Slowly I awoke from an unsettled sleep. A glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table told me it was almost eight o’clock. I felt completely drained, as if I’d been out partying late into the night. My hand reached to my eyes, which felt swollen and puffy. Then it came back to me how I’d cried myself to sleep last night.
I had no idea how I’d managed to get through yesterday. The church where we’d celebrated Oliver’s life served as a gesture to his parents rather than being my own or Oliver’s choice. My mother-in-law was a complete wreck and had taken a number of her ‘powdery little friends’, as she called her Xanax pills. She never left the house without a box in her pocket. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t resort to any type of medication unless absolutely necessary, but this time I’d been seriously tempted to self-medicate. I’d held back though, because I didn’t want to go through the funeral like a zombie and consequently remember everything as if in a haze.
Many people attended the service where Oliver’s cousin had sung beautifully Amazing Grace. Tim had placed a rose on his father’s coffin in a poignant ceremony, skipping through the church in a little grey suit my mother-in-law had bought for him. Throughout the day I’d received condolences and acted as a worthy wife, our family, friends and colleagues giving voice to their sadness in sincere but hollow words. It had been truly special – at least, that’s what everyone assured me. Or perhaps people just said those things for a lack of anything more appropriate – after all, what meaningful comments could be made about a young father dying so suddenly?
Miraculously, Oliver’s parents had managed to behave, sparing me any dramas. Against all expectations, my mother-in-law had even given a wonderful speech about Oliver as a small child, as photos of him taken during his childhood were projected onto a white screen behind her. Maybe those powdery little friends were good for something after all.
For nearly a week, I’d pulled out all the stops like a robot to organise a memorable farewell for my husband, deprived of any opportunity whatsoever to reflect or feel anything. Now that this hectic period was behind me, harsh reality hit me in the face like a sharp stick – going forward I’d have to do it all on my own. All that remained for me was a life without Oliver. I had no choice but to raise Tim without his father around.
I sat up in bed with a jerk. It felt like a plastic bag had been pulled over my head, taking my every breath away. My lungs filled up faster and more superficially, nevertheless I didn’t seem to be getting any air. I felt my heart pounding inside my ribcage. I knew I was hyperventilating, but I wasn’t capable of regaining control.
With eyes wide open, I stared into the semi-darkness, gasping for air. Don’t lose yourself Jennifer, I said aloud. Two counts in, three counts out, I repeated the police officer’s words I’d heard in the bungalow last week. Come on, you can do it, I encouraged myself. Slowly but surely I felt the panic ebbing away and began to relax.
I fell backwards onto the bed and my gaze went to the alarm clock, the red neon letters dancing before my eyes. I only wanted for sleep to claim me and never wake up again, but I knew that wasn’t an option. I couldn’t give in to the feeling of fatigue, I had to get up and carry on. Tim needed to be picked up, he’d been staying with my parents for days.
I threw off the duvet and swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was time for my son to return home.