Good Grief

Amortality: The Pleasures and Perils of Living Agelessly

Charles: The Heart of a King

Attack of the 50 Ft. Women: How Gender Equality Can

Save The World!

GOOD GRIEF

Embracing life at a time of death

CATHERINE MAYER AND ANNE MAYER BIRD

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Catherine Mayer and Anne Mayer Bird 2020

Catherine Mayer and Anne Mayer Bird assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Ebook Edition © December 2020 ISBN: 9780008436124

Version 2020-10-30

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008436100

To Andy and John, with our undying love

Contents

Cover

Also by Catherine Mayer:

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Introduction

1Loss

2Denial

3Death

The first letter to John

4Aftermath

The second letter to John

5Three funerals and a memorial

Eulogies

The third letter to John

6Sadmin

The fourth letter to John

7Covid

The fifth letter to John

8Comfort

The sixth letter to John

9Love

A letter from Anne to herself

10In conclusion

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Introduction

We are extraordinarily lucky, my mother and I. We have each other and we have this room.

When she and John moved to London, married just three years and still figuring out the shape of their relationship, their new home had not yet established its boundaries either. The room came later. At first the house grew warily, adding a small glass extension at the back with a slippery incline that their ginger cat treated as a slide. The local foxes chose a bigger playing field, barking and tumbling on the flat roof of the builders’ merchant abutting the property, a comparatively recent arrival to this estate of Victorian townhouses. The neighbourhood had seen wealthier days and would do so again. Nothing stays the same, no matter how solid it appears.

In a portent of gentrification, developers made plans to demolish the commercial unit next door and build, in its stead, a new house made to look old. My mother and stepfather debated what to do. They had more than enough space already. Yet they feared that a new neighbour, sharing a party wall, might prove noisy and, anyway, John wanted somewhere to put a piano and the art that he had started to make and collect. After five decades working in jobs he didn’t much enjoy (‘a lifetime,’ he said, though it proved to be just three-fifths of his total span), he retired and began to reinvent himself as a painter. They bought the unit and knocked through the party wall, creating for themselves a garage, utility area, extra bathroom, and this, a cavernous second living room.

If truth be told – and the conversations my mother and I conduct in this room often worm out truths unknown to either or both of us until the moment of utterance – I never until recently warmed to this room. Its industrial proportions make it a perfect place to display paintings or throw big parties. It is less successful as a venue for intimate discussions. Two big armchairs maintain a chilly distance against the far wall, acknowledging each other only with a slight angling that directs the gaze of any occupants towards the centre of the room and, beyond that emptiness, to a Chesterfield at the opposite wall.

This is where my tiny mother usually sits, Thumbelina on the full-sized sofa, during our weekly meetings. After John died and my husband Andy stunned us by following suit forty-one days later, she and I saw each other often but at varying intervals. It was the lockdown against coronavirus, coming seven weeks after Andy’s death, that enforced on our timetable a form and regularity. New government rules to combat the unfolding pandemic isolated us in our fresh isolation, my mother who had never in her eighty-six years lived on her own and me, alone again after twenty-nine years of coalescence. Only when Andy had gone did I realise how much he and I resembled a sight we often stopped to admire on our weekend walks, a tree and railing merged into a single entity, the tree enfolding, the railing sustaining.

Exposed now and unsupported, I looked for fresh ways to hold myself up. The imperative to help out my mother came not as a burden, but like the small services I performed for others in those early lockdown days – supplying food and medicine, posting parcels – as a gift. In doing these things, I found the iron necessary to stay upright. More than that, my Sunday visits to my mother, legitimate under the rules as care work, provided the only meaningful face-to-face interactions I would have during that period, even if the lower halves of our faces were masked.

Even now it continues. Every second Sunday I change her duvet. Most weeks I fix (or try to fix) something, an iPad one visit, a recalcitrant filing cabinet the next. Every week I bring meals I’ve prepared to her requests (cauliflower cheese was an early favourite; latterly we’ve been exploring curries). There are often other items to source too: shoes, hanging files, birthday cards. She presents me with a to-do list when I arrive – she calls it an ‘agenda’ – and we work through it. Then, at the end of my visit, we allow ourselves to relax, she on the sofa, me in one of the safely distant chairs. And we talk.

