Dear diary: Grieving at Cambridge University.

A week’s worth of my most organised thoughts on loss and love.


Content note: this piece contains discussion of bereavement and grief. If anything in this article has affected you, there are helplines and bereavement websites linked at the bottom of the article.

Names have been changed to ‘*****’,’****’ and ‘***’ in favour of anonymity. The number of symbols does not equate to the number of letters in a name.

When I returned to Cambridge University at the end of September, things were different to how they had been the year before.  I had lost someone who had always been a constant in my life, someone, who despite all the obvious reasons why I should have, I’d never really thought I’d lose. Grief is odd like that. It affects almost every person on this planet, but there’s no medicine for it. No cure or remedy or tablet you can take, but rather, it seems to be treated a bit like freshers’ flu, something that will eventually clear up on its own, and that we all know will reach us, sooner or later. I have spent a lot of time writing, and as the one-month anniversary of her passing approaches, I wanted to share some of my most organised rambles about losing someone you love so very much. Don’t be fooled, the vast majority of what I write is much less publishable than this.

I don’t really have any advice, but I do hope it might make you feel less alone. 

Thursday, 29th September 2022.

“I moved back to university last night. Things are different from last year. Last year, I would have pinned photos of us up to my noticeboard, and stuck postcards and letters up with white tac, with more care for the freshly painted walls than the photos themselves. This time though, I put pictures carefully in wooden frames, and wrapped the same postcards, letters and birthday cards in a pink ribbon and put them in a wooden box. They didn’t seem to possess this kind of finiteness before. I guess last year, they were a reminder of home, and this year, they’re a reminder of what isn’t. I find that hard. In the moments I feel brave enough, I look for the silver lining and remember that I was lucky to have had her for 19 years. To be honest though, that lining looks a lot more like dark, dark grey, than silver today. I think love really hurts, a lot more than anyone actually ever tells you.”

Friday, 30th September 2022.

“I think the shock is wearing off now, and the sadness seems ready and waiting to replace it. Today was the first time I really wished I could have called her. I keep having the same dream: she rings me, and her face pops up on my phone, but it’s never her that answers.  Since she died, I’ve become strangely obsessed with remembering her voice. There are very few ways you can keep someone’s voice forever. When I first lost her, I thought that I had a voicemail from her. I didn’t though. I think I just wanted to believe it so much, I convinced myself completely. I did a pretty good job too, I even asked ***** if they’d listen to it with me. Never mind. It’s funny how your mind plays tricks on you.”

Saturday, 1st October 2022.

“It’s October now, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone’s flipped the calendar. I checked before I left whether she’d written plans down for October and November and December. Though they wouldn’t be realised, there was something peaceful about knowing that at least for the next few months, I couldn’t entirely ‘run out’ of her. With so many lasts already clear, last conversations and last hugs and last kisses, the idea that I hadn’t reached the last thing she’d written yet, or the last plan she’d made, brought me comfort. I’m not sure what will happen in the new year though. Her handwriting will run out eventually, just like her washing stopped popping up in the ironing basket. I thought today about how I ironed and folded her long-sleeved pink top, and I couldn’t work out whether it was because I hung onto the hope she might wear it again, or because suddenly a pink top previously not particularly noticed, had become irreplaceable.”

Monday, 3rd October 2022.

“When does Monday go back to being just Monday, and not a marker of time passing? Every Monday marks a week, but soon it’s going to be months, and eventually, it’ll mark a year, and I just can’t imagine that. I cried a lot today.  ***’s sofa has become a good spot for that.”

“I think I always thought that some great work of art, or literature maybe, would emerge in the wake of such a loss. It’s hard to think that really, nothing comes of it other than pain, a pain which really, is so unnecessary. I’m writing this by the river, and it reminds me of walking by the river at home when I was little. It seems like everything is a reminder at the moment, either of what was, or what can never be.”

(Image Credits: Alexandra Shepherd)

Tuesday, 4th October 2022.

“Hard day. I would like to blame John Green for making me think that you can accept cancer and death gracefully, and privately. ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ might have seemed like a good portrayal at the time, but I’m sure I left that cinema thinking that death, though awful, still left room for the good. When I saw a grandmother and granddaughter in Tesco today, I wanted to ask both of them if they knew how lucky they were. I remembered singing nursery rhymes with her whilst she dried my hair, but the tears came and I left, without my shampoo. Hair can survive one more day, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Wednesday, 5th October 2022.

“I don’t feel sad today, or angry even, which I often do. I just feel confused. Confused about so much actually. I’m not sure anything has been right since she left. When I think about her, I’m confused about how it happened so fast, where she is and why I haven’t been sent a sign like lots of people talk about. I squeeze my eyes so tightly when I try to fall asleep, as if blocking out this world will make it easier to visit hers. But then again, like they say in that book **** lent me, she isn’t a robin, or a white feather or a rainbow in the sky. But she is my love for reading, and for long walks on cold days, and for spaghetti bolognese. She’s probably not my love for boats and the sea though. That definitely wasn’t her scene. I wish I was by the sea. I miss her so, so much.”

Thursday, 6th October 2022.

“First day of my second year today, at Cambridge University. I rang the home phone in something of a trance, and for some reason, it still stung a bit when a different voice answered, not because I don’t love that voice just as much, but simply because it reminded me that my feelings of pain and loss were so grounded in reality. I wanted to talk to ***** today, but it felt like too many things had changed, so I didn’t, but I know they’d have understood.  I’m wearing the locket they gave me for my 18th birthday, but it feels a lot heavier now. I’m thinking about the last time I saw her, when Dad told me that I’d never ever forget, but with time, it would get easier.”

I’m still waiting for that time, and if you are too, that’s okay. 

Names have been changed to ‘*****’,’****’ and ‘***’ in favour of anonymity. The number of symbols does not equate to the number of letters in a name.

Bereavement helplines and websites:

https://www.ataloss.org/

https://www.thegoodgrieftrust.org/

https://www.hospiceuk.org/our-campaigns/dying-matters

 

Featured Image Credits: Alexandra Shepherd 

Related articles recommended by this writer:

Week 8 Poem of the Week: Ambiguous Loss by Siong Chen Meng

I spent my first year at Cambridge doing everything except work

5 things you need to do before the end of Michaelmas term