Womans Best Friend?

It’s funny how sometimes it can be a completely innocent remark, a throw away comment, which can make the world seem right again or alternatively throw you over the edge. A strangers’ greeting, or a gesture from a passer by, and the dynamic of the day can tilt and bend unnervingly.

And so it is today. Coming out of the shops to untie the dog, he does his usual manic, loving, sloppy-kissed greeting; indignant that I left him for a full ten minutes but also wholly and heartily excited to have me back. He almost knocks me over with enthusiasm but my well experienced stance ensures my knee remains firmly on the ground as I unhook him from the post whilst simultaneously wiping away his spittle from my cheek with my sleeve.

“Well, someone’s delighted to see you!” reflects a voice above me.  I look up to an elderly woman,  her little handbag clasped in her gnarled, arthritic hands and her smile beaming at me and the dog.

I nod and smile as she continues walking, but her words have struck a place so deep I didn’t even know it was there.  And so here I am on a bright Saturday afternoon, standing in the middle of Nutgrove car park, my dog jumping at my legs, and tears pouring down my cheeks. I can’t move; my grief and loneliness, the emptiness which is all my arms have felt in too long, engulfing me.

The pieces have suddenly clicked into place, an unspoken question has just been answered.  I have connected pieces which I previously never considered to be related.  My chest tightens as I realise that my interminable sadness is not just about Yer Man and my loneliness for him. It’s also the ever widening gulf between my beloved children and I.  With their growing years and the inevitable teenage behaviours, have come patterns of engagement which are characterised by minimal conversation; a reluctance to be in my company; the absence of physical affection or contact; me sitting at an empty kitchen table contemplating the plates scraped clean and the hastily abandoned empty chairs.

I’m tactile. I like to be held and to hold. Even at my most exhausted, I welcomed the sound of Paddys little feet at three or four in the morning as he crept into my bed and cuddled into me. I loved their good night kisses as I leant over their bed, and in more recent years, when they came to me to extend the night time gesture.  But  it’s all gone. The hugs; the small hand in mine; the cuddles in front of the TV or as sleep sets in.  I don’t take it personally; I don’t resent it but I regret it. And now, with the kindly gesture of an elderly lady passing me by, I realise that some of my grief is for my loss (albeit hopefully temporary) of them.  It’s been a double whammy in losing my partner and also realising the diminishing affection and embrace of my children. What if the old lady was right and the dog is my only source of affection?