Countdown to Closure

Sensitive content note: This story deals with cancer, death, grief and loss.

I woke up with a terrific hangover, thanks to that gigantic bottle of Jamiesons you bought for show. Wiping the sludge from my eyes after last night’s pity-me fest. Sunlight streamed through the bathroom window and into the loungeroom, biting at my eyes. The shower was waiting; its floor dry from lack of use. Such a stupid, wasteful invention for this thing called grief. It doesn’t belong in a morning like this, my sadness overlooked by such a meaningless contraption.

Thankfully, I’d managed to grab those extra packing boxes and tape from Bunnings, with the help of family and friends. But I needed to pack alone. Distinguish what sentimental items we’d built up over the years amongst the throwaways. It was a difficult venture because sometimes the two were a fine line between the sentimentalities and the things we were willing to let go.

Where do I bloody start? I haven’t even made a dint.

I walked over to shut the bathroom door, forcing it shut as it stuck at the hinge from condensation. I shuffled from room to room in a dazed, mechanical fashion, my legs sore, like I’d just run a marathon. That burning pain on my right kneecap had, until now, remained ignored. My clothes were still on from the day before. But I didn’t care.

I reached down to touch the rip I’d created in my jeans and flinched from the pain. A dry, bloodied welt below my knee and a purplish bruise adorned it.

The words, “Oh no,” left my lips as I shamefully remembered the antics I’d caused the night before. I’d tripped over Simon’s patio table, causing one of its legs to snap as the ashtray toppled onto the ground, strewing its contents. Something more I needed to apologise for later. I’ll just add it to the repertoire.

I could barely remember getting home. An Uber, I think.

It felt like forever since I started packing up your belongings. It’d only been a week, but I needed to do this strategically; label each box methodically, at my own pace. Unlike the unorganised chaos you would create, made known after moving house. Never being able to find the right box as we unpacked because you never bloody labelled things. I mused at the thought and voiced it aloud as if somehow, you’d hear me.

We’d been separated so long now that the notion of room for two sat uncomfortably where once it came naturally. Whether it was the denial of letting each other go, we held on for that day we’d rebuild another life together, as opposite as we were. That opposite worked well for us, until it ended up grinding against the grain; arguments that arose over the most trivial things.

Thirty years must have left us with some kind of legacy, right? It was all a vague dream meant now for someone else.

Remembering I’d forgotten to make my morning coffee led me to thoughts of your morning ritual as you served me coffee in bed. Which led me to another memory of how much you knew me — my likes and dislikes. The buttons you knew to push to get a rise out of me. Then another memory to override the last one, then another. I had to shut it out. Distractions that took no effort at all. Distraction and I made for good friends.

I don’t know whether to love or hate that comment you made when I asked you what you wanted me to do with your stuff. You replied that you didn’t care because you didn’t need it where you were going. Ha bloody ha.

Now it was my burden to salvage through and box up and bag before your house could be re-leased. Thankfully, your landlord was lenient and had a heart. But money is money, and I promised you I wouldn’t take advantage of his generosity.

“F” you, cancer!

I couldn’t put off bagging your clothing any longer. Every time I started on them, my heart actually ached. I could feel it hurting. Maybe there really is something to broken heart syndrome.

I grabbed my mobile phone and went for Spotify, my daytime remedy of choice. Let the music distract me from my thoughts. It was the only thing that could.

I forced myself into it, going through your wardrobe, no more excuses. For some reason, it ended up not being too difficult. Maybe it had something to do with not throwing the clothes away into a charity bin. Now that would be hard.

I found your laudanum tucked away safely on your highest shelf. Your pain relief. The thing that had helped you get through those days when the cancer made your body hurt.

I held the bottle in my hand and stared at it. Your reliance on it became your obsession. Afraid it would be taken away from you when it was the only relief that kept you from going insane. The fact that you no longer needed it makes me smile for you. I couldn’t bring myself to return the bottle from where it had been dispensed, deciding to put it back until everything else was done. I’d leave that one for last and put it with the two crates of medications that were supposed to prolong everything until they found a cure.

Emptying your fridge was the hardest thing I had to do, which I did not expect would be. Reaching for that leftover avocado and cheese. That half-sliced tomato; your last meal. It clawed at my throat and stabbed at my heart.

For crying out loud, it was only bloody food.

I wanted to cower into a corner and lose control again. Sob until I fell to sleep. But it was only me, and crying was exhausting and wouldn’t get this job done. I can almost hear you telling me to snap out of it, as you sometimes did.

I couldn’t face the kitchen anymore and decided I’d try the loungeroom instead.

I grabbed a box and assembled it. The sound of the packing tape grated my nerves as I stretched it out before cutting it free. It was a sturdy box, so I decided on stacking it with the remaining books from the bookshelf before sealing it over and labelling its contents.

I did the same for the next carton and came across a photo album that sat hidden under a box of old documents. Full of photos of us together, walking the Sydney Harbour Bridge after we’d just met. Silly, childish photos that spoke of giddy flirtation, taken with the old Canon that you inherited from me. Then there’s the photo you took of me in bed. I looked a sight, but you said I looked gorgeous. It was the pregnancy photo when we holidayed in New Zealand.

You’d be so proud of our sons. They’ve given me the space to pack. Space for my thoughts. Space to be alone with you. Then, after work, they load the trailer and deliver everything to storage.

It was always the four of us. I sigh. The three of us make a bloody good team, but it’s the number four that I miss. How I want that number four. More than anything.

You know, I finally understand what our legacy is.

It was never these photo albums.

It was never the ring you gave me for my twenty-eighth birthday.

It was never the things we owned or the things we collected along the way.

It was them. Our boys. We did that. We made them. That’s the biggest legacy of all.

They’ve told me how losing you changed the way they look at mortality. How quickly life can be taken away. How one minute you’re here, and the next, you’re not. They are such considerate young men.

* * *

Two weeks have passed. I look around at what we’ve achieved. I hope you like what we’ve done. Now it’s just an empty house, and I’ve finished the last of the cleaning. It was only a month ago, at this very time, you were sitting in your lounge chair, drinking your favourite mocha and playing your Solitaire app while watching Netflix.

I panic at how quickly time has passed, brushing my tears away. All the traces of you are now gone from this house, ready to take on new life. And now I must leave you forever.

The boys have just arrived to help me lock up here. We don't have a hell of a lot to say as we gather the cleaning products. It feels so strange without you as we prepare to leave for the final time.

They both put their arms around me. I hesitate, but they gently steer me towards the door.

“Come on, Mum. Let’s go.”

I look back one last time as we step outside.

“Bye, Dad,” we call out before locking the door behind us.