annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary



A month, a whole month has passed already since she died. Instead of getting better, it's getting worse. Initially there was massive relief that she wasn't trapped inside that inert body any more, that I wasn't constantly worrying about whether she was in anguish, that I didn't have to dread the future. But now I can't escape the fact that she's gone and I'll never see her again, never hold her little hand, never read her a poem.

I have this picture, enlarged, in the hallway so I see it wherever I go in the house.DAE920F3-18F6-4AF5-AFBC-4F67D07B267E

I look into her eyes and she looks back, with that little smile, and I pretend that it's all OK, that she can hear me chat to her, hear me say, "All right, kid?" as I light a candle for her.

Otherwise I'm angry. I'm so mad with Bloke I can hardly bear to be in the same house. The same room is more or less impossible and I'm not even trying. I say I'm going to bed at nine, which we both know is bollocks, but we also know he'll never challenge me on anything, never make any kind of suggestion, or indeed do anything at all without a big shove. I feel horrible being like this - if I was kinder I'd gently urge him towards some sort of help, and persist till he starts getting some, but I can't and I won't. He's the last fucking straw, taking zero responsibility for any aspect of his life or health, needing coaxing along, reminding about everything. Every single task he was asked to do towards the funeral he forgot. And he didn't visit her unless I asked him too and she called him Dad. She deserved better and so do I. Well, maybe I don't - I'm not very nice to Bloke and I can tell he's sad and lonely but I don't care.

The vouchers for a massage/treatment for the care home staff are almost done. The therapist who's going to do them has designed a nice voucher, and I bought some decent paper to print them on. I've chosen a painting of mine to have printed onto cards - to buy thirty cards would cost loads and not be as nice. I'm taking it to the printers tomorrow morning but I'm still not sure what to have printed inside them, let alone what I'm going to write inside. I'm thinking of the lines from Praise You, which always make me think of Sammie, but are also true of the care home staff: "We've come a long, long way together, through the hard times and the good. I want to celebrate you, baby, I want to praise you like I should." Because this is it - care workers are such low status, but they made such a difference to Sam and to me. I do want to praise them. Ah well, I'll put something down, probably at the very last minute and then regret it but it will be too late and no one will care or probably notice, except me. I was going to pay for them all upfront but she said she'd bill me for them as they get used, which is kind. I bunged the money into a separate account as it'll slide through my fingers otherwise

I've also been making progress with finalising all the legalities - like getting ex-Son-in-Law to get a valuation of the mobile home, which they own jointly - Sam's share goes to Grandson, but it's complicated. I went to see a solicitor about it, who kept getting distracted by irrelevant details then sent me a summary and a bill today. She referred throughout to my daughter Emma and charged me £180. Which I paid because it'll all get even more fucked up if I don't.

There's been more but I can't even remember so I'm going to bed.

I am grateful for: a walk with YD planned for tomorrow; an invitation to dinner on Saturday; just found out my friend who lives in Vegas is coming home for a few weeks in November; good art group at the Tuesday recovery centre; bed now, warm and cosy with a little dog to snuggle up with

I hope you are all well, Night night


12:06 a.m. - 02.10.19


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