Content warning: Grief and death scenes
I wasn’t sure what it was at first. I had found the small parcel as I was rummaging through the drawer that held a mixture of items such as handmade jewellery, the woollen scarf I had knitted when I was ten and, of course, a soap. Small and off-white, the soap was smooth and egg-shaped. Although no longer fully perfumed, its faint scent of rose still lurked in the drawer. It had probably been a present from one of her many grandchildren. I think of my mother and her love of using perfumed soaps in the clothes drawers. My throat tightens as it catches with emotion.
2
The magpie was staring at me as I walked past. I realised I hadn’t saluted him, so I jumped back and put my hand up in a comical salute. He nods his approval.
3
A priest invited me to join in the prayers, I vehemently shook my head. Last rites, first rites of transition. As I walked out and closed the heavy fire door of the bedroom, I could feel the chilly air of the old nursing home corridor. Many of the windows were open to rid the air of the stench of death. A rainstorm caused the remaining closed windows to steam up completely. I rubbed the glass free of condensation and stared at the outside world. The street was empty of people. Cars skidded at the roundabout; water sprayed like a dirty fountain. I reluctantly sat on an old urine-stained chair. The corridor is dank, grey and empty, hiding memories in the fading wallpaper. Online scrabble occupied my time. How long did prayers take? Eventually, the door creaked open, and the sombre priest invited me into the room. He was cross about my reluctance to share the moment.
‘What side are you on, girl?’
I answered quickly, sharply, deliberately misinterpreting him, ‘Liverpool of course’
He looked on with disdain and shook his head. I forced my rising bile back into the pit of my belly. The magpie squawked a melancholy tune of death.
4
The grieving process: denial, anger, bargaining[2], depression acceptance. Or the easier mnemonic. D A B D A. How many times have I spoken this as a mantra to families who have lost loved ones? I now know it is a lie, grief is convoluted and disjointed.
exhaustion
anger
rage
wildness
despair collapse
relief.
A vortex of emotional states. Lots of emotional noise.
5[3
6
A modern, shiny hospital, hiding old problems. It is the first ward, busy and unyielding. A man in green corduroy trousers with a grey moustache shares the news of a diagnosis. He murmurs his message in a monotone voice, as though anything else would be disrespectful. His speech feels prepared, rehearsed. His head slightly to one side. He says,
‘I am sorry, there is nothing more we can do.’
He coughs and looks at his watch, nods and scurries off to the safety of colleagues. Nobody speaks, but the noise is terrifying. Machines whistle, whirr, clunk, clank, whine, suck, spit. Green, sterile, mechanical. The machine that replaces a human touch. An industrial appliance spewing out life, an engine that is misfiring.
7
Nurses often sit alongside the dying patient. They never ask them if they want an observer. The call to the family, ‘you need to come quickly’; a professional voice, calm, considerate. Masking the anxiety as they wonder, what can we do, can we manage, can we spare a nurse to sit and watch the ebbing of a life? The tension is like the other fight, the fight between life and death. Will the family make it? Do they want to? A woman with purple hair and a habit of giggling when she was nervous wrote to the ward. Her letter was brief, the standout lines,
‘I was there in his life, through more hard times than good, so I will not be there to see him on his way’.
We said what a terrible wife. Judgement on the living, compassion for the dying.
8
Learning to be with the dead.
9
Do you know the criteria that determine death? The list that medical practitioners will use to say that life is extinct. Five minutes of observations to confirm the end of a life. I wonder if we reached death before it met the medical criteria. How do we describe the space in between life and death? Just living in limbo. This is worse than death.
10
The first time, it was dreadful. Like out of a B movie. The hammer horrors of the seventies. Bodily fluids on the bed rather than in the safety blanket of skin. Noises like a scratched record pierced her ears as she sat for what seemed like hours, waiting and waiting for the inevitable. We called her Mrs G; a tiny woman with nobody but a stranger to watch her passing. The stranger felt scared of what would happen next. She had flights of fancy about being cursed. She needed to get this right; this was it, the last act. The second time it was hidden, the person was invisible. The only clue was the atmosphere of the ward changed. We can smell death. A brown shiny box, the only thing that remained. How do you grieve for the unnamed?
11
The unnamed soldier.
