The Book I'm Determined to Finish Because I Want to Tell Paul About It

I have a rubbish memory for facts.

It was bad before Paul died, but it's awful now.

I can remember my diary, the life admin that needs doing, and the car registration of my dad's car from when I was eight.

ORP 559V. A Gold Ford Cortina.

But factual information I've just read?

Absolutely no chance.

Take a visit to a museum. I'll happily walk around reading everything in front of me. I'll be completely engrossed.

Then, five minutes later, you could ask me what I've just learned and I would literally have no idea.

It's as if my brain looks at factual information and says:

"No thanks. We don't need that."

I definitely advise you not to pick me for your pub quiz team.

Or use me as your Phone a Friend on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Unless the question is about a gold Ford Cortina registered ORP 559V.

Then I've got you covered.

Paul thought it was hilarious

I could blame some of this on grief.

And I'm sure some of it probably is.

But I definitely can't blame all of it on grief.

Paul had an amazing memory and used to laugh at my inability to retain any information.

He first discovered quite how bad it was when we went on our first holiday to Cornwall.

We stopped in Bodmin and visited the Smuggling Museum at Jamaica Inn.

I did what I always do in museums.

I read everything.

I took it all in.

Or at least I thought I did.

Later, we were having a drink in the bar when Paul started asking me questions about what we'd just seen.

Then he asked me who wrote Jamaica Inn.

I had absolutely no idea.

Paul thought this was hilarious.

He was also slightly baffled that I could read something so intensely and then, five minutes later, be completely unable to tell him anything about it.

But Paul was determined that at least one piece of information from that museum visit was going to stick.

And that piece of information was:

Daphne du Maurier wrote Jamaica Inn!

Neither of us had ever read the book.

But somehow, over the years, Daphne du Maurier became the one piece of trivia that actually managed to lodge itself permanently in my brain.

Then Paul died

And suddenly my memory became even worse.

I've really struggled with reading over the past 18 months.

My mind wanders.

I'll read a few pages and realise I've been thinking about something completely unrelated.

Sometimes I fall asleep.

Sometimes I'll get to the end of a chapter and realise I've absorbed absolutely none of it.

And sometimes I just don't have the concentration for reading at all.

Which is frustrating when you used to love it.

But there is one book I've been determined to read.

Jamaica Inn.

Because after Paul died, I decided it was finally time.

I'd spent years being able to tell him that Daphne du Maurier wrote it.

Now I wanted to actually read the bloody thing.

And when I finish it, I'll finally be able to tell him all about it.

Obviously, I can't.

But in my head, I can already imagine his response.

Probably something along the lines of:

"About bloody time."

Why is reading so difficult after losing your partner?

I think this is one of those strange little things about grief that doesn't get talked about enough.

Sometimes it's difficult to concentrate.

Sometimes your brain feels full and empty at the same time.

You can watch something familiar because it doesn't require much effort.

But picking up a book and following a story for several hundred pages?

That can feel like hard work.

And I think that's okay.

I've stopped expecting myself to read in the way I did before Paul died.

I don't have to finish a book quickly.

I don't have to remember every detail.

I don't even have to read every day.

If I manage a few pages, that's enough.

And if my brain decides that the only information worth retaining today is the registration number of a Ford Cortina from the 1980's then that's what we'll work with.

But the problem is that I miss getting absorbed in to a book.

Grieving is constant, it always sits there. Some days you can move with it and some days you can't.

Reading is a way to escape from grief.

It enables you to live in a different world that doesn't revolve around sadness.

Rest your thoughts for a few minutes or hours.

And I miss that.

But the minute I pick up a book my mind heads off to thinking about so many other things.

So I need to work out a way to reintroduce reading back into my life.

Which brings me to this month's Book Club

Every month inside Letters After Loss, we do something together.

Not because I think another activity is going to magically make grief easier.

But because I know how easy it is for life after loss to become very small.

So we create reasons to do things.

Reasons to turn up.

Reasons to talk to people.

Reasons to put something in the diary.

And this month, we're reading.

The book I've chosen for September's LAL Book Club is Floating Solo by Shelley Wilson.

Shelley has written a number of books, and this will be the second one of hers that I've read.

And I'm hoping that this time my brain will cooperate.

Although I'm making no promises.

I may get to the end and remember absolutely nothing about the plot.

But that's okay.

Because the book isn't really the point.

The connection is.

It's having something to talk about.

Something to look forward to.

A reason to spend time with other women who understand what it's like to build a life after losing someone you love.

That's what I want Letters After Loss to be.

Not a place where we're constantly talking about grief.

A place where we can live alongside it.

Read a book.

Have a laugh.

Make something.

Try something new.

Meet someone.

Make a friend.

Have a reason to look forward to next month.

Because life after loss can still contain all of those things.

And sometimes, starting with a book is enough.

Although if there's a pub quiz coming up, don't put me on your team.

Unless there's a question about a gold Ford Cortina with the registration ORP 559V

Then I've got you covered.