Our starting point is usually a piece of news from the past week, whether small and personal or global and transformative. These things are anyway linked in unexpected ways. In the first months, our battles to persuade service providers to transfer household accounts into our names dragged on as the virus and furlough schemes depleted staff numbers. Automated systems failed the easiest of tests. ‘How can I help you today, Andrew?’ ‘I’m Andrew’s widow. Andrew is dead.’ ‘Oh dear, Andrew, that doesn’t sound good.’

For the worst part of the past year, Facebook has shown me advertisements for funeral services, as if the mischance that saw me notifying John’s friends of his death in December, organising his exequies at Golders Green Crematorium in January, Andy’s cremation at the same venue on Valentine’s Day and his memorial at the beginning of March, bespeaks a delicious new pastime. The same algorithms that take me for a funeral hobbyist decide which posts are seen by whom, which propaganda to channel to voters. They may have helped install the populist leaders in the US, Brazil and here in the UK who responded to Covid-19 not with life-saving policies but bluster and blarney.

In the big room with its gallery of paintings, the weekly meetings with my mother unfold against another, grim backdrop, both strange and horribly familiar. As the global toll of the virus rises, we cannot help but understand each death not as a statistic but a sequence of events, a body shutting down, the person there and then not there, never again there, the families distraught and numb, embarking on the same path that we already tread.

Bereavement is an odd phenomenon, full of twists and surprises, nasty ambushes and unexpected dark humour. It is the little things that knock you off course. I work dry-eyed through snowdrifts of ‘sadmin’, but weep when the wifi conks out. One day I call the funeral director to pay by credit card for Andy’s cremation. The man in the accounts department runs through the usual drill: name, credit card number, expiry date. For a second I genuinely don’t know whether he means for the card or my beloved. Laughter, inappropriate and all the harder to control for that fact, wells up. The man takes my thickened voice as a sign of grief. For days afterwards, I find myself sniggering.

We are aware, my mother and I, that we discomfit well-wishers. Most people are scared to death of death and unsure how to talk about it, yet curiously our composure unnerves them more than tears. We appear functional and less fragile than they expect. Might our similar reactions and coping mechanisms point to universalities about grief and loss or to the specifics of our family’s history and culture? We don’t know, but assume a mixture of both. As a child, my mother lost her father and brother in quick succession. When my sisters and I were children, the stepfather she loved took his own life.

These experiences surely shaped her and her parenting, informing my own conspicuous self-sufficiency, which Andy sometimes found difficult. (Oh, my love, if only you knew how much I need you.) A run of deaths among those closest to me from my thirties onwards, excluding John and Andy, four alone in the past four years, prepared me for widowhood in two significant ways: I already knew grief to be as mobile as a cat on a cantilevered glass roof and I already knew that the lovely dead never leave us. If we learn not to flinch from the pain, the lovely dead enfold us, tree to railing.

It is because of this knowledge, accrued and unasked for, that I agreed to write this book. You cannot be proofed against grief. You can be prepared for it, for the inevitability of loss and the screeching arrival of its outriders: disruption, despair and dread tape, the red tape of death. Our culture, in recoiling from death, medicalising it, shoving it behind screens and banning it from polite conversation, does us no favours. For too many, those horsemen come as a nasty surprise, wringing from their targets an anguished ‘good grief!’. My mother and I aspire in sharing our experiences to imbue that cartoon phrase with a different, and constructive, meaning.

Even so, we do not address you in this book from a position of lofty authority. The subject isn’t new to me. I’ve lost too many people and I also wrote, some years back, a book called Amortality that examined the phenomenon of widespread denial not only of death but ageing. Yet such expertise as my mother and I will share with you derives less from research than from the frontline of our own emotions and experiences. We are recent widows, open and vulnerable. Our equanimity is a front, a construct, that we must believe, with time, will add layers and substance. We are allergic to the question ‘And how are you?’, especially if delivered in a sorrow-laden voice, the inquisitor’s head tilted to the side. How should we reply when the answer changes by the hour or do so honestly without resurfacing feelings we have struggled to subdue? The doctrine of letting it all hang out, crying as catharsis, may work for some people. To my mother and me, it brings no relief. For now we aim for functionality rather than intensity. As we will explain later in these pages, you have to relearn how to be before you relearn how to live.

If not for lockdown, we could seek solace from the company of family and friends, hang out, speak if we wished, stay silent if we preferred, talk of important things or TV shows. We can never replace the cradling we miss the most, but we could hug and be hugged. In the eleventh week of lockdown, as I queue for bread, a man walks into me with force and intent. At first all I can think is how angry he is. I realise later that this is the first and only human touch I’ve experienced not just since lockdown, but from the start of social distancing.

