Numbers

Neve, in everything that is and in everything that isn’t

Numbers have always been comforting to me, a logical way to order the world. Yet I could never have imagined how entwined Neve would become, with numbers. Not just that she herself loved numbers, though she did.

Neve, painted by me, from a photograph, in Vivianite paint, from The Stoneground Paint Company. Neve was 7 years old here, in February 2020.

When life didn’t make sense to Neve, it was often numbers that brought her comfort. The moment I hear the Numberjacks music, I am brought back to the days around her diagnosis. Her brain was muddled and she was struggling; Numberjacks, on repeat, was the order of the day. Sometimes she would rewind, rewatch the previous 10 seconds, seeking clarity.

Later, in Neve’s final years, she adored it when nurses would set her challenging maths problems, decreasing in difficulty as time and cancer moved forward.

Today, I want to tell you how numbers themselves, digits in fact, now overflow with memories of Neve. Keeping track of what reminded me of Neve underlined how frequently it was numbers that brought her to mind.

Numbers are everywhere, table numbers, room numbers, times, licence plates, reference numbers, bus numbers…

1 is Neve, my dead child, my only child who isn’t here

2 is two adults, two parents 

3 is my living children, without Neve

4 is my children, four sisters

5 is my living family, without Neve

6 is my whole family, including Neve

The combination of digits, of numbers, is limitless

23 is two parents, three children 

25 is two adults, five living people in my family

44 is four sisters, twice

61 is our whole family and Neve, the only one who has died

Licence plates with Neve’s initials and numbers are extra special

The worst number that I came across over those couple of days was table number 55, a screaming reminder that my family only has five people now. Twice, for good measure.

I savoured table number 24, two adults, four kids. I felt content, like Neve was nearby, when we sat at this table.

For a split second, I sometimes think about telling Neve about these numbers. I think she would get it, she would find joy and comfort in knowing that not only is she remembered but that, for me, she is contained in numbers, in digits, in maths.

The six seater taxi, the boat trip with six places, the free seat beside us on the airplane, the six pieces of pizza. Would I have preferred the pizza cut in five? Never mind that that would have been an awkward way to cut a pizza, I like to think that the spare piece was Neve’s piece. As though the pizza maker knew that we really are a family of six, even if they can only see five of us.

Does everybody’s brain think like this? I don’t know. For me, with numbers being everywhere, I see and feel Neve everywhere. Even when the numbers highlight her absence, they still bring Neve into my mind. The guilt that I mentioned in last week’s writing, here, that I wasn’t doing a good enough job making memories, wasn’t needed.

Yes, some numbers bring sadness, reminders that my child has died. But I would rather be reminded of her existence, of her place in our family, than not. And those moments, when we are shown to table 24 or we are given a pizza cut in six, those moments make me smile, as though Neve is nearby, a reminder that I have and will always have four daughters.