Widowhood - 9 months in

This is probably going to be long, so you might need a cup of tea, or something similar…

You can probably guess what I’m going to say next. How can it possibly be 9 months since B died? In truth, it doesn’t feel much different to last month, except that his loss has recently hit me like a ton of bricks, again. In addition, though, today is the birthday of a dear friend of both B’s and mine who died very recently, so that adds another level of poignancy to the day. I am aware that, for some reason, I have been sighing a lot this week and saying ‘oh dear’, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud. I’m not entirely sure why, except that I think the loss of my friend has added another layer of grief, but one that I’m not sure I can access at the moment as it is overshadowed by my existing grief. Furthermore, I also feel for his family who are now experiencing something akin to the loss I have been feeling. Nobody wants this! 

I have been contemplating how losing somebody close is not just a one-off event, but the repeating sense of loss each day. I can’t yet think about B without some measure of sadness, although I can, perhaps more often, feel happy at the same time, remembering the good times. On Wednesday I went to an exhibition by myself. This really brought home to me how it actually is possible to be both happy and sad at the same time. I really enjoyed the exhibition, but as I walked around I remembered how B and I would view an exhibition together; how we would each decide which piece we liked best, and how we would rarely agree (it’s amazing that we / I have as many pictures as we / I do up in the house!); and then how we’d often have lunch afterwards, and so on. I did have lunch, and again, I enjoyed it, but of course, it’s very different sitting in a public place on one’s own. Since B died, I have mostly done these things with friends so I have had some distraction. I was happy to see the exhibition, but B should have been with me and he wasn’t; he should have been having lunch with me, and he wasn’t. He also should have been there when I got in from my meeting the other evening, but he wasn’t; he should be reading in the next room while I’m typing this, but he isn’t (although of course, I wouldn’t be typing this if he was there!). Before he died, I would have imagined that the final goodbye would be the hardest part, but I would now say that that was probably easier than living without him now. Some days his absence is easier to bear than others.

My life is certainly not what I would choose. If I can’t have B back, and I know I can’t, I wish I could just move into my new future but, obviously, it’s not that simple. A good friend asked me recently, ‘when do you miss him most?’. It’s a fair question, but I have to admit that I wasn’t completely honest in my reply, which was “no time in particular, it can get me at any time”. To some extent this is true, but what I really wanted to say was “I miss him all the time”, but that felt too painful to put into words (sorry, R). I can meet friends, go to church, go to exhibitions, go for walks, do stuff around the house, etc., etc., and be distracted for a while but, in the end, there is always this gaping hole in my heart. I’m getting more used to living with it, but it’s still there and it still affects who I am and everything I do. Sometimes, I get cross with myself that I’m not coping better; I guess what I really mean by that is that I can’t not think about B and that I’m not crying less than I am. Although, conversely, I actually think I’m doing alright, all things considered… I console myself with the fact that 9 months is still a short time compared to all the time we had together, and that life will improve, but what I can’t do is just flip a switch and be okay. It doesn’t work like that, although I sometimes wish it did.  

After my last post, another friend of mine told me that The Jester (my personified grief), had made her quite angry and that she wanted to hit him with his (for some reason I picture the Jester as a man) jester’s stick! I loved this, although have to admit, I was quite surprised by this reaction, so I started to reflect about why. It felt so supportive that she understood how awful I can feel and to know that she didn’t want me to feel like that, but I have to admit that it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would be angry with The Jester. I sometimes get angry with B – why did he have to leave me; why didn’t he warn me what it would be like; why is he smiling at me in from that photo when I’m feeling so miserable – but I haven’t felt angry with my grief. It has become a part of me, just as our love is (was???) part of me. I don’t like it, but I accept that it is what it is. In some ways, paradoxically, it feels like a strangely beautiful, but heart-breaking, gift that sits with me and reminds me of the time B and I had together. It’s just that, right now, it tends to make me sad rather than happy. It’s one of those strange things, I want the misery to stop but I can’t not feel the pain. It’s not a choice and, if it was, I think that it would feel like a betrayal of all that we had together if I could just let it go. How could it not be so painful after such a short time? So, I continue to grieve, and I guess I will continue to do so until, well, I no longer need to do so… I know the pain will slowly diminish, but I shall always carry B with me. I guess my grief and my love will, somehow, slowly meld into one so that, whilst B will always be a part of me, I will be able to live a happy, fulfilling life without him. I know, with certainty, that this is what he would want for me, but that is also poignant in its own way. 

