The Show Must Go On

Chapter Thirty-Four: To the Mountains

Chapter Thirty-Four Soundtrack: To the Mountains by Lizzy McAlpine

My languorous, drawn-out weekend passes in a series of small choices. I can't stop to acknowledge what I'm doing in case the realisation overwhelms me. I just have to take each decision as it comes, and, I remind myself, to keep deciding to progress.

I start with the flat. Specifically, I start with the countertops. Every single morning, for four years, I have rested my palm on them while I make my coffee and been pricked by a small, spiny splinter. Every. Single. Morning. I have tried touching every spot on the countertops and yet there is no escaping the rage buried in its wooden surface. For a few weeks, I seriously considered calling in an exorcist in case a trapped spirit was causing trouble.

I haven't ruled that out yet. But first, I'm going to sand it.

I haven't done it yet because, let's be honest, sanding is hard. But more importantly, because Ben promised to sand it, and it was the last thing he said before climbing in the passenger seat on the day he died: a final response to my nagging throughout the afternoon that would be his last. When levelled against that grief, a few splinters were nothing.

Ben isn't coming back, though. I wait for the guilt to hit at that thought, but nothing happens.

So the sanding falls to me.

Sanding is really hard.

The dust clings to my eyelashes, my shirt, my lips. The paper scratches my fingers so raw that the splinters feel preferable. This countertop is actively resisting being sanded, a fact further proven by the colour of the wood that my endeavours reveals: the best descriptor is puce. It's the most revolting shade I've ever seen.

But as it's the funeral colours of my old nemesis, my kitchen counter, I can live with it. If anything, it's a badge of pride. Because after three (THREE!) hours, my countertops are smooth and splinter-less and my heart is soaring. I did that. All by myself.

Next, a group support session after I've rewarded myself with a quiche. What a thrilling Saturday night.

The bereavement group sessions are hosted in a church basement in Ealing. In classic avoidant fashion, I am only attending now that the worst of my grief is over. Sandra has pushed me to try them for years. Still, better late than never... Right?

The door creaks open and I flinch, instinctively, at the fear that anyone will look up. No one does. Okay. Instead, the low-ceilinged, sugary-scented room is populated by twenty or so people, chatting in small groups. They hold thin paper cups of indeterminate liquid, but since the AA group meets here after us, it's probably tea. Disappointing.

A circle of chairs breaks up the clusters of people. I've seen enough films to know that soon, we'll sit in them, look each other in the eyes, and sand the splinters off ourselves too, wearing away the spikes of hidden grief, revealing the colours buried beneath.

The thought pushes me against the wall, looking at my phone, my shoes, anywhere except at the woman trying to catch my eye. Her lanyard informs me that she's the 'GROUP LEADER'.

She must give up because she begins the meeting, calling everyone to sit in the chairs. It being a circle, there's no way to avoid the middle. I sit nervously between an older woman and a man near my age. A few empty chairs remain.

'Thank you all for coming,' she welcomes us. A smattering of people respond. 'It's great to see so many new faces. Before we start the group discussion, I want to remind everyone how these sessions go.

'Anything that we share today remains within these walls. That allows us to share openly and trust each other. I will guide the discussions if needed, but this is an open forum to share our experiences of grief: the little things and the big things. However, please be mindful to let others speak, to avoid obscene language as much as possible, and that this is a space of mutual respect. We all have different beliefs and religions, but we're united in our desire to heal and manage our grief, so let's be understanding.'