I remember the worst insomnia I experienced ‘Before’ was when work pressures mounted. (We run our own business).

The witching hour, we called it. Somewhere between 3am and 4am when all the worst possibilities lived and breathed and, in the dark, became, real, tangible and all consuming. It meant no sleep and no rest. My mind racing through all the very worst possible outcomes. With the sleep pattern broken, I’d nod off around 6am, and then find it impossible to get out of bed at 8am.

But, at 8am, with the light of a new day came rationale thinking and optimism. It hadn’t happened, the worst was yet to come. It was within our control. Actions could be taken. ‘On with your day, my lad’.

That was Before.

The first month ‘After’ was fuelled by chemicals, by sleeping pills, concoctions and herbal remedies. Various experiments to get at least, some sleep, it was like a Harry Potter potions class. Later, I discussed insomnia with our therapist (our Assist Trauma Care therapist) who explained that your mind and body adjust, so sleeping pills only work for a week, max.

Sleep now, sleep After, is very different. I’ll try to explain the subtleties. The physical first.

A restless, seemingly endless stress. Butterflies, like interview nerves.  Hot uncomfortable limbs that no position, no shuffling satisfies. Breathing in sporadic short breaths, like your lungs can’t come up for air. Nausea in the pit of your stomach, that turns to a constant, dull ache.

Then the mental. Mind battles galore, to force yourself to think of something else, to forget, a momentary lapse. Any and all the old proven techniques fail – cast adrift in a boat flowing downstream along a calm river; lying on rocks by the sea, bathed in warm sunshine, the lap of lulling waves. Nothing but nothing works like it did Before.

Instead, sleep brings a haunted head. Like your unconscious mind can’t deal with the reality – of the actual loss and incomprehensible, unfathomable pain – so it attempts to place you somewhere in the past, when they were alive, when things were normal and mundane. Before. It’s as though your mind is trying to erase reality and replace it with fantasy. ‘No, you fool, they’re here, they’re alive’.

Awake is the nightmare, sleep brings sweet dreams.

Beth’s Dream (6^th November 2016)
A party, a crowded room, in our kitchen I think. I see Beth stood by the sink, talking to someone I don’t know. She’s happy, laughing, animated. She looks glowing, slim, sun-kissed, relaxed.

I go up to her. I’m crying. I hold her and kiss her cheek and stay cheek to cheek for a while. Relishing being so close to her.

Moments pass and she whispers “You worry too much about this kitchen.” And smiles at me.

I wake.

Izzy’s Dream (1st June 2016)
The house is still full of grieving relatives staying over and the coming and going of friends delivering food parcels, delivery people with flowers of condolence. I open the door of my study to find a place to be alone. Ashley, my niece is there. She moves silently away.

There, on a guitar stand, is a bass guitar. (when I was 19, I played the bass). I pick it up. I can’t play it anymore. I struggle to even hit a handful of notes.

I turn around and look back onto the landing. Trace is stood there looking at me.

And there is Izzy, stood behind Trace, in the bathroom doorway. She’s pulling her ‘Duh?’ face. I stumble and try to point to Izzy, to tell Trace she’s here, she’s just behind you.

I wake.

Or ‘I wish I could write a love song’

I couldn’t sleep. I looked at the bedside clock. It had a familiar face, but an unfamiliar casing. It was quarter to one in the morning. I’d no idea what time I’d gone to bed but I knew I’d not slept. I had to sleep, I was driving to Nottingham tomorrow, so I knew I needed to rest.

By the side of my bed, on a vaguely familiar wooden stool (from my childhood?) my brother had brought me a pile of paperbacks about grief from a friend. Stapled to the front of the book on top was a note from his friend. I glanced at it, but didn’t read it. I couldn’t face it. I wanted and needed to go to sleep.

There was a Phil Collins song in my head, but I couldn’t remember all the words, just snippets of lyrics “leave me alone with my heart…I wish I could write a love song”; parts of the melody, piano chords.

I was laid on the edge of our bed at home, the wooden frame edge digging into my hip. For some reason, my brother lay next to me in between me and Trace.  I asked him to move in a little. I think he was awake, I wasn’t sure. I could see Trace couldn’t sleep either and she was on her iPad, the light of the screen and of her jigsaw puzzle game reflecting up, her back to me.

Molly our daughter was in the room in another bed, I think, as if our bedroom was a family room.  They’d been to see a client yesterday (they’d had to cover for me for some reason) and were talking about how well the meeting had gone. They were pleased with themselves. The client was British Airways, who were worried about their brand getting sold to one of their competitors, all who’d seen a 40% rise in revenues, they told me. We talked in hushed tones for a while. I took the piss out of them for not asking for their budget and payment terms, like Trace would ask of me.

