the fact she guzzled a whole bowl of water in seconds and trailed it through the house afterwards. Her legs kicking when chasing those dream rabbits and the hilarious snoring that caught us muting the TV to sit and laugh silently and deeply.

Her contentment at us being home.

I miss it all. I miss her. We miss her. The cats miss her. Everybody does. Why are there no other words to describe this pain. I’m not even questioning it. I’m demanding to know why there are no other words to describe this anguish. This loss. This grief. It’s a weight that holds you down. Yet without it, I fear she’s gone entirely. When the grief doesn’t catch you off guard and batter you and bruise you does it mean you have forgotten her? If love was enough, death would never have come.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I feel guilty everyday for the times I yelled for the mess, for the noise. It is my punishment now to live with such a void. The silence in the room. No snoring. The ticking clock. No barking. The clean kitchen. No dribble.

A part of us died that day. It’s like taking a breath and never really feeling that deep breath of calm. Your lungs expand but it’s half arsed. It’s the tight, cold feeling inside the middle of your chest. It’s the shaking of your whole body when you cry those loud animalistic sobs. The sound issued from your mouth as your lungs fight to push the breath out despite your mind being overcome with grief. Your eyes expelling tear after tear with the pain of what was and now isn’t. It’s her not being here. And it’s the thought that there is no rainbow where she waits for us. There is no after where she runs. There is nothing. There’s only the sucking in of breath as you feel your insides go into shock. Life stands still.

And yet, it doesn’t, everything carries on. No one sees the destruction that is your mind and others ask when another will come. Angry. That makes me angry. Maybe it’s the process. That the anger will turn to hope. But right now, no. Tomorrow, no. A week, a month, no. No.

Her smell is gone from her collar. Her mark is gone from our door. The cats are settled in the silence.

And now in May 2022, reading that back, it’s unchanged. The pain is as fresh as ever. But it’s in the background. Like a scar. It’s present and it’ll never heal fully. It’s a reminder of what was.

This morning on my way to work, a huge truck passed, and from the passenger window a collie dog was barking at each car it passed. Laughter erupted from me so naturally that I couldn’t stop. They do that. These furry angels. They possess such a beautiful quality that lights up your life that it’s hard to let anything else darken your day. It’s not being able to tell them we love them in the conventional way that makes it so hard to say goodbye. To tell them they were so much more than they realised.

There is a psych analogy that says, ‘ Grief is like a box with a ball in it and a pain button on one side. In the early stages, the ball is very big. You cannot move the box without it frequently hitting the pain button. It rattles around on its own in there and hits the button over and over again, sometimes so much that it feels like you can’t stop it – you can’t control it – it just keeps hurting. But as time goes on, the ball gets smaller. It doesn’t disappear completely and when it hits the pain button, it’s just as intense, but generally, it is easier to get through each day.’

I want you, my lovely reader, to know that grief is natural, it’s not to be ashamed of and it’s not something to be understood. It’s a process. And it’s different for everyone. I truly believe when we lose a pet friend, it’s a different kind of grief, you don’t have words to exchange, only the hope that they know. That you gave them enough to know. I know all too well how hard it is to explain how you feel to someone who doesn’t understand. Perhaps they’ve never had a pet pal and can’t sympathise. It can be a lonely place. I’ve lost so many dear pet friends, our family furries, and it doesn’t get easier. And why should it. They add to our life in such a way without demanding anything back. Please know, you are not alone. It is the price we pay for the love we feel so deeply.

I miss her everyday. Still. It’s getting easier to think of giving a rescue dog a home. I not only miss her and the joy she brought, but I miss the joy of a dog. The unrelenting joy. But the guilt and feeling of replacing her still pushes the thought away. I hope one day we will because the scar she left behind is beautiful and will live forever. She’s still here. Wherever I go. A part of my make up. In the story of my life. Always.

Still sitting still

When I was in University I was a mess, I was scared to enter the lecture room, and knowing now what I didn’t then, I know anxiety has ruled my life a lot longer than I ever realised. For a worrying moment, when I noticed how far back the anxiety stretched, I wondered if it had stopped me doing much in my adult life. 

Today, I had the most bizarre flashback, whilst sipping tea on a bench in my garden. I wasn’t covered in compost anymore nor was I chilly in the April breeze, I was in Paris. I was sitting outside a Parisien cafe, drinking coffee and watching the world go by. It was a Sunday morning, the early morning sun was making the cobbles blush and there was calm in the air. It seems it is one of my fondest memories, because it made me smile, really smile. 

It got me thinking, about other seemingly insignificant moments, that have created a collage of beautiful memories I unlock from time to time. 

New York, 2007, the Empire Diner, Sunday brunch. I’m wearing a lace tunic top and the waiter is parading up and down with peoples eggs and coffee as if he had just come from the Catwalks of Gucci. He had swagger. He had confidence. He had attention. And he loved it. He had a wonder woman tattoo on his upper arm, and paused by our table to say ‘Honey, I love your top’ in his American drawl. I have a photo of the two of us vogue-ing, it was fabulous and so was he. I picture him now, on Broadway in some garish and absolutely fantastic musical number, living his dream. 

