Comfort in decay

I'm sorry. But shouldn't you send bouquets to people who've got something to celebrate like, you know, an anniversary or a new job or something? Not losing a bloody baby. I mean, what do flowers do anyway? Nothing. You know, they just sit there, reminding you of why they were sent to you, and then they die. Well I've got that to look forward to, haven't I?

Jenny, Cold Feet

This episode of Cold Feet where Jenny and Pete receive a barrage of bouquets after their miscarriage is one I use to illustrate why sympathy flowers are problematic. Cut flowers aren't plants, and they have a limited life.

I've heard stories of people who've taken immense comfort in the sympathy flowers that were given to them, and even some who took the funeral flowers back home. But I've also witnessed people's anger as they recounted people giving flowers when the person who died couldn't stand them, or distress as their home started to feel like a hospital room with bouquets and baskets everywhere, or the stress of running out of vases. (I recommend only sending sympathy flowers in a container that can be displayed.)

After Helen's funeral, most of the leftover flowers went to her family and friends. I had a few White O'Hara roses, feverfew, rosemary and Solomon's Seal. I put them in the blue Portmerion vase that Helen had seen displaying narcissi and delphiniums when she told me she was engaged.

I took great comfort in the scent of the roses. I would lean towards them and inhale deeply, as if they were an oxygen mask. A few years ago, my therapist friend Lisa Hardi recommended rose oil to me as it's nurturing and a heart-healer, and it is one of my favourite smells. It probably reminds me of carefree summers and the old roses in my childhood garden. The scent is so warming, sweet, and comforting.

However, there was a gradual change over the next week. The sweet scent that filled the room became more sour. The roses were decaying, and the hot weather was intensifying this. Cut flowers expend a lot of energy trying to stay alive, and scented flowers require more energy and consequently have a shorter life. But I took comfort from them, these physical reminders of that heartbreaking day. I should have thrown the roses out and just kept the daisy-like feverfew, but I didn't want to. I wanted to keep the roses as long as possible, and I don't know how to explain why, but I felt secure when I smelled the decaying flowers each morning. The only comparison I can make is with The Bell Jar, when Esther wears the same borrowed blouse and skirt for weeks and describes the unwashed smell as "sour but friendly". (I'm not in Esther-ville though, don't worry.)

One day I'd been weeding in the afternoon heat, and as I sat indoors resting afterwards, I wondered what the terrible smell was. I thought it was my clothes after kneeling on the ground and handling earth and weeds. Then I realised it was the flowers, and it was definitely time to say goodbye to them.

I took photos of them before I threw them with the garden waste. I tried to get a dusky effect in the evening light with a few photos, but I didn't really know what I was doing.

Last year, I took photos of gently wilting White O'Hara roses with ballet pinks and shared them with Helen - I didn't associate her with pink, but always associated her with ballet. And ballet with her.