So many of us who are bereaved yearn for one last touch, one last kiss, one last conversation, an opportunity to say goodbye. Danny Echo from Root & Branch Productions (Lawrence Batley Theatre) explores that possibility (or impossibility).
 
Danny Echo opened with a single figure seated absolutely still on a sofa – Danny (Christopher Deakin), or rather the AI replica created by controversial scientist Dr Meryl Kane (Lynne Whitaker) as part of a scientific study of AI robotics on grief. The replica gives Rachel (Lucy Hilton-Jones), Danny’s young widow, the option to have Danny back in a limited form – he can only repeat the words and actions from one day. And so, Rachel chooses to relive the day he died in a freak accident in a snowstorm.
 
Rachel is deeply uncomfortable with the robot ‘Danny’ at first, but over a period of a few weeks, Rachel uses an app to control the recording of the last day as if it’s a video recording, with Danny echoing his actions and words in an eerily pitch-perfect repetition from Deakin. We learn more about the couple, as Rachel becomes increasingly dependent on the Danny replicant, and her brother Tom (Joe Geddes) tries to keep her rooted in reality.
 
Danny’s lines are cleverly written to give us just one side of the conversation. Finally, we hear both sides of the last argument, understand what happened on that last day, and see Rachel’s realisation that nothing can change.
 
It got so many aspects of grief right – the numbness and lack of reality on the day they die and the impulsive decisions we can make at that time, the not wanting to be with people who are celebrating their smug joy of being part of a couple when your ‘coupleness’ has suddenly been ripped apart, the deep and desperate desire to feel the touch of your person, the almost overwhelming desire to make right the things that you said wrong, and the awful feeling of not having said ‘I love you’ the last time you spoke. It explores that we do need to let go in certain ways (though not forget) to be able to move forward.
 
The only thing that didn’t sit right with me (and that’s likely to be because I am a medical writer and have studied the role of science in drama) is that the script didn’t make clear any scientific justification for the study in the play, or what the data was supposed to show. I think this quibble is just one for me.
 
It was an interesting watch, and not necessarily one I could have seen early in grief, but I’m glad I saw it.
 

I have always been a very tactile person, and when Tim died I missed his touch so much. I used to get up before he did and start work, and then come back to bed for a cup of tea and a cuddle. There were the little touches too – walking hand in hand. My hand on his knee when we sat together in the pub. A hug and a kiss before I went out. After he died and the paramedics left, I lay on the floor with him, my head tucked into his neck.
 
My friends and family are good at hugs, and that helped. As did haircuts and massages (the local college ran a beauty course and the trainees did brilliant full body, deep muscle massages) but it wasn’t the same. And then we went into lockdown, and I understood what skin hunger (also known as touch starvation or touch deprivation) really meant. After lockdown, when I went back to my Pilates class, my tutor put her hand on me to adjust my position and I almost cried.
 
Touch is really important – newborn babies are comforted by skin-to-skin contact with their parents or carers, and kangaroo care is especially important for low-birthweight or premature babies. There is science behind skin hunger – touch triggers the release of the feel-good hormone oxytocin, and stimulates pressure sensors that send signals to the vagus nerve, calming the nervous system. Stress triggered by lack of touch releases cortisol which can increase your heart rate and blood pressure.
 
What can help (and I know it's not the same)

• Snuggle a big soft toy, a full body pillow or a long hot water.
• Use a weighted duvet or blanket in bed.
• Have a warm bath.
• If they are happy, hug your friends, your family. If not, you could always shake hands.
• Stroke your pets, or other peoples (do ask first…), or volunteer at an animal rescue.
• Get a massage, a manicure, a pedicure, a facial, a haircut.
• Learn self-massage.
• Join a ballroom or swing dance class.
• Walk barefoot.

There are all kinds of widows.

Grieving is incredibly tiring.
 
Grief hurts physically.
 
You can be really thirsty in the raw days of grief.

​There's no one normal in grief - how you grieve is normal for you, two people's grief are the same, and no-one should ever tell you how to grieve.

You are not responsible for anyone else's grief.

Grief does not have a timeline.

Grief is not linear.
​
The people who you thought would step up aren’t always the ones you expect.

You become responsible for everything, from what you have for tea to running the household.
 
People make you a lot of tea.
 
You lose your past, your present and your future.
 
Grounding techniques can actually work.
 
Your perspectives change.
 
Your people change.
 
Widow’s brain is real.
 
Skin hunger/touch starvation is real.
 
Heartache and yearning are real.
 
Loneliness is real.

The world carries on without them.

The run up to a milestone day can be worse than the day itself.

All of the firsts aren't necessarily over in the first year.

You miss having someone to do nothing with.

Life is now before and after, and will never be the same again.

You will never be the person you were before - and that can be both positive and negative.

Sometimes I feel like I'm living two parallel lives.

It can be the loss of the little things that hurt the most.
 
People say the most ridiculous things, but they also say the loveliest things.
 
It’s okay to be really angry.
 
It’s okay to have widow’s fire.

Your appetite can increase or decrease, and cooking for one is hard after you've cooked for two.

Retail therapy sometimes works - but it's not a good long term plan.

It’s okay to not clean the house, or leave the washing up until Thursday.

​It's okay to say no.

Celebrating the tiniest win, like having a shower, is good.

Asking for help is hard.
 
Sheep give you funny looks when you stand in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere and sob.
 
That it doesn’t always hurt like it did in the early days.

You don't move on from grief but you can move forward.
 
That you might find love again. Or you might not. And either is fine.
 
You can be happy again. It’s not the happy you planned for but it’s okay.