Santa Susanna, Barcelona, 2014. The first sunny afternoon in 6 days, we dash to the beach to thaw our bodies and grasp back some of our holiday before the rain returns. The beach is busy. The sand is hot. Glorious! Women and men selling their wares stomp up and down; sunglasses, hats, scarves, coconuts. The cacophony of their voices, mingled with the muffled chatter and the gentle waves, just screams beach holiday to me. A sunbathing man calls over a small asian woman, selling her skilled masseur hands, I remember glancing over, and seeing her kneeling on the sand. She starts to dig a hole with her hands. Dumbstruck I continue to watch, the man waits, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. She continues to dig a deep round hole. In time, she stops and the man lays a towel over the hole, and it is only then that I realise the void is for his belly. I force my staring eyes away from the scene and tell myself to act normal. But for the rest of the day, I laugh internally, to the scene I witnessed. Lets, assume the man had seen this particular lady before and knew this was common practice, that’s one theory. Alternatively, I often think about someone being unprepared for the practice of the void/belly scenario and looking at the woman in complete disbelief. Much like I had. That memory generally floods back to me when I go to or see a beach. 

The Great Barrier Reef, Australia, 2013. I’m drinking a cocktail out of an enormous glass, my legs are over the side of a huge catamaran and all that stops me from plunging into the ocean is a thin rope that acts like a fence at the side of the top deck. I’m sunkissed, curly haired and tired. I have spent the day swimming the coral reefs and am in awe of where I am. I am nine and a half thousand miles from home, I have quit my job and am living out my dream. I am the luckiest girl in the world. No time to think of going back to England. No time to think if a brush will go through my hair later. No time to waste on anything but this moment. 

I often feel the best memories of my life, so far, are the ones that happen when I’m not moving. While I’m static, the world carries on around me, and I can appreciate the moment. What’s funny is in those moments, I never realise how much impact they can have, how much you’ll flit back to them in the future. How warming they’ll be when you are doing one of life’s mundane tasks. Maybe it was wishful thinking today to think of Paris whilst potting up some planters in the garden. Maybe I’m just grateful to have lived a life so rich in travel and culture. Maybe I’m starting to realise the small moments are the important ones. 

This is why when I had the truly horrifying thought that anxiety had stolen so much of my adult life it took me a while to come back to these memories. I have pushed and pushed myself to do and see everything when I travel because there’s an irksome voice in my head saying ‘make the most of it, do it all, miss nothing’. As lovely as it would be to see the world and run from experience to experience it would seem you aren’t in fact seeing all there is to see.  It is now that I truly believe when we stop, sit and look, we’ll find the world will continue turning, it doesn’t mean we are missing out, it means we are able to relish in it. Drink a cuppa, take a breath and appreciate it all. 

Coffee for four

A purple flowered tea tray. 

A floral coffee cup for Mr W.

Coffee for four. Two couples who know each other but have never really spoken.

Today we went to pick up an exercise bike from family friends. They’ve known me since I was maybe 10 years old. David gave me a 3 week stint in his Chartered Surveyors business as part of my final school year work experience. It seems so long ago and just like yesterday all at the same time. I was 15 years old, with nothing but a small amount of filing under my belt and was quite young minded to boot. I learned to make tea very quickly for a busy office, having to remember each person’s likes and milk/sugar requirements. Making friends quickly with the office girls, I found my confidence and enjoyed talking with people on the phone. When I sit and think about it now, I see the merits of the school’s work experience programme.

Fast forward 18 years and Tina and David are still in my life. They’ve been to family parties and weddings and yet we’ve never sat down and just talked. When Tina and I organised a time and date for us to collect the bike; she happened to mention having a cup of tea and I automatically started worrying about what to talk about. I often think I have nothing real to offer someone in a conversation, especially if we’ve not chatted much before. 

I’ve also always really liked Tina and David. Even in passing at parties they always, always stop to say hello, they are sunshine personified in people form and I challenge anyone to walk away from a 5 minute conversation with them without the biggest grin on their face. So what if I made a complete fool of myself, with my rambling that often takes over and leaves me flustered and stumbling over my words?

As we sat talking with Tina, we spoke about their plans to head away for a few weeks to Norfolk and the mutual places we had visited in the Uk. We spoke of our plans to do the NC500 later this year and were regaled with stories on their trips to Scotland in the past. The company was so relaxed that I found myself sipping my coffee more and more slowly to prolong our time with her.  After some time, David joined us and jumped right into the conversation of travel and I felt a genuine smile lift my cheeks. Stories of motorbiking through Portugal, camping in Wild Scotland and driving through Spain. 

David spent some time biking through Portugal and there came a day that he and his companion could not find their hotel. Being such a small village, neither the residents nor local Police spoke a word of English. Bringing out his hotel confirmation, the police radioed for help and the next thing David knew, a squad car had turned up to lead them to their destination. The language barrier did not stop a human helping a human. I love stories of genuinely lovely people, and stories abroad remind me of why travel is so important to me. It always has been.

