Page 99 of Postscript

‘God no,’ I say, insulted. ‘Not at all. I work full-time, this has all been done in my free time. I’m not looking for money, just more people to help.’ Feeling misunderstood, I continue my passionate plea. ‘I realise that this concept of letters isn’t for everyone, but I’ve learned that there are those who feel compelled to leave something behind. My husband was one of those people. In the beginning, seven years ago, I thought my husband’s letters were all about me, but throughout this process, I’ve learned that it was as much for him. It’s part of the journey in saying goodbye, preparing for the journey to end. Part of keeping house, part of wanting to be remembered. I don’t work from a template; everybody’s letters need to be individual, and in order to figure out how their letters would best assist their loved ones I’ve had to spend some time with them and observe their relationships. Ginika was with me up to three times a week, sometimes more. If you’re concerned about my intentions, I’d like you to know that they are completely honest and well-meaning.’

‘Well,’ she says brightly, ‘you certainly come from an honest and passionate place. Look, you don’t have to sell the idea to me, I encouraged Joy to share it with the group, remember? How to live knowing your time is limited is the terminal palliative phase that you’re addressing here, and I believe that it’s an imperative part of their journey. I can see that you’re thinking of the needs of both the patient and their loved ones, and while there are obvious privacy issues with me sharing my client list with you, I have no issue recommending your podcast to people I counsel,’ she says.

‘But.’

‘But,’ she says, ‘terminally ill patients are vulnerable, faced with the threat of early death. Patients with dysfunctional mindsets are sensitive and need to be dealt with sensitively.’

‘I’ve spent the past six months dealing with terminally ill patients sensitively, I’m aware of their mindsets. If you had any idea what I’ve been through with them, not to mention, the experience I have with my husband, who I cared for throughout his long illness—’

‘Holly,’ she says gently. ‘I’m not attacking you.’

I breathe in and let it out slowly. ‘Sorry. I really don’t want this to end.’

‘I can understand that. To move forward with this, I think it would be advisable to have a clearer strategy. Find a structure for the club; you need rules, you need guidelines. For yourself, and for them. You need to be in control of how you help these people,’ she says firmly. ‘Not just for them, but for yourself. I can’t imagine what it was like this year, helping four people through this journey on your own. It must have been overwhelming.’

My defences fall. ‘Well yes.’

She sits back, and says with a smile, ‘Before you help more people, make sure you’re in a secure position yourself.’

I leave her office feeling like I’ve been squashed. I’m deflated, but I also feel reflective; have I made mistakes with Paul, Bert, Joy and Ginika? Have I counselled them badly? Did I damage them or their loved ones? The journey certainly wasn’t perfect but I think I did a damn good job. My motivations couldn’t have been more honest either. I’m not looking for a cent from anyone. I’m doing this for those who I believe will benefit, but I’m also, without a doubt, doing this for me.

A car beeps loudly as I veer out of the cycle lane. It gives me such a fright, I pull over and stop. I lay my bike on the ground and walk away, as though it’s a ticking bomb, my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t concentrating; I was almost hit again.

‘Are you OK, love?’ A woman standing at the bus stop, who witnessed the entire thing, asks.

‘Yes, thanks, just catching my breath,’ I reply, sitting in a chair outside a café, feeling shaken.

I can become defensive about my role in the club this year, and never fix a thing and run it and myself into the ground, or I can be realistic and take advice. Maria Costas is right. My personal life came out of it battered and bruised and I can’t afford to do that again.

The ghost of Gerry back in my life, or the real Gabriel?

I choose Gabriel.

37

‘In here,’ Gabriel calls, as I enter the house. Our bedroom is the first right off the corridor as soon as you step into the house, Ava’s is on the left, both look out over the tiny front garden, which is paved, with no planting, overlooking a busy main road. I wonder if Richard could get his hands on the front garden, start bringing it to life. The bedroom door is wide open and Gabriel is lying on our bed.

‘Why are you in here?’

‘The TV’s too loud,’ he says. ‘I brought my music in here but I’ve nowhere to put it with all the clothes and shoes, and make-up and perfume, and bras and tampons that have moved in.’ He pretends to cry. ‘It’s like I don’t know who I am any more.’

‘Poor Gabriel,’ I laugh, climbing onto the bed and on top of him.

‘I’ll get over it,’ he says, kissing me. ‘How did it go with the therapist? I’d say it’s like quicksand in there. Did she get stuck?’ He screws my temple with his finger and whispers in my ear. ‘Maria, are you in there? Should I send for help?’

I roll off him. ‘She’s not on board.’

‘That’s OK, you can try something else,’ he says optimistically. ‘Contact cancer charities. Tell them you’ve got a beneficial service to offer.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree, flatly. ‘Or I could just not do it. I don’t need to do it.’

‘Holly, snap out of it. You didn’t need that therapist to get started, you don’t need her now to continue. You know, at times like this I think it would be helpful for you to stop and close your eyes and think …’ He squeezes his eyes shut, with a smile threatening to form on his lips, ‘… What would Gerry do?’

I laugh.

‘I do it sometimes,’ he says, a mocking tone. ‘You should try it.’ He closes his eyes, and whispers, ‘What would Gerry do? What would Gerry do?’ All of a sudden his eyes fly open.

‘Well? Did it work?’ I chuckle, needing his good humour.