It was four weeks after his death when we finally had the funeral, and I thought I was coping. The last six months before he passed were incredibly hard. I was his main carer and saw him every day. We went through that journey together. The cancer completely changed him, and as much as I loved him, I found myself wishing for it to be over. He was ready to go early on, and some days I even dreaded visiting. I also, selfishly, wanted my life back.
I was with him when he died, and I know I was lucky to be there, but the whole experience was deeply traumatic. Afterwards, I had to plan the funeral and clear out his home. When I went to see him, I wanted to make sure he looked peaceful, that he was in his pyjamas, groomed, and at rest. Oddly enough, seeing him like that brought me comfort, even though I knew he was gone. I wanted to hold his hand, but I knew it wouldn’t feel the same.
My sibling has been no help, their way of coping has been complete avoidance. I thought I was doing okay, but after the funeral, I’ve felt completely lost and alone. I keep looking up at the sky, wondering where he is, and I find myself longing to be with him, just to see that he’s okay. I went to the crematorium to see his flowers and to reflect on the day, wondering if some part of him was still there. That’s when I got the call to say his ashes were ready. I wasn’t prepared for that. It breaks my heart to think that he’s now just dust in a cardboard box. I’m dreading picking them up. 😔