‘For Rufus’

This evening I came home to a chilly apartment, no light on, no radio on and more importantly, no chirping cockatiel pottering about in his cage waiting for me to let him out for an amble. Instead, I put the key in the door and heard no sound and entered with dread, because I knew that this morning I had held Rufus, this little being who had been in my life for 24 years, in my hands as he died. I knew that I would have to face this reality now and man up to do what was needed. To do it not with maudlin self pity but with love. If I have learnt anything the last few years, it is that death is about love, not misery. It took me a while, and A LOT of bereavements, and I won't lie, I feel just awful, but it is only love and empathy which ...

‘Time to get personal’

By Friday, December 21, 2012 2 Permalink

Sharing personal secrets or memories is not something I generally tend to do but the last few weeks have forced me to reminisce about my lost loved ones more than usual. (Ten times a day maybe rather than the normal two to three then)! This has been caused by a number of factors. My mother's birthday came and went, the third one I have spent without her. It passed without much stress on my part. The first one in 2010 which came four months after she died was obviously painful but I went out for dinner with one of my few girlfriends to 'celebrate' as it had been a tradition until then to always take Mama out for a splendid lunch/tea/dinner to somewhere we had never tried. I missed that and still do. Even in foodie obsessed Britain,I am not sure anyone I know has the same obsession with restaurants as the ...

‘Memory, is the diary that we all carry about with us’…

All very well Mr Wilde, but memories fade, get twisted or forgotten. How I took for granted chatting with Mama about my childhood and Papa only to realise that when she too died, I was suddenly left as the sole curator of this vast archive of facts, dates, names and events. How many times we children roll our eyes when a parent starts recounting an anecdote we have heard a thousand times or tells us a story of people we have never heard of and we take no notice. I started a diary the day my mother died, the minute it happened in fact. Odd I know but I was horrified to think for one minute that I might start forgetting things or feelings as I did when my father had died four years earlier. The horrors of death obviously take precedence in the mind when you lose someone in unfortunate ...