But still, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up. I was listening to Trace and Molly talk quietly about their day. It felt infinitely normal, almost peaceful, but with the edge of tension that sleeplessness brings. I started to fold a pair of gym shorts that were now dry on the radiator.

It was then I realised there was a single bed next to ours and Beth was in it, sat up in bed, watching me as I folded the shirts, smiling, listening to our conversation. Her hair was a mix of blonde and blue dye, as she’d had over the years she’d lived as a student in London. She watched me calmly in silence.

I heard noises and laughter and the front door opening and slamming shut.

“Who’s that?” I asked Trace.

“I don’t know.” she replied.

I stood by the bedroom door as Beth watched me from her bed, a reassuring smile on her gentle face.

I pulled open the door and there, on the landing, were a couple of Izzy’s friends, dressed in towels, as if they were about to get a shower. Their skin was pale, but coloured, as though they’d been in a dry paint fight. They looked surprised to see my surprise, as though I’d known they’d be staying the night and coming home late.

Then Izzy walked in from her room, chatting away as ever and laughing. She too was dressed in a towel, her skin less coloured and more pale.

I instantly pulled her into our bedroom. She stood in front of me. She was looking at me like I was acting weird. Like everything was normal, what was I playing at?

I touched her arms. I felt the softness of her skin, the ridges of the scar on her right arm.

“You’re here!” I said loudly.

“What you on about?” she replied, giving me her quizzical look.

I pulled her towards me. I held her. I hugged her. I felt her warmth, her breathing. I started to get upset. The touch of her skin, softness. I started to cry.

I thought, ‘This is real. I can’t get to sleep. I’m awake. This is real.’

I pulled back, holding her arms still. We were face to face, close. I looked into her eyes. She was looking at me like I was gone out.

Then I woke up…

In front of me was an unfamiliar wall of wooden paneling, cream curtains, a faint yellowy light, darker than our bedroom at home, white cotton duvet. I realised I was in room 14, L’Cottage hotel, Morzine, in the French Alps.  Trace was awake next to me. I wasn’t at home with Izzy and with Beth and Molly. I was awake.

Then I cried…

This is the most vivid, lucid dream I’ve had about Beth and Izzy. I guess it was a mesh of reality (on holiday, 3am, not able to sleep, but as it turned out, I nodded off) and a sense of deep, deep longing for them to be alive. For them to be here, to be home. For life to be normal and mundane again.

I guess the biggest shame was, even awake, I couldn’t get the Phil Collins song out of my head. Turns out it’s ‘You Know What I Mean’.

“Just as I thought I’d make it
You walk back into my life
Just like you never left.”

“I wish I could write a love song
To show you the way I feel.”

 

This day, one year ago, we drove over the Pennines to Terminal 1, Manchester Airport, just like many other parents have done and many other parents will do, to drop their beloved off, to go backpack around South East Asia.

All perfectly normal.

Iz and Beth had their new bags packed. Their flight clothes on. They sat in the back of the car and joked about the music they’d want played at their funerals. I told them to f@&k off and didn’t listen.  (Beth’s jokes usually involved deciding between having monkey arms or no arms at all).

All perfectly normal.

Once their bags were through, Izzy wanted the ubiquitous ‘send off selfie’ and we all posed in front the Helvetica airport signs.

Izzy cried. She was, after all, only just 19 and this adventure would be by far the longest she’d been away from home comforts. Beth, a more seasoned traveller and 24, degree’d up but indecisive about her life ahead of her, smiled and said ‘love you’.

All perfectly normal. 

That was the last time we saw them.

The last time we held them. The last time we kissed them. The last time we felt their breath.

We had no conceivable, imaginable idea that this intimate, family huddle would be all over the Tabloids in weeks to come. Life was still ‘Before’.

It’s quiet down here now, without you.

I so miss your noise, your constant clatter, chatter and banter. You never did shut up. AND, you never won the ‘Let’s see who can be quiet for the longest’ game, did you?

Your energy, your vitality, your spark and sparkle, your thirst for life, for horses, for cars, for fun, for laughter, for life, is no more. And I miss it.

I miss you Iz.

On the day you were born in Jessops Hospital, 20 years ago today, I wrote this down in my filofax. And for 20 years I’ve kept it tucked away, for keepsake.  I don’t remember ever showing it you.  You’d have been embarrassed, but deep down, I hope, warmed by my love for you.

