69. Three parallel stories

The endodontist rarely looked directly into my mouth. Instead, he looked through a super-magnifying piece of equipment, courtesy of an incredibly advanced technology. Its light was sharply focussed and sometimes tinted.

I felt no pain apart from the sharp prick of two initial anaesthetising injections.  I lay stretched out on a chair, quite comfortable and relaxed, but oddly detached from the two other people in the room. We were all muffled and wrapped up. I was the passive patient.

I was advised to bring music to distract me. Once I was numbed, I plugged in my earphones to listen to an audio book – James Kelman’s Dirt Road, published in 2016.

Throughout the treatment, which lasted 80 minutes, I was strangely taking part in two stories. In the real-life story I was in the dentist’s chair with my mouth wide open. Every now and again he paused while I swallowed. Occasionally he spoke to me explaining what he was going to do next.

This jerked me out of my second story, Dirt Road. As soon as the dentist’s eyes had moved out of my sightline, I was eyes closed, straight back into the audiobook, hoping I hadn’t missed anything. Both parallel stories were intense. No wonder I was tired by the end.

Dirt Road                                                                                                                                Murdo’s mother and sister had both died recently. He was 17. School did not work for him. He just wanted to make music. Here was a young man and his rather uncommunicative father making a musical journey to the American deep South. The first time they had crossed the Atlantic. They were visiting Scottish relatives in the early stages of their grief. It is a beautiful story – a journey of discovery, opportunity and grief. Murdo often comments on just how much his mother would have enjoyed the trip.

Once home, I lay down to rest and allow my numbness to wear off. I listened to the final episodes of Dirt Road. I was gripped by it.

Two overlapping stories                                                                                                    It was bizarre to be so consciously present in two parallel but overlapping stories – the invasive dental experience alongside the tale in the audiobook. The grief in the latter story made me think, not for the first time, how my grief has operated as two parallel stories. I could identify with Murdo’s experience, totally caught up within himself, yet also very aware of both his father’s emotional state and the novelty of being in the States.

Immediately after Robert’s death, I felt numb. Robert’s permanent absence hadn’t fully hit me. I withdrew, isolated within myself. I was with people, I had to make decisions but was this real? Was I starring in a dream? But life went on.

My new life without Robert has required considerable readjustment and change. It’s been a story of discovery and surprises. The accompanying story of grief and sorrow has run in the background with a regular chug, chug, chug.

These days the grief is no longer numbing but it’s still regular, though less insistent. No wonder bereavement is a tiring business!

The endodontist was pleased with how the treatment had gone. I was pleased it was over. I was also glad to have ‘read’ Dirt Road. These two experiences have shed light on my grieving process, two parallel stories that overlap with and enrich one another. I’m still travelling, not a dirt road but a long and winding one.

This is my story (maybe more than one) and a work in progress. I wrote this on 7^th March 2021.

PS: I was puzzling about this post as I walked home from the city centre today, 9th March, 2021. It came to me suddenly, “Only two stories, Ro? What about the third story, the ever-present one?” Originally the title of this post that ‘Two parallel stories’. I have now revised the title to ‘Three parallel stories’!

ooops…as Christ walked with his disciples on the road to Emmaus, the resurrected Jesus walks with me. He listens to my questions. He explains things. He gives me fresh insights as I make sense of Robert’s death. He comforts me. He keeps me company. So, there’s the story of the new shape of my life, the story of grief and don’t forget the story of my friendship with Christ.