Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
There’s a no-man’s-land between news being learned and shared. Those stained by tragedy cannot escape its oppressive clutches, but take torturous comfort in knowing the world still spins. Outsiders go about their lives; they haven’t yet felt the ripples ricochet. To them, it isn’t real yet. You cling to that thought, hoping that just maybe it isn’t real at all- no more than a cruel joke but, as the days pass, still no punchline. No laughter.
In my living room, I am confronted by death.
Death is all around us: in the leaves that shrivel and fall; the insects swatted and crushed, by human hand or windscreen. Death is fettered within pages of books; served to us on plates. Ghosts haunt us through our television screens; they groan through our headphones.
We don’t wish to dwell, but we are constantly surrounded; there is no escaping the cycle.
Some don’t have the luxury of ignoring the subtext. For them, death’s daily presence is explicit rather than implied: the brave souls who work in care homes, hospices, hospitals. My husband is one of those heroes. As a doctor, he helps and heals but sometimes he can’t do anything more and then it is the family leftover who he must help instead…but…I can’t let my mind go there.
My dad has an illness that will not be cured. Damocles’ sword, always there, is now exposed. It has a name and an average number of years. Blood cancer. His blood is poisoned and can’t be cleansed. His blood is my blood too; it runs through my veins. We share the poison of his diagnosis.
My husband is a haematologist. A few hospital rotations ago, he would have been working on my dad’s ward. Stranger than fiction- a Cinderella fit. My husband is burdened with answers to questions I can’t face asking. His colleagues treat his family; two worlds collided in a painful mess. He wants to look after me, but he, too, is touched by our tragedy. He may not share our blood, but, like us, he cannot shut the door and escape. At hospital and at home, it is always there.
I must be strong, but I’m not. I hold Dad’s hand in hospital and smile but when I come home, there’s no reassurance left for myself. I am immobilised by fear.
My husband is at work. He wants to come home: to see me, to hold my hand, to help me wade through the darkness, but I can’t let him. He has patients- other people’s dads- to care for and help and save. I can’t keep him for myself; they need him more. He begs me to call someone: my mother, my siblings, but how can I add to their burdens? My mum is barely breathing, barely getting through. My siblings have their children to care for- school runs and packed lunches; fighting for normality inside when the world outside is crumbling. They too are hurting; their blood is my blood is my dad’s blood is our blood.
He says my friend’s name.
I’ve been putting this off. I know the silence can’t last forever. I ask him to message her for me. I can’t write the words myself. Writing it down makes it true. I want her to know without having to tell her.
The phone rings, her name is on the screen. I’m frightened to answer, afraid to upset her with my tears and fears- both rolling down in calamity. I have to answer. I can’t ignore. I don’t want to be alone.
She offers to come- not offers, insists.
I tell her no:
'You’ve just finished work; enjoy your weekend. I’m too much of a mess.'
I want her to come but I can’t ask her. I don’t want my burdens to be hers. My face is red and swollen; my hair dirty. The house is not fit; neither am I.
'I’m coming.' She insists, no questions, no arguments.
We stay on the phone, letting silence ebb and flow. She walks me through my steps:
'Wash your face, I’ll wait…Pour yourself a cold drink…nearly there, I’m coming.'
When she pulls up outside, I’m no longer crying but as I open the door and see her face, tears return. I feel her arms surround me- leaving no room for apology or embarrassment or shame.
We sit; she holds me as I cry. Sometimes she speaks and I listen; she shares a joke and forgotten laughter weakly emerges. Time passes and I am calm. My thoughts return to my body instead of spiralling in panic towards the sky.
She stays until my husband’s home. I’m still broken but, thanks to her, I’m calm. He’s grateful- we both are.
'I’m with you; I’m here.'
She passes my shattered pieces back to my husband for safe keeping before she leaves. I don’t know how to thank her. She tells me not to:
'You’d do the same- you’ve done the same.'
She’s there for me so that I can be there for my dad; for my mum and my siblings; for my husband; for myself. I’ll do the same for her, because that’s what friendship is.
My family are close; knitted together in trust- not merely by context but through genuine love and unbiased friendship. In crises we close ranks to protect one another but when tragedy strikes at the centre, sometimes you have to widen the circle to make space for more support.
My friend loves my family because she loves me. The very fact that we do not share blood allows us to step in and help carry each other. She can’t take the poison away. All she can do is sit with me in the chaos and hold me through. We are bonded, not by blood, but through friendship- long fought for, hard won and enduring. We are there for each other- not to take away the storms of life but to ride through them together.
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