Where to start. I got a letter today addressed to you from the AA. At the top of the page it said: Your breakdown cover has run out, but we’d love to have you back.
How did AA know? I’d love to have you back. I have broken down. God have I broken down. The mornings and late at night are the worst times. The quiet of the flat. I have made our bed up again. I slept in the sheets you slept in for a few nights because they were a such a comfort. I had TG junior the toy koala given to us by Philip and Tina when you were diagnosed just over a year ago snuggling by my side. After those first few nights I just couldn’t bear the strong smell of the fabric conditioner. Lenor blue. My senses in those first few days were so heightened. Especially my hearing. You used to joke about it saying I had supersonic hearing that could detect a mouse fart! I can’t use the ‘D’ word because even though you are not physically present and I’m not able to touch you, you are present. All the time. In every decision I make I ask your opinion and hear your calm words. When I cross the road I can hear you say ‘Dolly, watch the road please!!’. Your nick name for me was Dolly Daydream.
Yesterday I opened a big pot of Kiehl’s moisturiser for very dry skin. I took a long time to sniff it. I let the tears come pouring down my face and I gave a wail. I do this a lot. It sounds like an animal in pain. It doesn’t last long. Maybe a few minutes. The pot of moisturiser still has scoop marks from when I used it. Do you remember I used it on your face during radiotherapy when you got really dry skin. You’d say ‘don’t fuss’ but then after I’d rubbed it gently into your loving, handsome face paying special attention to your eyebrows which got particularly dry you’d say ‘oh that feels much better’. I’m sitting in Pret a Manger on the Kings Road writing this. I can barely stop the tears as I remember these tiny intimate things. The small things I did for love. A love that will never be matched. I feel sad that some people may not ever know that kind of love. I used to tell you I wish that I could take the cancer and any pain and put it into my body. You’d always tell me that you’d take it straight back.
Today I threw out that bean bag ‘seat’. The one that I insisted on buying that was really uncomfortable. You hated it and it always got in the way. It’s gone.