I miss you Iz.

And you knew it and you milked it, and I didn’t mind. You were the apple of my eye.  You were the love of my life. You are the love of my life. I will never love again like I love you.

I miss you Iz.

And here’s one of our favourites. And now, our love song. Play it loud Iz, you always did.

Happy Birthday Isobel Mackensie Squire, Izzy, Iz, Squizz. Baba. Our baby.

Forever 19, Forever Young.

I miss you. xx

Time. That infinite, indefinite presence that lies ahead of you.

It offers up all your possibilities, all your hopes and all the things you put off today because, of course, you can do them tomorrow. It repeats itself, a constant clock ticking. It’s ever there, as sure as the sun rising on a rainy New Years day. It offers hope, future, newness.

I had so much time. Time to come. Things to be done. Lists to tick. We had all the time in the world to talk things through, mull things over, make amends, make resolves, say what I really wanted to say, air the important things. My lifetime and Beth and Izzy’s lifetime stretched endlessly on in front of us all.

And we planned and they schemed. All 5 of us were going skiing this Christmas. For sure. Izzy was scheduling her stationary shopping trip for Uni, her place secured, her halls booked. Beth was, well, as was Beth, thinking of travelling somewhere, not sure where, after Izzy came home (April 13th 2016, Flight EY021 from Abu Dhabi, Manchester Terminal 1). In a Skype call they announced their next trip was to Iceland. Cue joke about frozen food stores.

That was then. That was Before.
Now is now. Now is After.
Time has been reset, remeasured.

Now, time stretches on ahead, in endless, directionless slow motion, whilst they are fixed, frozen in a moment, forever 19 and 24, forever young. And the gap between Before and After gets ever wider as the weeks and the months and soon, the years roll on.

For the record, no, time isn’t the great healer.

I looked up.
The sky was there.
Same as yesterday.
Same as it ever was.
This morning, a constant cloud.

So I took a picture.
08:03, 27 February 2016.
Over that weekend, Week 1, people changed their profiles to this picture.
Just an early morning Winter sky.

And I came to a thought.

The sky was the same that day.
The stars were the same that night.
Did they see the sky that day?

The sky was the same that day.
I doubt they noticed.
I didn’t notice either.

But now I look up.

 

A obvious one this one really, but somehow this one failed to register with me for weeks and weeks, after 26 February 2016.

There are patterns and habits of everyday daily life. Normal, mundane, inconsequential things you do without thinking about them. Without really being aware of them.

Stretching. Yawning. Going for a wee. Radio 4, kettle on, coffee. You get the picture, I don’t need to go on.
Then there are bigger regularities and rhythms of life. Work, weekends, washing days, ironing catch-up, family Sunday lunches, work rotas, counting the weeks to a holiday. Patterns, albeit irregular at times, but still patterns.

When Beth and Iz went, we’d prepared ourselves, to some extent, for them not being at home. For a temporary pattern. I’d written a card to Trace to say, hey, it’s gonna be a bit weird without them, without anyone else in the house, but, heck this is an opportunity. Something to embrace.

Date nights maybe? Let’s try out some new restaurants, starting with that new boutique burger place.

I had it in my mind I wanted to show Izzy (“Get out of your comfort zone dad”) that, yes, life had moved on here too, things had changed. It wasn’t just you having the the time of your life, the trip of a lifetime.

I started to go to the gym 3 rather than 2 times a week. We bought a new kitchen sink bowl. Minnie had her first dog haircut. (Izzy got upset when I sent a picture. She wanted her to be all puppy and fluffy.)
Then on February 26 2016, everything stopped, everything. Abruptly.

So, so abruptly.

So now I sit on the living room floor, where I sit to watch TV. I look at the sofa and see them there. Their outlines, watching TV. Joking. Complaining. Their beautiful, everyday selfs.

I pass Izzy’s room and she’s sat in the red chair (she hated her red chair) putting her mark-up on, in her towel. ‘Go away!’ she says.

I go up to Beth’s room and knock on the door. Grunt. And she’s there, curled up in bed, half asleep, as ever. Murmur, grunt. I leave her there.

These are everyday rhythms that are not there, and there’s nothing to replace them. There’s no shape or projection to the future. It’s like Google has suddenly disappeared. No short or long term trajectory.

There are no patterns, plans or rhythms to life.

Nothing is normal, nothing will ever be normal again.

And I, we, a dramatically shrunk family, have to find new patterns, plans and rhythms, without them, but with their ghosts, who live inside us.

