That was the week that was

That was the week that was.

 

It got off to a good start with a stimulating visit from Wiltshire son and DIL.  We dined out, shopped, cooked and had a satisfying visit to the dump.  Naughtily they left a stack of delicious chockies on my bed.  All long gone.

 

I’m so glad I joined the bereavement group – it gives a shape to the week and the different venues challenge our ageing brains to remember where we are each week.  Not everybody comes each time and we average 6 to 8.  It is a surprise to find how open we all are about discussing where we are in the grieving process – especially the men who – in my experience are more reluctant to talk about their emotions.

 

It is the established custom to greet each other with a hug both on arrival and departure.  I’m happy to be hugged but am a bit shy at instigating it myself with someone I hardy know – more so with the men.  It helps that we are all as vulnerable as each other.

 

We are agreed that the grieving process is a very bumpy journey – not a steady upward incline but up and down and – hopefully - raising one gradually out of the morass.

Strangely it was suggested that the depression stage is when you are getting better.

I’m trying to get my head around the concept that often the depression is a result of feeling anger at others e.g. perhaps medical staff who have been unsatisfactory and then turning that anger on oneself.  But then you have to look at this and accept what it is.  This was voiced by a very intelligent man and I’m not describing it very well.

The good thing is I can talk to him about it next week.

 

Recently I was concerned about an acquaintance who has had a rotten time of it lately and then had yet another killer blow.  I asked her if she was in danger i.e. in danger if ending it all.

Her face lit up and she assured me that she could never leave her three darlings; they gave her unconditional love and when she occasionally had to leave them their little faces would be pressed against the glass door until she returned.  They are three little dogs – fortunately of varying ages.

 

Mid week a letter from the tax man didn’t make it clear whether I owed them a sizeable sum or vice versa.  I resisted the temptation to phone them (I find them extremely helpful) and yesterday received a cheque from them.  My elation was tempered when I walked into the iron watering can and gashed my leg.

 A bumpy journey indeed.