Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
The Universe feels very interconnected sometimes. In the past few days grief has dominated my thoughts. In particular my thoughts have been occupied by how to comfort someone when they are in pain. And today I met three women who seem to be hurting, deeply.
At work the other day I saw Paul and knew something was wrong. He was different, vacant looking. He’s working this year to save up money to explore America with his best friend, his lifelong buddy. They leave in a month. I ran into David who told me. Then I ran to Paul. His friend was hit by a car the previous day. He didn’t make it. Hearing Paul say the words, looking into his eyes that were dimmer than I’ve ever seen them I would have done anything to be able to place my hand on his chest and heal what I envisaged as a black void. A deep, empty, soulless space. A black hole of barely comprehended sadness, the shock and disbelief still mingled amongst it that had sucked all the light from his eyes.
Because I love to read, my first thought was of all the books, words, authors, songs, that have helped me. Nothing seemed appropriate. Some things don’t heal. Sometimes you have to wake up every day for years with the stomach sickening emptiness that makes you feel like living moment to moment isn’t truly feasible. This type of grief takes its toll.
I’m going to see Paul this week and I still haven’t decided on the right words. One of the ladies referenced above mentioned memorising poetry as a remedy for grief. She spoke of Shakespeare’s “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summers Day?” That’s one I’ve actually memorized. It’s sweet and loving and certainly readable as a eulogy, a tribute. I don’t think Paul is there yet. His friend got hit by a car. He died and nothing can make that okay. “Veronica Decides to Die” once saved my life. Maybe that will work?
Later in the day, with Paul’s sadness bruising my heart, I sat at the train station waiting for an Upfield line that I fervently hoped would materialise. The possibility that it would simply never arrive is very real. My view of the platform opposite was obscured by the crush of people trying to get home. The woman next to me was having a conversation so loud I could hear it over my audiobook. She stood up suddenly, shouting, and I glared unsubtly at what I assume to be the beginnings of a scene. It is when I hear other people’s screams join with hers in a growing cacophony of panic and distress that I ripped the headphones from my ears and, being very nosy by nature, push myself to the platform’s edge. For a split second I am in limbo, I don’t understand, and then I do. There is a girl standing on the tracks, a fact made horrifying by the oncoming train. People keep screaming and I hear myself from a distance yelling “NO” as I run for the escalator. The atmosphere changes and a cheer rings out as a young Indian man with a baby face jumps onto the tracks and hauls this slip of a girl back on to Platform 6. The horn on the train is still blaring, joined by the girls screams as she fights with her words and her fists and her anger to escape the unwanted hands of her saviour and get back in front of a train.
I run up the escalator with my hands over my ears like a child trying to block out everything that’s scary about the world, but with an adult compulsion to do something, anything, to help. I know the station is covered with met cops but I can’t identify a single one. I run to the first person with a metro uniform and tell him to call the police because there’s a girl on the tracks, well… she’s off the tracks, but I don’t know for how long. He takes an interminable minute to process what I’m saying. I can see him assessing me, unsure whether to listen, whether I’m telling the truth. “The police” he nods and turns from me. Terrified of what I might find I head to Platform 6. The girl, her name is Cindy, continues to fight the now three men desperately trying to anchor her.
Cindy’s arms are a mess. She’s cut them to pieces. Not too deeply I notice, but the cuts are not superficial either. She’s on the floor, bent forward, and I kneel down, and she’s fighting, and I look her in the eye and I promise her it will get better. She quietens for just a moment and looks at me. So I just keep lying. I coo to her like she’s a fraught and colicky baby. I tell her life will improve, pain can be lessened. Her grief, for that’s what it is, is red hot and desperate and I wish I had a hand of cooling balm I could plunge straight into her chest to soothe the red hot, burning, overpowering grief.
I tell her I’ve been where she is and try desperately to think of what someone could have said to me. She’s so young, maybe sixteen. And I don’t believe she truly wants to die and I know she’s hurting too badly to live. She has a roaring heart, only the lion in her chest is wounded. The police come, officialdom in blue. Cindy is handcuffed and the Indian man with the little boy’s face is sitting there, holding her hand and stroking her hair. He is pure love and in that moment I love him back.
As I walk away, hot and tearful, I can’t hold on to that kind and beautiful man. All I can think I that I’m a liar. Things get better, and then they get worse. I promised her it was worth living. I promised her and she heard me and I hope to God she believes me. Because on my worst days I don’t know that I do.