I can’t deal with death. It’s the one thing you really can’t control (I do think that you can control your taxes…if you’re smart enough). I lost a friend this week. It sounds so lame. Like I left her in a shopping centre and can’t find her. Like she’s walking through a maze and can’t find the exit. She’s not lost. She’s dead.
52. It’s no age really. Not these days. And in my head, it’s not really about the loss, it’s the very real thought that she’s not sitting in her beautiful house anymore, surrounded by the things she’s collected over the years, the piano she lovingly restored, the paintings she laboured over and hung with care, the photographs she framed, the curtains she made. She’s actually lying in an undertaker’s fridge somewhere, a physical shell with half her face eaten away by cancer, lonely with the rest of the dead people no doubt. And there will come a day, in two weeks’ time, when she will turn up at her funeral screwed into a box.
You see, that’s the hard thing for me to reconcile. And everyone will say, it’s not really her, she’s gone on to some ethereal place, she’s sitting on a cloud looking down on you, she’s become a star (really?), she will be sketching, painting, designing in the afterlife. But as a lovely friend sadly pointed out to me, there really isn’t anything else, is there? It’s just The End.
I met Helen only a few years ago – well, it’s probably about seven years ago now when I moved back to the Midlands and started working in Further Education. We bonded straight away, liked the same music, art, books, jewellery. Oh, I loved how she was completely quirky, bonkers and slightly off-centre. How lovely to meet a kindred spirit who says inappropriate things at the worst possible time. The person who laughs the loudest in the room.
We were both floundering in a difficult arena. We were women who were trying our hardest to live comfortably within the boundaries of the fabric of an old-fashioned dress that had been created for us, stitched according to a very familiar pattern. We were railing against the starch on the collar, and we were both at that time of our lives, wanting to undo the buttons and raise the hemline. I think some might call it a mid-life crisis!
Our most memorable night together was in Birmingham City Centre. We dressed up, I was dark to her light. Short, brown hair, red dress, black heels, red lipstick. She wore white linen and white sandals, a flowing peach blouse, with long, blonde hair and pink lips. I was the angel of the night, she of the morning. We dined on something French in the Mailbox, we went to the Glee Club (she had one of those laughs that turned every head in the room!) and then we danced in an 80s club until about 4 in the morning – ending up limbo dancing in a sweaty room full of teenagers. Can I just point out that I DID manage to get lower than most of the youngsters in the room! It’s the yoga. Helen couldn’t – she had a dodgy hip.
My lasting memory of her? Dancing like a mad woman, on her own, in the middle of the dance floor. I joined her very quickly – Don’t You Forget About Me – Simple Minds.
It was all about life, you see. Hedonism to a certain extent, chasing and taking things you wanted and needed, trying too hard not to live by the rules, staying out late, getting up late, feeling the throb of an exciting existence pulsating through your veins rather than the dull ache of domestication drudging through narrowed arteries. Living life to the full and sploshing it all over the place rather than allowing it to get half way and then being scared to spill it. Making mistakes and not being scared to admit it, running from truth because sometimes lies are more fun.
Death, they say, brings perspective to your life. But it doesn’t. Because life just goes on, and the heavy coat of loss and grief will be shrugged off with a new season, new growth, new shoots, new friendships. And the cycle will continue to turn and we will all stay on the hamster wheel running round in circles. It’s good exercise, if nothing else.
I guess it’s about memories. For as long as they last.
Rest in Peace Helen Cochrane. We once went to a Melody Gardot concert at Symphony Hall and she asked that, instead of giving her a round of applause, we all click our fingers instead.
Am clicking my fingers.
Mags Winthrop Blog 