I Am Widow – Hear Me Roar
It’s been a shockingly sobby week and weekend. As well as sobbing in the privacy of my own home, I’ve sobbed the length of Oxford Street; at the bus stop and on the bus; all over a poor woman walking her dog on The Heath (I bet she wished she’d never asked how I was); on the phone; and in the changing rooms at Uniqlo whilst trying (without success) to find a pair of jeans to fit my skinny butt.
At five months to the day yesterday, I thought the days of the Widow’s Wail had gone, but I was wrong. Along with sobbing and feeling completely overwhelmed by the terrible past, my frightening present and a bleak JS-less future, that uncontrollable guttural roar of grief and frustration returned to further knock me off my already unsteady Converse-clad feet.
On Friday lunchtime, I was gently sobbing whilst frying some out-of-date halloumi cheese, when suddenly I couldn’t stand at the stove for a nanosecond longer. I felt incredibly restless and anxious and began pacing the kitchen crying out, “No! No! No!” and clenching my fists. Then – “WAAAAAAHHHH!” The noise was so loud, such a lion’s roar, it sent The Hound ricocheting through his cat flap in a barking frenzy.
The Widow’s Wail is perfectly acceptable (if horrible) at home, but a bit more difficult to deal with when out and about. I remember some months ago sitting on a public loo, weeping, when one suddenly emerged. In an attempt to get myself under some sort of control I tensed up, only to realise that I was beating my thighs with my fists whilst making squeaking noises. It sounded as if a chimpanzee was locked in a cubicle in John Lewis.
So it’s been a bad time recently, not helped by the fact I’ve got a sore throat and The Hound is going crazy being kept in because he might have Kennel Cough. Anyway, I had been sobbing and wailing and feeling incredibly Sunday Nightish when someone emailed me this article, and I stopped wailing long enough to read it and think: Gosh, at least I didn’t have that to cope with! Poor Ingrid!