Mother’s Day has fallen, with cruel precision, on the eve of lockdown. Boris Johnson reveals during a press conference that he hopes to celebrate with his 77-year-old mum; Downing Street later ‘clarifies’ his remarks to say he means to Skype her. My sisters and I decide on one last visit together to our mother, in her living room, embracing not her but its edges. It is already decided that I will be the only one of us during lockdown to cross her threshold. My middle sister Lise will lock down with her son. My eldest sister, Cassie, and stepsister Catherine A are key workers. Cassie, as duty manager of a municipal stable, is responsible with a small team for keeping eighty-eight horses fed, watered and, in the enforced absence of clients, exercised. Catherine A teaches.

(A quick side note here: memoirs, by their nature, are messy, the contents shaped not for ease of storytelling but by random circumstances. When they married, my mother and John created a family of five daughters, two called Catherine. To avoid confusion, my mother and I refer to my stepsister Catherine in this book by her first name and the initial A for Anderson, her surname through marriage.)

My siblings’ commitments mean they have less flexibility than I and more exposure to potential virus-carriers. It is safest for me, alone as I am, to be my mother’s designated carer, not that she would recognise herself or our relationship in that phrase. She is right. I depend on her just as much as she on me.

During this last family gathering before lockdown, she looks smaller than usual. As the conversation moves on to how we will fill our time, Cassie suggests that she should write. At this stage everyone imagines, wrongly, that lockdown promises reams of hours, as empty and full of potential as blank pages. My mother started writing a memoir when she was 11, What Makes My Childhood Fun, gave it up with the death of her father a year later. Recently she resumed the project as an adult, picking up from her early years and continuing into the first part of her marriage to our father. She would send us chapters, fascinating, engaging, sometimes a little unsettling. For her eighty-fifth birthday, Lise had the chapters bound into a book.

In March, a friend from her neighbourhood asks her to start contributing to a website aimed at women over fifty. The words burst out. The new blogger has so much to say, not least about the ways in which older generations are simultaneously patronised and unprotected, instructed to shield and left to die as Covid rips through care homes. The website prefers positive angles, so she exhorts readers to reject reductive ideas about age, drawing on her own experiences and routines as examples. The beneficiary of good genes, exercise and an adult life without significant economic struggles, she remains fiercely active, working, until the virus shuttered theatres, as a freelance publicist. One day I offer to perform a small chore for her. ‘Oh good,’ she says. ‘I’ll use the time to do my staircase walking.’ It turns out she walks up and down her staircase thirty times a day.

Her blogs are good, but they conceal as much as they reveal, an extension of the brave face she turns to the world, its scarlet lipstick applied every morning. There is another woman behind the bravado who longs and aches. On 27 March, ninety-six days after John dies, that woman sits down and writes to him, the first of a series of letters about the events that have roiled our family and the world since he died. In writing to and for my stepfather, my mother lets her defences fall. She writes as if he could answer. She writes without filter.

Until Andy died, I could write that way too. For most of my life, writing had been not just the way I made a living but the way that I lived. Often I would not be sure what I thought or felt until the process of writing gave me clarity. As a journalist and non-fiction author, I immersed myself in research. Writing, like a sculptor’s tools, revealed the shape within the marble. I also wrote for myself, poems and stories and, in the months leading up to Andy’s death, fifty thousand horribly prescient words of a novel, set in a world scarred by a pandemic, about a woman who loses to death the love of her life.

When, at the start of lockdown, my friend Jo messaged me: ‘Tell me you ARE writing a book about these weirdest of grief-blurred days…’, I told her, no. I couldn’t write, but for the eulogy – in the truest sense of the word – that poured forth, without pause or revision, one bleak pre-dawn. Two days earlier, I had watched my love die, twelve minutes between the unhooking of the machines and the extinction of all hope. I would read the eulogy, unchanged, at his memorial. After writing it, I shut the laptop and closed down, though I didn’t realise this at the time. The world had closed down too. In the sensory deprivation of lockdown, untouched and sequestered, no sounds in the flat or outside on the streets but for Thursday nights when we clapped for the NHS that had tried and failed to save him, I lost the connection between words, thoughts and feelings.