In Paris, they queue to pay their respects, circling round the Arc de Triumphe. Lights at 6.30pm. Flags and wreaths decorate the grave of this unknown man, the sadness of the unnamed kept alive in the national psyche. Representing courage. The hopelessness of war. There is no grave for the unknown women they would need too many. Women who die alone, women who die at the hands of partners. Each year, women pass silently at the hands of another. They are the women who pass quietly. A whisper of a life remains for a second, then gone, a puff of smoke. A magpie serenades.
12
The paper, possibly old tissue paper, is light, crisp and crackling. It has a brown tinge, as if someone lightly dyed it. Gently, I folded the paper back to reveal a piece of styled material. I let my fingers wander over the sheer voile fabric; it was an ivory white. I think the tissue paper has preserved it. Protected from extinction. I held it to my face. The silkiness stroked my cheeks as I inhaled its musty smell. The comfort of the material stilled my mind, and I sat for minutes, being comforted by textile memories. I stayed holding it to my face, my eyes closed, wondering what to do with it. The fabric whispered to me and said it was my mother’s wedding veil.
13
The wedding album was in the box marked ‘not sure what to do with’. Even though white tissue paper protected the pictures, the album clearly showed the ravages of time. A brown patch on the first page showed evidence of a water leak from storage in a damp shed. My hands felt enormous and clumsy as the pages turned to reveal my parents in front of the church many years ago. The wedding veil looked lovely against my mother’s deep brunette, back-combed hair. Her family, my family, stood round like guards protecting the happy couple. I wanted to reach out and touch it, to touch her.
14
Why is it easier to speak to the dead rather than the living? She tells me about her wedding, she said how her veil was her ‘something borrowed’ from one of her older sisters. She had passed it on to Margaret, the youngest girl in the large Irish catholic family. I smiled at how beautiful she looked and let my hand touch the image of her face, my fingers lingering in a moment of intimacy that hadn’t previously existed. It is easier to trace her outline in the photograph than it was to touch the cold skin of death.
15
The magpie tells me I asked the wrong question. He refuses to suggest the correct one. His small, black, beady eyes mock me. His call, a callous laugh, vibrates through the stillness. He stares down at me with his small black eyes. My tears are shiny objects. He flies towards them, pecks them off my pasty cheeks and flies away, taking them to a secret place, a place of tears. He calls it his monument to the dead.
16
A message: Condolences! lots of love, did you get there in time? Are you…relieved its over? Speak soon xx.
17
I noticed the change in how people speak after a death. Voices become softer,
d r a w n out, heads tilt to one side or
another.
Language infantilises: ‘oh you poor love’. ‘C’mon now, pet, let’s move on, get yourself home to bed’. Anyone to look after you, give you a cuddle?’. The magpie stretches his body to full length. His black back glints with the sunlight and he cackles at my face, stony dry from the stolen tears.
18
The international colours of morning form a rainbow. My favourite is purple, the colour of spirituality worn in South America and Thailand. I wore a dress to the funeral with the colours of the rainbow. It caused an argument. The priest said it was disrespectful. The magpie sat on the roof giggling as he sang a song of ‘I told you so’. Why is black respectful? The colours were your favourite; I was celebrating you. In South Africa, they wear red to show mourning. The brazenness of the colour red brings grief and mourning to the fore. No hiding like the women of Victorian times who kept their bodies hidden beneath swathes of black.
19
The magpie proudly shows its coat of mourning, white, purple, black. As I leave the church, it struts and rasps a funeral dirge. It’s shallow call haunting me every step of the way.
20
A message: So so sorry for your loss. She saw you into the world you saw her out. May God be with you. We are praying for you.
21
What if you don’t want their God? What if you don’t need his prayers? Religion is a problem floating like specks of dust before my eyes. It is an issue that will not go away; How do I tell them? The seeds of conflict are wrestling between my ribs and into my lungs. My breathing changes, gasping, gurgling, screeching. I remember the noise of the machinery as I sit to write a letter. It needs to be written by hand. Aunt Betty, one of the many sisters, will not countenance the ‘devil’s messaging service’, or, as it is more commonly known, email. Hopefully, my cousin Dec will push the note through the door. I wait.
