Most mornings, I was ready to face the day before I got to
the bottom of my sheet of questions and answers. If I weren’t, I’d start a
second sheet. And if I couldn’t be bothered, and I didn’t do this exercise, my
day would end up a disaster.
I had been going through this routine for some considerable
time before it occurred to me that this was not normal behaviour. I had never
had to do this before, why now? It was obvious I wasn’t coping. The words of
Dr. Kirkham came to mind: ‘If you find you’re not coping, call me.’ I got myself dressed and breakfasted and called
him.
“I was wondering how long it would be before I heard from
you,” he said. “Most men would have been knocking on my door long since. Let me
see when one of our counsellors will be free.”
Trish, the counsellor Dr. Kirkham introduced me to, was
tall, slim and elegant. She had long slim fingers and a grip most men would
have been proud of. Her voice bore the hallmarks of an expensive private school
education.
Her room was on the ground floor, immediately underneath, as
far as I could ascertain, the visitors’ room I had spent so much time in
when Liz was a patient. It was a comfortably furnished room with seating for
three round a coffee table; a bookshelf; a bureau and a corner for children
with soft toys, a wooden train, and a doll’s house. She sat me down and went to
get tea.
While she was away I soaked up the atmosphere of the room. A
fly on the wall would undoubtedly have some interesting stories to tell, had it
been able to talk, but there was no sadness, or tension, in the room. Only
peace.
I was sitting facing the window. Outside, a nurse was sitting with an elderly gentleman under the gazebo. She was talking quietly to him. He
was listening and nodding glumly.
Trish came back and put the tea on the coffee table and
closed the door. We exchanged pleasantries briefly then she got to her feet and
got a pad and pencil from the bureau. “Right,” she said, sitting down and
smoothing her skirt. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Trish,” I said. “I haven’t clue. There are several things
bothering me.”
“Right,” she said briskly, “we’ll make a list. And what we
don’t discuss today we can discuss the next time we meet. And we’ll keep on
doing that until you’re coping. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” I said. And I meant it. I finally had
someone to talk to.
Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true
story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of
my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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