I See Dead People. 5 Things I Learned From Being Bereaved

Just under ten years ago, my dad was admitted to hospital. He’d been at work and suddenly lost his voice. Then he’d gone home and discovered he couldn’t swallow.

They told him it was cancer, he was riddled with it, and there was little they could do. He was sent home with a load of high quality painkillers and a few weeks to live. I finished knitting him the socks I was planning on giving him for fathers’ day, and he wore them in bed. We said our goodbyes, and he went.

That summer, two more close relatives died. An older generation, both with dementia, it was almost a relief. Or least their deaths were the conclusion to long lives, well lived. But incredibly sad nonetheless.

Then a call came out of the blue. A man’s voice quietly explained that a friend — one of my oldest friends — had died suddenly, hit by a tube.

I’d been bereaved before. I’ve been bereaved since. I’ll be bereaved again. And here are five things I learnt from that summer of death.

1. I see dead people. And you probably do too.

When you’re recently bereaved, you’ll see someone in the street and think “oh, is that…” then you’ll catch yourself and realise no, it isn’t, of course it isn’t. They’re dead. And the hurt will hit you all over again.

You might have experienced something almost similar if you’ve been dumped or have a massive crush on someone. You will be thinking about the person in question a lot, even if you don’t realise it, so it’s probably not surprising you think you see them. It might be painful if you momentarily think you’ve seen your ex, but it’s a whole other level of heartbreaking if it’s someone who’s just died.

This can keep on happening for years afterwards. I guess we see people who look a bit like friends and family all the time, we realise it’s not them and go about our business, forgetting it ever happened. If it’s a dead person the tragedy of it hits, so we’re more conscious of it.

Whatever it is, it is bloody creepy. And totally normal.

2. Funerals can be a lot of fun.

The best party I ever went to was my dad’s funeral.

Yeah my brother’s second wedding was pretty awesome, or the houseparty themed around the being a dickhead’s cool video. But dad’s funeral was something else.

It was pissing down with midsummer rain and that sort of took the edge off, as did his slightly eccentric choice of music. Then we had a massive house party, with family and friends from all over. We got drunk and told stories and wept and wept and wept. It was quite surreal, quite painful and quite, quite lovely.

He’d spent a fair bit of his last few weeks planning it. Ever the warm and mischievous host, my old pa, his last party was brilliant.

3. You can get fearful it’ll happen again, it might.

After a long summer waiting for calls from my mum to tell me someone had finally, after weeks of holding on, died, I developed a slight phobia of the phone.

This wasn’t helped by the call about Ester. The phone rang. I was scared to answer in case it was bad news. I took a deep breath and told myself to pull myself together, it was probably nothing. And then I answered and it was something, it was the death of one of my oldest friends.

I found myself suffering from a low-level panicking that other people I cared about might die — my mum, brother, friends, partner, colleagues.I had to stop myself from being annoying and checking on people.

It passed eventually, though I guess I am still a bit funny about the phone. It’s irrational in many ways, but also totally understandable.

4. A sudden death is the worst.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over Ester dying.

Dad’s funeral might have been a blast, I couldn’t physically bring myself to Ester’s. I knew I’d just puke throughout, and none of the other mourners needed that. I don’t think I could even have dragged my body across town if I’d thought it was a good idea. Even her memorial service, a year on, was incredibly hard, whilst also being a great celebration of her life I’ll treasure forever. We were still reeling from her not being there. I’m still reeling from it.

No death is easy, but when it’s boom, gone, it’s just hard to rationalise, to get used to their absence. Saying goodbye is incredibly hard, excruciatingly so, but it’s so much better than the alternative.

Or at least that’s how it’s been for me.

5. It can hurt like nothing else on Earth.

When I rang round some others to tell them about Ester’s death, one friend wailed down the phone. Properly wailed. It was a noise I don’t think I’ve ever heard before, or since. But I’ll remember it until my own dying day, because, even if I couldn’t express myself like that, it was exactly how my insides were feeling.

It’s impossible to describe the pain of bereavement. Or if it is possible, I don’t have the words. Maybe wailing is the only way to do it. There were moments when it was especially sharp — the wailing moments — but it was a dull, ongoing, everyday pain too. The texture of life changed for a while, and not in a good way.

And yet, I coped. I’m sure there are other times in my life when deaths will be harder to deal with — other deaths, other contexts, other things going on in my life to stumble on — but all the ones I’ve had so far have been manageable.

It was hard, but there was something about the finality of it which made it easier to process, even if that same finality is exactly what made it so heart-stoppingly painful.