I Can Write, But I Can't Read.

You’d think that you couldn’t do one without the other wouldn’t you?

On Monday 23 Oct 17, in the early hours of the morning, I was sat on Evie’s bed in San Sebastian, she was in a lot of pain. I started to read a story to her. The only suitable one on my iPad was ‘The Great Gatsby’. As I read, it became apparent that it wasn’t distracting her from the pain and so we took her to A&E. You know the rest.

During our 8 days in intensive care in Spain, Evie was in an induced coma and when I was with her I sat and read an enormous tome on Napoleon’s attack on, and subsequent retreat from, Moscow. Once back home, we focused on Evie’s treatment and I didn’t read anything other than letters or cards to her. Since that time, over 2 years, I have been completely unable to read a book. I used to read a huge amount, particularly books on military history. Now, I even struggle to read an article in the newspaper. For me, reading is associated with Evie in pain. I can’t do it at all. I picked up Anthony Beevor’s book on Arnhem, and managed two pages, that was it. I don’t know if I will ever read again for pleasure. Right now it is just beyond me. In fact it is more than that, it is almost impossible for me to focus on a book. My mind won’t let me do it. My eyes see the words, the shapes, but nothing else.

Yet here I am writing a blog, have been writing Wednesday Wisdoms for over a year, and have written one book and have started a second. I’m now more careful about what I write and that means that I proof read them again and again. How does that work then? I can’t read a book for pleasure, but I can write about the most painful event of my life. If I read a novel, my brain disengages and I stop ‘reading’ even though my eyes pass over the words. The words don’t go in. But when I proof read the book, I focused on every syllable.

Evie loved reading. She usually had several books on the go at any one time. She loved writing stories too, so you might think that reading might reinforce a connection to her in some way.

I’ve spoken to other bereaved parents that read to escape to another world, another character free from their grief, their loss. A world where they can live another’s life for a little while. I can’t do it. I can’t even read books on grief. Yet I have written one. There’s nought as queer as folk, as they say.

Answers on a postcard please.

Confused of Melksham.