Warning: if anyone reads this, it’s not pretty. You have been warned.
First Aid course today… and during bloody CPR I had to do mouth-to-mouth on a dummy, and the instant I sealed my mouth around the plastic it brought back a wave of remembrance and feeling so strong I could feel my heart begin to race, and smell rose in my mouth, I gagged again, and I had to stop. Now I’m just back where I was the day after, seeing it again and again, hearing all the sounds, the clamminess of his lips under mine, the mucus and the smell of feotid vomit that made me choke and cough, and the warm part-rotten smell that rose from his throat as he exhaled… or his body exhaled, at that point. But again, it’s all about me, isn’t it? It’s all ultimately selfish emotion, even the guilt at not being able to do more. I really thought I’d got over this and put it behind me, but there’s some sort of scar left, a scar that I’m not even aware of, that creeps up at the worst possible moments. I had to sit alone and quietly during the break, all the emotion swirling in my body again, making me physically sick, and I still feel like that. It’s practically neurotic. It’s not like he was the first person I saw die; and not the first truma I’ve been through, but it’s stuck to me more than anything else I can recall in my life. I still can’t listen to The Boxer without feeling a twinge of it, and if I’m feeling a little vulnerable at the moment, I cry. Simple as that.
I think I need to go for a walk – the universal Brockwood solution to all problems.