Anne-Marie Cockburn - 5742 Days, Anniversary Edition. A Mothers Journey through Loss

To my little twig, Martha

Wednesday 31 July: Day 11

So today Im back in my lovely home. Ive floated through the past few days numb, and without any concept of time. Four hours pass and Im convinced its only five minutes. I feel peculiar because I havent emotionally broken down for days and seem to be a little too in control of my emotions.

I know that all feelings are appropriate at times like this, but when Im doing normal things, the routine seems like Im being disloyal to my grief and to Martha. Im not suppressing anything, as I know if I do that itll only resurface later and Ill need to deal with it then. So this is my new version of normal and it is totally natural, for the moment anyway.

The washing machine still contains laundry from our idyllic last day at the beach, the day before she died. She had been complaining of having swollen glands and was exhausted from weeks of studying for her exams, so I thought as it was Friday Id let her rest and phoned her school and told them she wasnt feeling well.

Luckily a friend had lent us their VW van a few days previously as we had to empty out a garage we rented. I picked up Marthas boyfriend and we were on Sandbanks beach by 9am. I looked around at the vast deserted beach and walked along to decide where to place our towels. I found a spot, staking out our territory for the day. I plonked myself down and panned left to right over the misty distant landscape. The sea was glistening, the seagulls were dancing majestically in the sky and I slowly breathed in the beautiful day ahead. This was perfect, it was just what we needed.

Martha immediately wanted to be buried in the sand; she lay there as her boyfriend scooped up handfuls and patted them around her. I watched them, bemused, and felt carefree and tranquil. Cocooned in sand, she smiled and laid her head back as her boyfriend made her a sandy pillow. A toddler passed by in his dads arms and his dad said, Look its a head in the sand with no body. The toddler stared, his brain trying to understand what this meant.

It was now Marthas boyfriends turn to be buried, so she got busy pushing piles of sand around him, repeatedly placing handfuls on toes which kept poking through. Being Martha she then decided to give him boobs, using shells for nipples. I told her the breasts were too low and that he wasnt a middle-aged woman; he looked down and agreed and she slid them a few inches higher. We took photos and laughed at the silliness of it all, British culture at its best. Quaint and peculiar.

The man and toddler passed by again and the man said Look, the head has changed, how did that happen? The toddler stared again and grinned as he understood the joke.

We then heard the song O Sole Mio, which most British people associate with the Just One Cornetto advert. I looked around to see where it was coming from and realised it was from a gondola-style boat approaching the shoreline. I handed 10 to Martha and asked her to get us all an ice-cream, as how could we resist. The boat was like an oasis on the water; people queued standing in knee-high water, and I chuckled to myself at the novelty of it all as I watched them waiting, while the music lingered in the air.

Martha and her boyfriend went off and played in the water with a ball we had brought with us. I glanced up at them now and again and felt so proud at how grown up they were. At one point Martha sat at the edge of the water as her boyfriend played with the ball by himself she wasnt glancing at him for approval or looking over to see what he was doing, she was sitting contentedly in the sand.

As they made their way back to me, I watched them approach.Martha was wearing his t-shirt which went almost down to her knees. They sat down next to me and I suggested we get some food from the kiosk behind us, so we got some cod goujons and chips served in cones and shared them as we sat on our towels.

As we drove back from that trip we listened to the soundtrack to The Lion King . I remember at one point I was holding Marthas right hand and her boyfriend was holding her left and she said, I feel so loved right now. I asked her boyfriend to describe her in one word and he said quirky, which I agreed with. We all laughed at that and sang along to the music as the miles sped behind us.

I get a pang when I think about doing her laundry and then what? Its a precipitous moment, when I can choose to either jump from real life into the past, escape in my head to the spirit world to try to connect with her or just be in the now, agonising as it is.

I live a combination of all of these lives, visiting them when the moment feels right. I look back and wonder, memories and moments slipping through my mind like old film reels. My fear of the future and what that will consist of and the pain in my heart which stops me from becoming desensitised, remind me that this is real; its hideous and terrible.

Saturday 3rd August: Day 14

I lay in bed avoiding getting up, Im constantly exhausted, but dont want to slip into a serious depression, so I text a few friends and make plans for the day ahead. The sunlight peeps from below the blind and I close my eyes to try to connect with my girl. I tell her I miss her, but Im numb and feel nothing as the sedatives that are holding me together stop me from feeling too much.

I come downstairs and look out at the street. People peer into shop windows, a car door slams, a lady cycles to the post box and leans over on her bike, reaching forward to pop a white envelope in. I wonder whats in that letter; is it to a lonely elderly friend, or perhaps its a birthday card congratulating somebody on making it through another year! Is it destined to land on an exotic doorstep, arriving slightly warped, affected by the long journey and humidity. Or is it just a bill being paid the old-fashioned way?

I watch people watching people, I always have done the girl who observes. The girl who describes herself as a sociable recluse. But in light of whats happened, I now know that although Im very comfortable in my own company, I love being surrounded by people, just preferring small intimate groups to large ones.

I recognise the voice of a friend outside on the street. Bye love, I hear her say in her northern accent. I know this community so well that I dont even need to look out and check to know that its her. I peep across the road and see her bag outside her shop. The layers of wallpaper of my life, my history over the decades is ten layers deep, my new life being pasted on top of the last layer.

The lovely friends who hosted a barbecue for me last night wander along the street. The sun beats down on them and the mild summer breeze makes their clothing and hair dance. As they chopped, marinated and prepared the food I felt we were on their minds: Marthas lovely spirit glistened in the salad dressing, her ethereal giggle was in every little golden orb of the corn on the cob.

Every bite of food they made was medicinal, to help nurture me back to life. It was delicious and with every bite I felt their love and tenderness energise and heal me. They were gentle, tender and in disbelief. It must be peculiar for people to observe someone like me during times like this. Id hate to be my audience right now, Im being very chatty and normal as I give them information about whats been going on.

I provide them with matter-of-fact, stomach-churning conversation as though Im discussing the weather. My friends listen to me intently does it help them to try to make sense of whats happened, perhaps? But its not about that. Whats happened doesnt make sense and nothing will bring her back, but we talk through our grief surrounded by the people we trust, who want to do what they can to help. From my dry eyes I see tears at the edges of theirs; Im desensitised because the most recent chapter in my life has punched me below the belt and Im still winded from the shock.