PART TWO
Once the initial shock is over, time has no place. Hours disappeared.
People came and went and coffee and drinks and food were delivered.
Then the phone started ringing. And ringing and ringing and binging with messages.
But things - administrative things - need to be dealt with.
Do you have someone anywhere near who can come and be with you?
The Doctor needs to come and explain what happened.
Is there someone coming?
This is our pastoral care person - they will just be with you - for company.
Who’s going to drive you home? When will they be here?
The police are here they need to talk to you because we have to refer this to the coroner - 46 year olds don’t come in alive and drop dead for no reason.
The police are gentle and kind. They ask what has happened. They let you know they need to take photos for the coroner. But there's just one thing they need to ask:
"We need to ask if you can explain the scratches on Pete's arms … "
They look at you, as you assess the dark long red marks around your husband's elbow and on his forearms.
"Oh, we have a new Jack Russell puppy. He's a bit bitey and scratchy … that was playing last weekend."
They laugh. You laugh. It's such a relief to them its nothing more sinister. Its such an innocent, boring, lovable, laughable reason there are scratch marks on his arms.
Filling in the identification form for the coroner is a sobering experience. Most of it is routine - name, phone number, address.
Writing ‘HUSBAND’ in the section where it asks how the deceased is related to you is an out of body experience.
The phone just keeps ringing and binging.
Mostly it's friends not able to really comprehend what they’ve heard from other friends as word gets around. It can’t be real.
I just heard … Tell me it’s not real.
As the names pop up on the messages you wonder how those people could have found out so quickly.
Someone once said bad news travels twice as fast as good news. Turns out it's true.
The more people you tell that Pete has died, the blunter you get.
There is no way of sugar coating it. You keep repeating the same thing and it doesn’t get any easier for you and you’re so exhausted from being up at 5.30am to get kids to the airport for a holiday with their grandparents.
So tired.
When friends arrive to collect you, you have no idea of the time. It’s almost 4 hours later. They come into the room with you where your dead husband now lays on a bed, slowly changing colour.
They are so amazingly brave to do that for you.
They drive you home, late into the night and you get home to find another friend at the house, with wine and a sleeping bag to stay the night.
Someone has already delivered wine and cheese and food.
Someone else has made sure there are sleeping tablets for you.
A few wines and tears later you need to sleep. Sleep comes because you’re exhausted emotionally and physically.
Tomorrow you need to wake up and face the reality of what today brought.
But now, sleep.
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