It is either coincidence or a measure of how closely bound my mother and I have become that the day I recovered that facility was 27 March. As she composed the first of her letters to John, I set up a new blog, 2020 Vision, on my website and wrote, intimately, about Andy’s death. My conscious reason for doing so was to stave off all those unwanted And how are yous? By answering the question in more detail than anyone asking could possibly wish, making public my innermost thoughts, I sought to preserve my privacy.

I also hoped to scotch rumours about Andy. Perhaps two hours after he died, as I sat with his band members in the atrium of the critical care unit that had been our assembly point for that final week, journalists began calling me for quotes and to ask questions about the manner of his death. The next morning, one of his fans somehow procured my phone number and rang, weeping, looking to me for comfort. As I begged him please not to call again, he interrupted. There was something he must know: what really killed Andy? The internet did its thing too, embroidering the fact that Andy’s band, Gang of Four, had toured in China in November 2019 into a dark tale of Covid and cover-up.

It was true that after Andy’s admission to St Thomas’s on 18 January, doctors had asked about his travels, briefly considering whether he might have contracted the novel coronavirus that even now locked down Wuhan, but the timelines, as we then knew them, appeared to rule this out. ‘He did not, as online conspiracists allege, die from Covid-19,’ I wrote in that first blog, ‘but he had an underlying condition, sarcoidosis, that would have put him at high risk. The immunosuppressants he took to manage it laid him open to the pneumonia that proved implacable. He did not die from Covid-19 but his death, in many details, resembled that of a Covid-19 fatality, respiratory failure, the battle to keep him alive long enough to give him a chance of life.’ Later I would question that assertion, and begin to investigate, to contemplate dreadful possibilities. This is a story I also tell in this book, not least because it has to be told. If Andy had in fact been killed by Covid, then the timelines and basis for the public health response were wrong. There was a sharply personal realisation too, that John – officially the victim of ‘hospital-acquired pneumonia’ – might also have succumbed to it, one of many thousands of Covid dead unrecognised in official statistics.

This thought, I was aware, would destabilise my mother and not just for the obvious reason that it would force her to revisit John’s death. Something odd happens when the person you love most in the world dies: all at once they are nowhere and everywhere, absent and omnipresent. Andy, essence of Andy, Andyness permeates every aspect of my life, every action and interaction. He is in the cutlery drawer, in its unfeasibly large collection of implements for opening oysters. He is, as you would expect, in the music studio in our basement. He is in every bar of soap in the flat, not one of them bought, all nicked from hotel bathrooms, a habit he picked up from touring. He is in the wardrobe, on a shelf holding hundreds of pairs of identical slimline underpants. A market stall near our house sold these cheaply and Andy, for unfathomable reasons, reacted like a shopper during a pandemic, stockpiling those pants.

This Andy is gloriously flawed. He has not yet been polished by the abrasions of time, sanitised and reworked to inhuman perfection by the human desire to remember the best of the lovely dead. This is the Andy I aim to keep around for as long as I can, and those first days after he dies make clear just how difficult this will be. Questions about Covid, at this stage, aren’t persistent, but interest is. He is a public figure, all the more so in death. Across the world, he prompts banner headlines, makes the early evening news, then the next bulletin and the next and the next, well into the following day. He trends, for twenty-four hours, on Twitter. Then come the obituaries, some good, some sloppy, all of them telling me, telling all of us, ‘this is who Andy was’.

I knew instinctively to resist my own impulse to selective memory, but hadn’t realised how many alternative Andys would challenge mine. Nor could I ignore the impact on my mother and the rest of the family. Barely had my sisters and I gathered around my mother, sought ways to support her in her new widowhood, than we were pulled away, to Andy’s bedside and thence into the depths of our grief. My mother lost and kept losing. She loved Andy, too, so much so that I used to tease her about it. In my eulogy for Andy – reproduced in full later in this book – I mentioned an invitation she once sent to both of us, addressed to ‘Andy Gill plus one’.

Alive, Andy’s charisma could relegate me to my mother’s afterthought. In death, he shadowed and overshadowed her agony, risked blunting and blurring memories of John. My stepfather was a big character, genial, complex, interested in everything, still making up for time lost to a career in sales, first tyres then insurance, that suppressed his curiosity and creativity. His love for my mother was prodigious and hers for him unquestionable, as was clear the moment I first saw them together, forty-something years ago. He was 83 when he died, but still only in the foothills of his ambitions, for himself and, more than that, for others. People remembered him not just as a family member, friend or colleague but as someone who changed their lives for the better. When the noise and anguish around Andy cut across all this love and loss, I worried for my mother, for all this could mean.