We spent only a short time together, considering how long we’ve popped in and out of each other’s lives, and it has made me realise how often we let opportunities pass just by letting anxieties control our fears. If I had shied away from the invite, I wouldn’t have learned so much about two very special people. Just by saying yes, I enjoyed talking about a mutual interest and coaxing myself out of a shell that is slowly suffocating me. 

The natural rhythm of talking about travel is why I believe it is so important to embrace it. We may not have been to the same places, but the beautiful affliction of wanting to know what’s down the road, round the corner or over the hill, brings out  the best in everyone. It’s what saw two couples, different in so many ways, spend a fascinating 2 hours together this morning. As we left, we sat in the car for the briefest minute and just smiled and acknowledged the fact that we did not want to leave. It was fascinating to sit with two people I have known for such a large part of my life and realise I genuinely did not know them at all.

Photo for this blog taken by Dave Watson.

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com/

Small but mighty

There is a man somewhere in the world today who once stopped by a window to look at my face. In my mouth was an orange segment. It had come with a dessert and as I had always done, I placed the segment between my teeth to get all the juicy flesh out. Whilst doing so I had glanced out of the window and two or three business men had walked past. They kept on their way until I realised they had reversed their path to check what they had seen. That snapshot moment made them laugh and me too. I was in New York for the first time celebrating my 18th birthday and  was having a luxury meal with a friend and some family. On an 18 year olds budget this meant it was more than a hot dog and can of cola. Luxury!

Later that night, we walked to Rockefeller centre to watch the ice skaters. I took the segment with me. Not long after arriving other tourists asked me to take a photo of them. Armed with my orange I readied the shot and said cheese. As they smiled, I smiled fully revealing the bright orange hidden mouthful. From memory I know that they displayed shock and laughter on their faces as I clicked the cameras button. I’d like to think I took another picture, a more normal one, so they ended up with the shot they asked for. And just like that, I gave them back the camera and they disappeared into the crowd. I spent the rest of the night watching the skaters.

Not too long after on the same trip the heavens opened and there was a huge downpour in the city. We were stuck in our hotel. At 18 years old, my friend and I felt an injustice at being kept from the city we had dreamed of visiting. So with little to no sense we jumped into a yellow taxi outside our hotel and went back to Rockefeller centre. The roads were slick with water and Rockefeller centre itself was flooded. The puddles were inches deep and we had on relatively thin clothing with no umbrellas. We spent the best part of 30 minutes jumping in puddles. The puddles aren’t any different in New York to London but it was freeing just to be doing something. There was a doorman outside one of the buildings, sheltered from the rain, watching us. I remember his black hat and formal clothing . The rain picked up and we squeezed into the doorway with him. His face told us we were crazy and I remember exactly how he looked at us.

Those three moments, however small and however fast they sped by, jump into my memories now and again. However insignificant they may seem, they remind me how those people affected my day and perhaps how in turn I affected theirs.

Occasionally, more often than I care to admit, I wonder what effect I have on this earth. Whether my life is passing by without anything I do making a difference. I wonder at the age of 33 whether I’ll ever do anything important.

Memories like those hold me together and remind me that if they are important to me maybe they are important to others. Are there three men out there that remember the girl with the orange smile? Is there a family that look through their holiday snaps and remember why the first photo at the Ice rink was not posed? Is there a doorman, now retired, that every time it rains thinks of the two crazy Essex girls with no coats, no umbrellas, running around in puddles?

We don’t know the impact we have on other people but we know how the small memories impact us, which may mean other people feel the same as well. It is all these memories that make up the bigger picture. The stitches of one big beautiful canvas. The canvas of your own life with an interwoven pattern of people that you meet daily, once, twice or fleetingly around the world.

Not every stitch will be beautiful. Not every pattern will stand out. However at the end when everything comes together it will make up one beautiful life. All those moments will have made something spectacular.

Memories 101

When lightning strikes, its effects are said to be almost invisible, a spider webbing of a injury, no real discernible outward scars. It’s said to burn your insides.

Memories hit like lightning. Coming for you whether you try to avoid it or you welcome it’s blast. Heating your heart and soul with its warmth. It happens so sudden that your emotions are released in their truest and most honest form.

I’m laid here, late, in bed. And BOOM, memory floods into me of a moment over 12 years ago. Sitting with a friend outside Central Park, New York, plastic container in hand and a fork in the other, eyes looking greedily at the cheesecake before me. I literally feel my mouth watering at the yester-year mind-image of that snack. In a quick second I went from moving my hand with fork towards the NY goodness to flattening my hand against the plastic of the lid and slamming the container closed as a huge engulfing sneeze shot its way out of my body. It was over in a literal very fluid second. And I quickly recovered to begin my delicious treat… all the while my friend looked on bemused. Something along the lines of me wanting to protect the food from whatever my body was going to divulge from nose, throat, lungs had produced a swiftly executed, almost choreographed, move that ensured complete safety of the Precious. She laughed. I laughed. And we carried on.

I’ll never forget that very small moment, between my friend and I, between the cheesecake and my nose and between me and NYC.

Lightning.

And, oh, that cheesecake, what dreams should be made of!