Читать книгу When Bad Things Happen in Good Bikinis - Helen Bailey - Страница 21

At only four months in to my grief, most people don’t want me to grieve anymore. They are tired of it, it’s old news to them. If only they knew. ~ Gaynor

‘I’m from your local branch of Cruse. Are you still looking for counselling?’

I was at the bus stop when I took the call, and I could have hugged the people in the queue next to me with relief. I’d contacted Cruse some time ago, only to be told that the waiting list in north London was long and their pool of volunteers small. I’d all but given up on them (and their daytime helpline which was constantly engaged), telling myself that I didn’t want to sob in front of some do-gooding woman wearing a floral skirt and American-Tan popsocks anyway. But right now, I’d see anyone. I gushed down the phone that yes, I still needed help.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m ringing to let you know that we still can’t offer you anything for the foreseeable future.’

It was another kick in the gut. I’d reached a dead end with my attempts to get help: private counselling was expensive and hadn’t been for me; the NHS had a long waiting list; my council had nothing to offer unless I was a drug user or an alcoholic, and although the local hospice was rumoured to provide wonderful support, I failed to qualify on two counts: JS didn’t die under their care, and he died too quickly.

I felt totally abandoned.

But then, less than a week after this conversation, Cruse called unexpectedly to tell me that a slot had become free; the counsellor could visit me at home on Thursday evenings. It sounded ideal: I didn’t have to travel and it filled up a lonely hour before Coronation Street kicked in and the Merlot came out.

Confirmation of my appointment arrived by post a few days later, together with the first name of my counsellor. It was an unusual name, so of course I Googlestalked her. When I began to write about my grief, I made a decision to conceal the identity of everyone I write about, unless they are happy to be ‘outed’ or deserve to be humiliated, so my code of conduct means that I can’t tell you what I discovered in advance of our first session. With that in mind, let’s just call my counsellor, Sister Mary . . .

At the agreed hour, Sister Mary arrived dressed head-to-toe in black, a middle-aged woman looking every inch like a Victorian child in mourning dress, from her ruffled, high-necked blouse to her lace-up ankle boots, skirt and thick tights.

As The Hound did back-flips with excitement over a visitor, Sister Mary and I shook hands.

I have a bit of a thing about handshakes – I’d rather my metacarpals were crushed in a firm confident grip than my digits held in a limp dangle: Sister M’s handshake was like grasping a fillet of raw halibut.

Sister Mary refused my offer of tea, coffee, wine, water, shortbread and Mr Kipling’s finest, so I sat down and then thought, ‘S*d it! Just because she isn’t having anything, doesn’t mean I can’t,’ so I got up and made myself a cuppa and sat down again waiting to start. But Sister Mary didn’t speak, she just smiled at me in that sad, pitying way I have come to despise, even if it’s meant kindly. And it was then that I noticed her teeth. I had never seen anyone other than Julia Roberts with so many teeth in one mouth – it was like being grinned at by a dolphin, and if you’re already feeling disorientated, being counselled by Flipper wearing a black blouse and brooch whilst sitting at your kitchen table doesn’t help.

Still Sister M didn’t speak. Decades of running business meetings has given me the irritatingly high-handed habit of taking control if others fail to, so unable to stand it any longer I said, ‘Perhaps you could tell me about your experience of bereavement?’ As she began to talk about the training courses she’d been on, I realised I hadn’t made myself clear. I clarified my question: How had bereavement touched her life?

The poor woman looked very uncomfortable: she shifted in her seat and wrung her flippers and twisted her mouth and kept saying, ‘Um . . . er . . . um’ at which point I thought I’d put her out of her misery. I told her that if she wasn’t allowed to share her personal experiences, that was fine. I hadn’t intended to put her on the spot. Finally, she said, ‘If you’re asking me if I’ve lost a partner, then no, I haven’t. But I have lost my parents.’

And at that, the glass screen came down.

I had two sessions with Sister Mary before I called it a day. I know that Cruse has proved invaluable for thousands of people, and in no way would I wish to ignore the work that they do. Like so many things, your experience is only as good as the person you’re dealing with, but for bereavement counselling, I feel strongly that counsellor and client have to connect at some level. Sister M believed (according to my internet ‘research’) that faith grows stronger if it is tested. I don’t share her belief system, but even if I did, I’d wonder why JS’s immediate family has been singled out from our wider circle to be subjected to such a brutal and searingly painful test. Not only that, I’d want to hunt God down and punch his ruddy lights out. I’m not belittling the loss of a parent, but to lose a parent when you’re ‘grown-up’ with an independent life (as it transpired Sister M had done) cannot compare to losing your partner, and I challenge anyone to argue that it does. But more importantly than our differences of experience and faith, after each session with Sister Mary I felt more depressed than I did before she arrived. I am sure she is a kind person who meant well and would be wonderful for someone with a different personality to mine, but I needed someone with energy, flair and verve, with experience of losing a husband or wife or other catastrophic life event; someone I could look at as a role model for widowhood, someone who not only talked the talk but had walked the long and painful walk. I wanted to be able to sit across from someone and see not a smile of pity and sadness, but a look of compassion and understanding. I needed someone who knows first-hand the pain I feel, yet has built a new and richly fulfilling life from the ashes of their old one.

It took a while, but eventually I found just the person I was looking for.