![]() What’s more, Gill – now 70 years old – works for ellenor. ![]() I didn’t want to go again, but I’d promised – and I wanted to keep that promise.”įive years on, and Gill still attends the Bereavement Cuppas. But at the end, the lady running it asked if I’d come back next week, and I said yes. “When I first went to the Bereavement Cuppa,” she explains, “I thought ‘this isn’t for me.’ I didn’t want to be there. It’s a safe, supportive space where bereaved people can come together to sit and chat with people on similar journeys. One lifeline came in the form of ellenor’s Bereavement Cuppa. But when you get home, the makeup comes off – and the sadness comes back.” But actually, it’s like you’re wearing a mask: you go on stage, you perform. “People ask you if you’re fine, and you say ‘yes’. Then, you put the key in the door and it’s such a lonely place. One minute you’re on a high because you’re out enjoying yourself. “I didn’t like going home, because it was back to that empty house. Then as it is today, Gill’s grief was raw: her loneliness, profound. I cuddled him on the bed for a while, and didn’t realise he’d slipped away.” Near the end, a nurse told me not to go to stay and spend some time with him. “Michael was under ellenor’s care for six weeks. In 2016, however – after beating three different cancers and surviving a stroke – Michael passed away. Gill and the man, Michael (soon to be just ‘Mick’ to her), would go on to be married for 40 years, and raise seven children together. Gill – a mother of two – responded that she was the mum, and the two bantered. Standing on the threshold was a man from British Gas, there to check the meter.Ĭharming and cheeky, he asked if Gill’s Mum was in. Gill, 20, heard a knock on the front door.
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