Nothing but Blue Sky

Anyone who has loved and lost a partner could not help but resonate with Kathleen MacMahon’s book mentioned in the title.. The novel is told from the perspective of a man whose long beloved wife dies and is so beautifully written with such warm and humor as well as such an insight into how it feels to struggle in the aftermath of grief with all the ways those who love or connect with you try to ‘help’ in the aftermath. The tale as relayed by the narrator is tender, touching and self deprecating all by turns and so so eloquently told.

This is isn’t a blog in which I normally promote novels but I thought I would mention it, to help those suffering loss but also those who want to help someone who has endured a significant loss to know what and what not to do. That said contemplating it today over my afternoon coffee I realised when it comes to grief there is no right or wrong way through it and part of struggling in the aftermath involves being told stupid things people think are helpful at the time such as “she’s in a better place”, or “he wouldn’t want you to be sad”, possibly true but not at helpful at all in validating grief.

In the end grief is a journey and a process, unique to each of us but similar in ways we may not be in a fit state to acknowledge when the feelings of disorientation, removal from reality and mixing up of planes of consciousness occur in the wake of a loved one’s passing… It is common for us to lose our moorings as significant others pass, there is a time of liminality and even wandering such as is demonstrated when Red Dog losses is beloved owner to death in the movie of the same and goes walkabout for many months to locate him.

I am including below some of the more wonderful passages from a book described as “sure and subtle.”

There were women who wrapped their arms around me in the supermarket in the mistaken idea they could give me comfort. Others wept openly as they sympathised with me, which I considered highly inappropriate. I was reminded of a kid in my class in primary school – Johnny Brophy – who always blew out the candles at other people’s birthday parties. It turned out the world was full of Johnny Brophys.

I objected to the implication that what I was going through was at any level normal. I felt like roaring with rage at the suggestion that any other person had ever suffered like I had suffered. My grief was totalitarian; it was self absorbing and extreme, and monstrously exclusive.

I remember that Kitty forced me to eat a sausage sandwich that morning before we left for the church, and I managed to force it down but have never been able to eat a sausage since. Even the smell of them frying is enough to turn my stomach.