I’ve woken up from the anaesthetic to find something deep inside me has been surgically removed. Ripped out of me, without an NHS consent form.

Something, somewhere in the middle of my chest, amongst my organs, muscles, fat and circulating blood. I can feel it. I can feel the gap, the space where it used to be. It’s close to my lungs, I think, or is it just that when I breathe deeply, I can more easily feel where it was?

There’s definitely something in me that’s not there now. Some vital organ, some biological function, although we never learnt its name in CSE Biology classes (perhaps it was only on the O’ Level syllabus?) it’s definitely not there anymore.

Seriously, I kid you not. Whatever it is, it’s left the building.

And its loss, the space, the void where it used to be is ever present.

Sure, I can choose to ignore it, distract myself with mundanity, or just ‘get on with life’, but if I stop, even just for a second, I can feel the hole, feel the breeze blowing through.

It’s like watching a TV series about to draw to a climax and the recording stops abruptly. Like making a jigsaw and when you get to the end, some vital, last few remaining pieces are missing. Like a book with the final chapter missing, like a long laboured script you’ve been working on and it fails to save. Like I can imagine an amputee must feel.

I remember in Week 1, a day or so after they died, holding my hand up in front of me and looking at my palm. I’m alive, I thought. This podgy, almost square hand, this wrinkled, poor example of a human hand – is alive, actually alive. Later in Week 2, the day before their funeral) we touched Izzy and Beth’s hands, under the protective blankets and wraps of the Medico Legal Centre, their home when we brought them home from Vietnam.

In the west of Tokyo there is a park called Yoyogi Park. In Yoyogi Park there is a long, wide and winding gravel walkway to a Shinto shrine, the Meiji Shrine.

Now, in Week 36, I went there, knowing that I’d feel the breeze blowing through the hole in my soul. I needed to go. I stood on the gravel and cried and looked at the sky.

I learnt the Shinto water cleansing ritual. And cried.

I found the Nai-en garden and sat and looked at the ornamental pond, as the morning rain evaporated in the afternoon sun. And I cried.

 

My identity is lost and not found. How I define myself, My Essence. Ergo, my ego.

Maybe its name is Soul?

 

Crying now feels normal, part of my day. Not a very rare event like it was before Week 1, perhaps once or twice a year at most. No, now crying is an everyday thing, it’s what I do, like yawning when I’m tired, stretching when I’m stiff, shivering when I feel a chill.

In the darkness of a Future Laboratory event at Shoreditch Town Hall, two rows back, triggered by my introduction to circular fashion – a name put to something Beth believed in passionately, before it had a name.

Regularly, on a vinyl sketching mat at the Hallamshire Tennis and Squash club gym, starring at the suspended ceiling lights or at the clouds framed in the skylight. (Exercise seems to be a significant trigger, a physical release that connects to an emotional release).

In Izzy’s Mario Mini, to Daft Punk (The Soundtrack to My Grief) driving to somewhere, driving back from somewhere, where, in the cocooned shelter of a Mini One interior where the world can’t see or hear me, it comes out in floods and shudders and occasionally in screams. (At traffic lights in Sharrow a passer-by was visibly alarmed by one particularly vocal recall to rage)

On the dark side of a car park, away from the flood lights of Baldwin’s Omega Ballroom, at a memorial dinner for Izzy, when I felt the air was running out of any usable oxygen and I needed to get outside where I could be on my own, where I could loosen my tie and breath again, propped up by a red brick wall, as the music played on and my tears rolled down.

In the queue for a beard trim sat on the barber’s shop bench surrounded by lads and barber shop boys banter, with eyes down, to avoid any embarrassment on anyone’s part.

On a train to rural Leicestershire on Father’s Day (an obvious annual Trigger Day, never really bothered about it before, to be honest) reading a letter from Ellie, writing to me as a newly found friend and fellow griever, connecting with her words as the significance of the day lit up and the tears poured down.

All too frequently in supermarket isles, realising there’s no one to call to ask if they’re in or out tonight and if they want anything, other than the usual, and chocolate, which is a given.

Listening to Happiness (‘take me back to happiness’) by Crooked Man, my friend’s new album. A rip roaring house anthem, written to lift and soar and rise and ascend. (Instead, it brought on the biggest wave I’d felt for a long time).

On a British Airways flight to Tokyo, writing this, listening to Future Real and True (‘when the stars fade from view’), glancing at the dimming light on the horizon, thinking about watching their flight to Bangkok on an airline tracking App, not worrying, not worrying at all, just missing them gently, like you’re supposed to miss someone you love, gently.