22
Dear Aunt Betty
How are you? I’m sure Dec has given you the news about Colleen. The details of the service will follow but it is at the town crem. No flowers, please. Dec said you were concerned about the lack of a priest. The family has decided that it’s easier just to go for a crem service. The priests were so busy. You can’t believe how long we were going to have to wait for the whole Catholic mass – months. We don’t want this to hang around, she wouldn’t have wanted it. Even two weeks is a long time in some parts of the world. Remember what Craig told us about India. I’m sorry this isn’t what you want, but I’m sure you will understand. We are going to raise a glass to Coll at the weekend. Get a glass of the old Bushmills out. That was her favourite! Can you remember her at Edie’s wedding, slinging it back, it was slàinte here and slàinte there. Even her favourite priest got fed up with her. What a woman. That’s it for now. Oh, nearly forgot, dress – casual smart. See you soon.
Love Rach xxx
23
The magpie sits by my bed as I try to sleep. I wonder what he feels like. I turn on to my stomach, so I don’t have to look at him. What will he steal tonight?
24
When I wake, you are with me. You and the magpie chatting in my bedroom. I stare at you both. I see I am inconsequential. You tell the magpie that you are not happy with how I am planning things. That you could have had a better death. You suggest, ‘I go to confession’. The magpie flaps his wings, and a cold draught takes ownership of the room. I shiver for the rest of the night. I have clouded dreams of the dead and I wake to an empty room in a cold sweat. Dark trees creak in the wind.
25
26
‘Bless me Father, I have sinned…’ It is a long time since I uttered those words. The magpie and thoughts of you lead me to the old church. Inside it is cold, damp, bleak. The smell of old incense hangs in the air. I am dislocated. What do you say at confession when you do not know why you are there? You used to take me to confession, and as I sat waiting for you to come out of the small room to the side of the pews, I tried to imagine your sins. When I couldn’t imagine them, I made them up. Wild stories of all the things you did wrong. When it was my turn to go into the room, I used to confess, ‘Father, I made up lies about my mother’. But now, now you are gone, there is nothing to confess. I look around and see the church is empty. I wait for divine inspiration to pick a sin that is suitable to confess to the old priest. Nothing comes. My mind is a barren place. I choose to leave, as I do the magpie flies low, and his wings trail my face. He sits on a gravestone and his eyes follow me as I walk through the gates.
27
I decide to talk to you, but the only answer is silence. Did you know I tried to call you once, just to check. I wanted to explain the lack of tears at the funeral, I wanted to tell you how the magpie had stolen them. How other mourners cried in my place. Unsurprisingly, Aunt Betty spilled a bucket full. She recalled all the Irish funerals she had been to, and it was clear that this was what kept her going. It was her social life. The widow at the wake. I ask the magpie to deliver a message to you, to tell you that you were missed. The magpie refuses to cooperate, he tells me he is too busy. Despite being too busy, he is still here, perched on the dining room table.
28
I had a phone call from the hospital today. They said that they had found your spectacles and would I like them. I giggled. What would I do with your spectacles? Declan suggested we put them on his old wooden dresser so you could follow him about. He believes in ghosts. I laughed at him, told him he was being silly, and then remembered the magpie. I told the hospital to throw them away or to send them for recycling.
29
The priest spent the wake in the corner eating, drinking, glaring. I wanted to thank him for the service, my mouth didn’t work. It was still. Its own rigor mortis had set in. His only words, ‘you didn’t take communion’. We stared at each other, confusion on both of our faces as we fought a silent battle of righteousness. The magpie screeched.
30
Learning to say goodbye.
31
It has been a year; everyone says they can’t believe it. Aunt Betty is still wearing black. The house is nearly packed. I have decided to fly away to an unfamiliar land. A fresh start. A land that is too warm for magpies.
32
I leave the grounds of the hospital; my badge and keys have been taken from me. I am finished, done, over, resigned, completed. I stare at the sky and notice it is empty, silent.
33
34
The muscles in my face stir. The zygomaticus slowly comes to life, and a smile starts to gather at
the edges.
35
The veil is now wrapped in white tissue paper, with some lavender seeds scattered between the folds. It is in my house, in my bedroom, in a drawer without soap. I think of my daughter and of how she will one day unwrap the paper and wonder why her mother had a veil hidden at the back of her jewellery drawer.
[1] All images by the author unless otherwise stated.
[2] The grieving process was first described by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross a psychiatrist who pioneered the hospice movement.
[3] Created image using Canva and graphics.