Page 21 of Life After Me

I looked at the tears filling her eyes, and gave into the guilt stabbing me in the gut. ‘OK, I’ll see the doctor, but just for you.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks Dad.’

* * *

Jenn

I am so, so grateful to my sweet, sensitive, clever children.

I had no idea how to help David, especially when I’m being buffeted away more than I’m able to be with him.

.. so I’m glad my children worked out a way to help him when I couldn’t.

He’s not been himself lately and I feel like he’s slipping away.

To everyone else he looks all right. He’s still going to work, and forcing himself to smile and laugh with his colleagues, but it’s all an act. If you look closely you’ll see that his smile never reaches his eyes.

But, thankfully, our wonderful children are more perceptive — especially Lottie, although it’s easier for her living so much closer than Matty does. She spotted the circles darkening under her dad’s eyes, and the lines across his face that have deepened — ageing him by years almost overnight.

I blame those silly daffodils — at least partly.

It was an incredibly sweet, romantic, thoughtful thing for David to do, but utterly insane.

I wish he hadn’t seen them, but he did, and seeing something I loved ripped up and dying like that was the unexpected blow that’s knocked him back into a phase of not looking after himself again.

He’s not eating or sleeping properly, and I’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s opened the garage only to peer sadly at the bulbs.

I really don’t know what to do to help him.

I know medication does help some people, but I’m not so sure this is a good idea for David.

He’s miserable and down because I’m dead, not because he’s depressed or suffering from a chemical or hormonal imbalance.

Surely things like grief are supposed to be felt.

How can you recover from something without going through the healing process?

I just worry this isn’t going to help him in the long-term.

That it will remove an essential part of the process.

Then again, I’m lucky enough to have only experienced the “normal” types of grief — the ones that are painful, but part of the natural order of life. So as close as I am to David, I can only understand this from the secondary point of view... from his pain.

I can see why the daffodil situation has worried the children.

What on earth is he going to do with all the bulbs?

It would be really sad to see them all shrivel up and die, but I can’t really see another option.

David’s not going to take it well. I would hope that he’s just going to forget about them, but there’s so many that there’s no way that’s going to happen.

But antidepressants? I know the kids are worried about him, and can’t believe that he’s really talking to me, but he’d been starting to do so much better.

.. until very recently. I know his work suggested seeing someone too, but he avoided going.

And I’m not sure he might not be right in his hesitance — prescribing him drugs just feels a bit overkill.

Like using a sledgehammer to try and crack a nut.

Although, I have to admit that the fog has become a lot worse lately, and it’s become so much harder to push through the dark clouds and reach him recently.

I suppose it makes some sort of sense. When I first died it was so surreal for him — so utterly unbelievable — that there was part of him that truly expected me to walk back into the house any second.

Maybe it was that part that made it so easy to reach him.

But lately, it’s been harder for me and he’s been having moments when he’s almost disconnected.

.. from me and from his life. Seeing all those daffodils lying on the ground seems to have cemented things for David, even more so than my funeral.

I’m gone from him, and can’t ever get back.

This... whatever it is... is the best it’s ever going to be again in his lifetime.

It’s heartbreaking enough for me, and I’m the one who has left. Well, been dragged away.

* * *

David

I saw the doctor today. It was so embarrassing going in and trying to explain I was there because my children and colleagues were worried about my sanity.

Lottie had offered to come with me, but the thought that I’d become so doddery and loopy that my twenty-four-year-old daughter needed to hold my hand was so insulting that I instantly refused.

I know they’re only worrying out of love, but I hope I’m a lot of years away from needing to be ferried to medical appointments.

The appointment wasn’t that bad. The doctor nodded and made sympathetic noises, then talked me through a questionnaire on the computer.

Was I sleeping well? What were my dreams like?

Was I tired in the day? How much was I drinking?

Was I finding myself more easily irritated?

Was my appetite different? Did I carry feelings of guilt for anything?

Was I finding it difficult to concentrate on things properly?

Had I lost interest in things I used to enjoy? Had I thought about hurting myself?

I tried to bite back my sarcasm and answer honestly.

It wasn’t like it would change anything.

I was really only there to reassure the kids.

So what if I struggled to concentrate sometimes, or to sleep?

It wasn’t a big deal. And I could do with losing a few pounds anyway, so skipping meals was hardly a concern.

And everyone at work knows what’s happened, so they’re not really that worried about a few little mistakes.

After a few more minutes of questions, the doctor patted my hand kindly, and told me she understood.

Then she sent me out with a prescription and the number for a local bereavement group.

Like I really want to spend more time around depressed, grieving people.

I get enough of that looking in mirrors.

Besides, it would mean more time away from Jenn, and that really is a depressing thought.

Although the doctor is worried I might be heading that way already, and wants to see me in a few weeks to check up on me.

She says I’ve been traumatised by Jenn’s death — like I needed a medical professional to tell me that — and while my feelings of sadness and lethargy are normal, and even healthy, she’s worried about how long the symptoms are lasting, and their severity.

Maybe the prescription wasn’t such a bad idea though.

I was tired. It wouldn’t hurt to take something to help me sleep.

The doctor did say the antidepressants would stop the feelings of horror that attacked me every time I tried to leave the house.

She should know best. It could only make things better, right?

And at least it would keep the kids happy too I supposed. And Sarah who had called from Germany to check in on me.

So I took the slippery bit of paper to the chemist and swapped it for a paper bag that rustled.

It felt so light that I peered inside to check the pills were actually in there.

Once I took them out of the box I was surprised by how small they were.

The tablets I took for headaches or when I’d strained my back were bigger, and they did a lot less.

Making me forget Jenn and feel better so I could go back to living an apparently normal life seemed an awful lot to ask of such tiny little tablets.

I left the bag sitting on the table all day.

At one point I pulled the packet out and studied the shiny sheet of pills that were cheerfully labelled with the day and little arrows to make sure they were taken right.

Did everyone think I was so out of touch with reality that I couldn’t be trusted to take a tablet without step-by-step instructions?

I still managed to get to work every day, and do a decent job, yet the manufacturers of these tiny little tablets had taken extra pains to label them.

So what if I sometimes had to stop and think about what day it was.

Or if I occasionally missed an appointment or skipped the odd meal.

Does that really make me depressed? Isn’t it normal to not want to go to sleep when sometimes you still wake up drenched in icy sweat because you’re reliving the worst moment of your life in a nightmare so vivid your ears sometimes still ring from the sirens?

I’m sure my occasional moments of absent-mindedness have nothing to do with depression — they’re just happening because I’m enjoying myself so much with Jenn. Of course I get a little distracted when surrounded by so much love and joy.

No, I definitely didn’t need them. I shoved them back into the bag and screwed it up tightly before shoving it firmly into the furthest corner of a drawer.