Charity walk (scroll down for story)

St John's Ambulance volunteers - bike patrol

Simon in action.

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 Follow the crown (one of Simon’s creations)

Chilly morning, 7/4/13

It's Sunday 7th April, 7:45am. I'm sitting in the car, parked in the Wedgwood Estate in Barlaston, Staffordshire. Sunshine is filtering through the bare trees, the ground is covered with silver frost, and in the distance, mist shrouds the hills. It's freezing outside, so I'll sit a bit longer in the car, waiting for the start of the Dougie Mac Hospice Charity Walk.

Simon’s dressed in red, blue, yellow, green. He has a bright red nose, a black bowler hat with fluorescent orange hair--a wig made of wool. He's already gone over to the children's play area where he's going to entertain the children with balloon models. He is my "contribution" to the event. I didn't manage to raise money. I couldn’t get around to even trying. So bringing him is the best I can do.

This is our second year at the walk. Last year I was weeping, but at least I had someone to walk with. This year I am alone. Do the organisers even realise how much it's costing me to leave Simon to entertain?

This time we both have a little badge with my children's photos on. Last time I had made a poster-like sheet with large photos of Pax and Catherine, and I wore it around my neck. This badge is better.

So I'm waiting in the car until nearer to the start time. I don't know where I'll be emotionally at that moment. Maybe I'll be calm, coasting on neutral, like I am at this moment. Or maybe I'll burst into tears. There is no way of predicting. That is the overwhelming and unmanageable nature of my grief. Can't say that everyone is like this, but this is how it is for me.

It's freezing in the car! My arthritis knees are not happy at all. We didn’t really need to get here so early but that's what they asked and we always--well, usually--do things the right way. So I sit here waiting, watching the minutes go by, wrapped in coats.

This isn't my only countdown of the moment. I'm in the midst of a bigger, more momentous countdown--at least, that's how it is for me, much much bigger than a walk.

It's 2 years, less 6 days, since Catherine died. Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of the last time I saw Catherine alive, the day we went for a picnic, drive and then took her to the station. This day, 2 years ago, she went out for a walk with her support worker. Tomorrow, 2 years ago, Leigh persuaded her to go to his mum's birthday dinner. From what I remember, she wasn’t having a good day and didn't get out of bed until noon or later, or at least hadn't dressed.

That means the day after tomorrow is 2 years since she went to the day training as part of the process of becoming a volunteer with St John's Ambulance. (Last year there was a St John's Ambulance crew here at the walk. I expect they'll be here again.)

Do you see where I'm going with this? I'm reliving it all, day by day. Gonna get very rough by Saturday 13th, the day she died, and Sunday, when we went to the house and...that's where she was.

We just finished Easter week. That's a commemoration, day by day. Jesus enters Jerusalem--that's like Catherine's last visit to us. Then he got busy, like her training, etc. She even had a last supper--pizza out with Leigh. And then Jesus died. And Catherine died. Good Friday. It's marked by Christians all over the world. We all remember when He died.

And then it's like the whole of Christendom is holding its breath. Christ has died, he's buried in the tomb. His followers are in despair. His mother's heart is broken. Poor Mary.

Then comes Sunday, and everything changes. Death is vanquished. Jesus rises from the dead. Eternity has been shifted. We enter the era of grace, of the love of God manifest through forgiveness, through healing of the soul and body.

And here my watchful, waiting week for Catherine takes a different turn. There is no resurrection morning. There is no moving of the gravestone. There is no sunrise. I am still holding my breath.

In the depths of my soul, I hope that one day there will be a dawn in another life, an existence beyond the dimensions of our present experience.  From the bottom of my heart, I cling to belief. But my nature is too like Thomas, who couldn't believe unless he could see. Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief, one of the apostles pleaded with Jesus. If there is any prayer I could call my own that is it.

And so I sit waiting, waiting for the anniversary of Catherine's death, an anniversary that I wish was not. I will wait next month for Pax's anniversary. I wonder how I'll feel next month, now that I know much more closely what happened? (That's the day I'll do the ceremony with the soil from Bhopal. That'll be the right day.)

And I wait for the charity walk to begin. And I will walk the walk, alone in a crowd of hundreds. I will walk, holding my breath, but taking one step in front of the other. There's nothing else to do.

Perhaps alone is not true. Perhaps if someone is reading this, you would have walked with me if you could. It is a comforting thought. And my children are in my heart, the Lord promises to be with us to the ends of the earth, and maybe others I have known who have passed over are here too. There is a lot of bereaved people here, perhaps we will be surrounded and encompassed by a cloud of unseen companions?

But my hands are cold. Whatever we believe about the life beyond, it is beyond, it is not here, we cannot feel or touch it, hold its hand. And that, reader (are you there?) is the agonising reality of bereavement.

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The walk. Sunny. The route takes us along the canal and then through the pretty village of Barlaston, then through the Wedgwood Estate, past the fishing pond, down back to the start amidst green lawns and magnificent trees. Last year the bushes were filled with glorious blossoms; this year they are bare.

I walk as quickly as I can. As the walk progresses, I divide the miles in my mind, dedicating them as follows:
Mile 1 - Pax.
Mile 2 - Catherine. Her part of the walk included an uphill stretch. I managed to call her. When she was alive she would call me when she was walking up the hill to her house. We would stay on the phone and chat while she walked; she didn't like the Hill and talking with me to pass the time. That was a nice memory on this walk.

Paused at the train crossing, waiting for the train to pass. This is the spot where at least 4 people died last year. Say no more.

Mile 3 - Catherine's little baby lost in the early months of pregnancy. Never had a chance at life. (I doubt many people know about this...It was a very sad episode in Catherine's life and one that precipitated her illness, or so I believe.)

I walked as fast as I could. Pressing on, ignoring the scenery, just wanting to get there. For the last stretch, we're up on a slight hill. The road weaves down below. I can see the finishing line in the valley.

Walk along talking with St John's volunteers on bikes. Catherine would have loved to do that. It should have been her. I shouldn't be here.

To the finishing line. Simon’s in distance still making balloons, so there is nobody at the finishing line for me, cheering me on. It is the loneliest, saddest feeling. My children are not here. The tears arrive.

I make it through the finishing line in 49 minutes. (Including at least 3 minutes waiting for a train to pass.) I'm given a congratulatory medal.

Then I get up and walk back to the car, where today's story began.

I will walk through this anniversary week, I will walk through my life, in similar fashion. One foot in front of the other, step after step, breathless, aching. May God grant that unlike the finishing line of the walk, at the finishing line of life my children will be there to greet me.

At the start of the walk by the canal. Yellow t-shirts courtesy of Douglas Macmillan Hospice. This was their 40th anniversary and the charity walk is an annual event.