It is so hard to write a sympathy card.

I like words. They allow you to express your innermost feelings, distill your thoughts and emotions.

Unload, vent, purge.

But in the first few days after someone has passed, the darkest and bleakest of all the days that will follow, when words of comfort and support are so needed by all, they just can’t be found. At least, not the right ones.

When Dad died the shelves in our front room seemed to groan under the weight of the cards we were sent.

‘It will get easier’.

‘You must be so relieved that the pain is over’.

‘Your Dad was a fighter’.

All words written with the best of intentions but useless, pointless, when all you feel is anger and despair and pain.

I don’t care that it might get easier, it hurts now. It hurts so much I can hardly breathe. My eyes burn when I close them because I have cried so much. My whole body aches with exhaustion, this deep emotional fatigue that seems to eat away at me. I can’t get the image of his dead body out of my head. It looks like he’s sleeping.

I don’t care that the pain is over. I’m selfish. I want him back. He should never have had to endure it at all. Fuck you cancer. Fuck you. I hate you.

He fought. He raged. He never accepted he was dying. I knew it before he did. Before he would believe it. I saw it first. And the fighting wasn’t enough. And that’s just not fair.

You see, the words were all wrong.

The memories helped though.

I’ll always be grateful to the people that shared their stories about Dad with me. I try to surround myself with people that still do. I think memories, whether spoken or written or captured in photographs or on film, can offer the greatest comfort.

Somehow they say all the things the other words cannot.

This person was loved and we will miss them. It’s not fair that they’re gone and I hate the thing that has taken them from you, from me, from all of us. But we had the best of times.

At the funeral, two friends collected together memories from people that had worked with Dad during his long career as a film editor. As they choked back tears, Colin and Phillip shared tales of my father’s creativity, his skill, his warmth and his willingness to share, teach and encourage.

And now Colin is facing his own loss. His wife, our dear friend Anne, passed away yesterday morning. I am told by her husband that it was peaceful. But it was quick. Devastatingly so, in fact. Not even 10 days after receiving a cancer diagnosis his wife of 25-odd years is gone.

I cannot imagine not seeing her smile again.

I cannot picture Colin consumed by grief, shattered, broken by the pain of it all.

I’ve known them since before I was born. We’ve spent birthdays together and one cold Christmas in Scotland. A New Year party somewhere too. They came to my sister’s 21st and danced all night, with more energy and enthusiasm than the people half their age. I cry just thinking about how they’ll not dance at my wedding.

Always partying, dancing, singing, and usually in fancy dress. I’m sure that at 4 years old I secretly wished they were actually my parents. They were just so cool.

And there are no words. Rest in peace Anne. We miss you already.

Loveaudrey xxx