Mourning

The four weeks between Fiddian dying and me leaving Cornwall to visit Venice with his children were easily the strangest weeks of my life. Bossiney Court was really put through its paces in that time – guest house, wake/celebration venue, community bonfire events, retreat. So many times I stopped to marvel at the difference in the place when it is filled with people. I don’t think it was ever intended as a mansion for a few people to dwell in; there is something about its design and atmosphere that lends itself to gatherings.

For me – normally quite a quiet, introverted person – adjusting to life in a madhouse was both comfortingly distracting and at times utterly overwhelming. People came and went throughout the day, and the weather was unseasonably warm, so we left the doors open on both sides, even sometimes at night. Friends from London came and went; members of my family and Fiddian’s came and went. Neighbours popped in periodically and sometimes stayed for dinner and drinks. The children’s mum, who previously I had had almost no contact with at all, came to stay nearby and was around most days. This was good for the two of us, who were long overdue building a relationship, and also for the kids, who needed her with them, but at times it served to remind me how topsy turvy the situation was.

Mourning seems to be something that human beings naturally know how to do. We built a shrine to Fidd in the living room, with oceans of flowers, cards and photos, a beautiful-smelling candle and cushions that we would periodically perch on and just take time to sit and look at the pictures of him. We would sit around the fire or around the dining room table and tell stories about him. Many of these made me laugh as hard as I cried. Our dining room is very small and even four people can be a squeeze, but at times we managed to fit 12 people around the table. Many people from the village brought us food, and my stepson’s partner did an amazing job meal planning each week and making sure we all had a decent meal each evening (with help from many others) as well as enough wine and spirits to kick us into gear when we were flagging. 

Almost from the day after Fiddian died, we began going down to the beach and swimming in the sea. We took the dogs for long, morose walks. Lovely neighbours took the kids and their friends surfing and horseriding. Being outside and moving felt essential, given how much time we were spending inside, crying. Over those first few days we saw numerous rainbows despite the absence of rain. We were all convinced these were messages from Fidd. 

Fidd’s post mortem took place faster than we expected, and although the results weren’t then released (due to waiting for histology results) we were allowed to hold the funeral, even without a death certificate. This enabled us to begin planning the funeral and to view his body. Visiting a funeral directors’ office for the first time is a very challenging experience, even though they make it as easy for you as they can. The list of things to decide is quite overwhelming, and being presented with brochures for coffins feels utterly surreal and wrong. We were lucky in that Fidd had made it very clear that he wished for a burial, not cremation, and that he wanted to be buried on a beautiful hillside. Given that he loved to walk along the coast near St Materiana’s church in Tintagel, the choice of both funeral and burial location seemed to be made for us. We had some earnest debates about whether a Christian funeral was really what he wanted, but given we had had a Christian wedding, and that St Materiana’s was a pagan site long before it was Christian, I knew he would be fine with it. Importantly, it also means that we can visit his grave often, something that many of us are already doing.

My therapist had told me that these weeks would be a “liminal space” and so they were. I stopped work and all my normal activities and spent time with people I seldom see doing things I seldom do. I also feel that, at such times, one enters an almost magical state, with heightened senses. I still feel that I am not entirely part of the “real world” that I inhabited before. I feel close to death, as though I can commune with spirits, but also much more alive than before. I also feel more loving towards people in general, and more easily able to connect with them. 

Part of my mourning was to visit Fiddian’s body twice, in the horribly named “chapel of rest”. Several family members went to see him before I did and came back shaken, warning me not to go on my own. In the event, seeing him again for the first time since he had died was actually a beautiful experience for me. I think because I had already spent time with his body, seeing it again wasn’t a shock. I was grateful for the chance to sit quietly with him and cry. He was very cold, but still recognisably him. For the children, seeing him for the first time was much harder, because it really brought home the fact that he was dead, and because it was their first time seeing a dead body. Orla told me it was much easier for her the second time she saw him, because it was less of a shock, and she was able to connect more with him. I went to see him once more before the funeral, as I wanted to be the last person to visit him before he was buried. This time was harder. More than a week had passed since the first viewing, and his body had begun to change – his eyelids were sunken and his body was visibly smaller. In a way I was glad to see this. Understanding that his body was decomposing helped me to begin accepting that he truly was dead.

Another very important part of mourning for me was having something of a breakdown five days after he died. We held a bonfire in the grounds of the pottery and invited all our local friends to come and celebrate him. This was a very special evening, with many people gathered around the fire and a chance for the family to meet with more of our local friends, as well as some of the special people who have been working on Bossiney Court. A neighbour who knows me quite well pressed half a bottle of Jack Daniels into my hands, and I began swigging it while chucking large pieces of wood on the fire. After a few hours of fire-stoking, talking and drinking heavily, I went into the house and blacked out. What happened next was, I think, one of the most healing things I have ever experienced.

I woke up in my bed feeling the sensation of many bodies around me, holding me tight. I could hear myself weeping and moaning, and feel my chest heaving. I drifted in and out of consciousness and could hear different voices around me and feel different hands stroking my forehead. I remember hearing Cyrus and Orla, some of their friends, my brother. All were whispering kind words to me as I sobbed my heart out. People stayed with me like that in shifts for a long time, until I was able to regain consciousness, sit up and drink some water. I still felt bereft for a long time after that, but I also began to understand how lucky I was and that I wouldn’t be alone through this.

What I have started to understand is that mourning is a different process for everybody, and there is no prescription for how to do it or how one should I experience it. In our family, we found that being very open about the way we were feeling was extremely cathartic. We are still talking on the phone every few days, saying what’s bothering us, what we are dreaming about, what we miss about him, what frightens us. Myself and the children are each speaking to a counsellor, and we have taken a lot of time off work and school until we felt ready to go back. I have also been writing a lot – these posts but also private letters that I write to Fidd most nights (an idea I got from Richard E Grant). These letters help me to sort through what I’m feeling, and to continue to communicate with my beloved despite the yawning silence where he once was. Perhaps at some point I will feel that this constitutes too much of a defiance of reality and give it up, but for the moment, keeping that link alive seems to be what I need.