LIVING WITHOUT YOU

Probably everyone who’s reading this post will have experienced some kind of loss by now, whether it be for a beloved pet, a close relative, a friend, a partner, or another type of loss entirely. Like everything in life, there are various gradations of sorrow.

I was eighteen when my grandmother died. It was a very sad time, as you’d expect, but on a scale of one to ten, not actual despair. I never for one moment thought, I can’t live without her!

Four years later, it was my grandfather’s turn. When I was at his funeral, I watched in silence as the gravediggers filled in that sad, gaping cavern in the earth, and I remember thinking, If that was you, Mother, I’d want to jump right in with you. That’s how close my mum and I were to each other, back then. And yet, when her turn also came round, many years later, I no longer wanted to jump in her grave. Sure, I was torn apart and deeply grieving … and yet, I also felt a conflicting rush of release.  Not relief, but release. A knot being untied. A cord finally cut. If you’ve read my novel, Infinite Stranger, you’ll understand why.

For most of us, the loss of a parent is incredibly hard to bear. But it’s a part of the cycle of life; it’s something we know will eventually happen. And when it does happen, unless it’s a premature death, it won’t be the kind of pain that would make you wail to the skies: I can’t live, if living is without you, to quote the lyrics of Harry Nilsson’s 1972 hit.

So where exactly does the loss of romantic love stand on the grand scale of loss?

Pretty high, I’d say. The first time I truly felt that I couldn’t live without someone was when I was in the early throes of crazy, dizzying love. Ah, the bliss! The thrill! The ecstacy! You don’t need heaven when you’re in love, because you’re already there.

Fast-forward ten months into our intoxicating relationship, and my world ended. Why? Oh, just the usual, timeless reason: my beloved dumped me. (No need for details – let’s just say it was because of a rather naughty misdemeanour on my part.) As soon as he uttered those awful words of termination, I crumpled. Literally crumpled. I can still feel the agony of it now, after all these years. I just didn’t want to exist. I already had one marriage behind me, as well as two young children and a demanding job at a newly opened school that needed me, seeing as I was the sole person running it … but none of that made any difference. Because when you’re in despair, you don’t think logically. On my first day of Life without The Beloved, I didn’t want to go on.

(N.B. There’s a happy ending to this part of the story. We eventually got back together, got married, had a child, and then, twenty years later, split up because by that stage I couldn’t live WITH him, never mind WITHOUT him. But don’t feel sorry for me – we still love each other, as long as we’re not sharing the same home.)

And now I come to my final point.

What about the loss of inanimate things? Are there any objects in our lives that are so special to us, if we lost them, we just couldn’t go on living without them?

You might have wondered about the cover photo I chose for this post. It’s of a piano, duh. But not just any piano. It’s my piano. My love, my joy, my prize possession. And no, I am not being materialistic here. Okay, it’s just a man-made object, but it’s still love. Simply a different kind of love.

If you follow me on Instagram or Twitter, you’ll know of my recent piano calamity. My beloved, gorgeous, pre-war Berdux. Sonorous tone. Powerful bass. Delicate treble. Varnished black wood. Exquisitely crafted interior mechanism, complete with a brass Munich bear to signify where it was made. I play it every evening of my life, as a detox for the day. The more stressed I am from work, or from my mad Belgian Malinois dog , the more I play. I don’t perform at concerts any more, thank God; I just play for myself. It’s my daily fix. And boy, does it feel good!

Or rather, boy, did it feel good. Past tense.

Imagine how I felt, just a few days ago, when a leak from the living room ceiling oozed directly onto, and then into, my pride and joy. After lots of sponging, mopping, wiping and weeping, I rushed to my laptop to google ‘water damage to pianos’. To my despair, I learned what I already suspected: the damage was very likely irreparable.

You have to understand the depth of my loss. I’ve had this instrument for twenty years and he’s been with me through thick and thin. I say ‘he’, because with a deep bass like that, it must be male. Don’t argue. He’s shared the loss of my two cats, my previous dog, my mother, the moving-out of my eldest child, then my next child, then my husband. He knows practically everything about me.

All right, all right, at the end of the day my piano is only a thing, not a human being, right? So I should stop being so hyperbolic with my emotions, right? Right. Sorry.

But seriously, life without my beloved Berdux? I can’t live, if living is without him.

So far, there’s no happy ending to this story. But it’s not necessarily a tragic ending, either. I just have to wait for the piano repair guy to come round and pass his verdict. Watch this space, and I’ll keep you posted.

That is, if I’m still alive.