Put another way, the loss of B could be likened to having a limb cut off. The limb is never going to grow back and will always be missed but, hopefully, the suffering caused by the missing limb will eventually recede. It goes without saying that I miss B all the time (maybe that’s why I couldn’t say it!) but some days I just suffer more than others because of it. Just a little trigger can spark minutes, hours, days of misery. So, yes, I guess I also want to hit The Jester with his stick when he makes me suffer those dark, miserable times, as I would like the suffering to come to an end but I also know that “the thing that heals grief is grief”. I came across a quote this week by James Baldwin, which seems to sum it up, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” It is impossible to face the pain of grief without experiencing the suffering it causes, but I am determined to face it so that one day I will be able to carry B with me without the suffering.

This week I have also been thinking about the effect people have on me and the effect I have on other people. Recently, I have wanted to be with other people, at least for some of the time, and particularly those that can empathise and have some understanding of what life is like for me. I know that probably makes me sound selfish, and it makes me feel selfish, but there it is. Being very honest, generally, it feels as though people don’t really understand what it is like, and why should they? I didn’t understand before I lost B. I guess that’s one reason why I continue to blog. Anyway, this week, though, I have been happy with my own company. I don’t know why this week is different, perhaps I just expend less emotional / mental energy on my own; perhaps I’m just getting more used to life without B; perhaps it’s just my inner introvert kicking in again. Who knows!

A couple of nights ago I went out to a meeting, and on the whole, it was a good and positive meeting. At the end, though, we were asked how we all felt after the meeting. Well, my response was “exhaust-ed and sad; there’s a lot of sadness around at the moment”. Other people, quite rightly, responded by saying it had been a positive meeting, etc. I have always said, that, if someone asked, I would try to be honest about my feelings, but I did wish that I had just kept silent. It sometimes feels as though I am a little (or perhaps big) dark, damp cloud spreading doom and gloom and, again, I don’t like it. I’ve never seen myself in this way. Incidentally, this was only the second time I have been out in the evening since B died, which doesn’t really seem possible, but there it is. I am used to coming back home during the day and B not being around, it was often like that when he was alive. Somehow, though, it is different coming in late at night to an empty house, with no-one to ask me how the meeting went. So, I turned on the TV, had a cup of tea and ate chocolate. It helps!

I notice that I have, on the whole, stopped searching for B. I know he isn’t here. I do still hang on to some of his personal things, though: his slippers, with the hole where his big toe poked through (he had funny toes!) and where I can feel the imprints his feet made inside them (it’s daft, but I can’t get rid of these yet); some of his jumpers, that I occasionally hug to myself if I’m feeling particularly low; his overcoat (don’t know why I’ve still got that, but I can’t get rid of it); his shaving mirror (ditto, but more strangely!); his belts (I’m still wearing one of them), etc. There are things that I need to preserve, which I wouldn’t have previously thought about. This week, I have taken some audio tapes and a video tape of our wedding to be converted to MP3s and an MP4. I’ve probably only watched / listened to them once or twice in the last 24 years, but I need them in a format that will remain accessible so that I can watch them if I want to. I have also made two ‘memory’ cushions. I had a beautiful one made for me, using a shirt and several of B’s ties, but it is so beautiful I find that I can’t bring myself to sit with it on my lap (I always have a cushion on my lap!) in case I spoil it. So, I enjoy looking at it and remembering when B wore those ties. I realised, however, that I still had a pyjama jacket and a shirt of B’s, so I decided to use my very rudimentary sewing skills, in the knowledge that I could completely ruin said jacket and shirt, to make two cushions that I can have on my lap and hug when I want to. They are not perfect but they are good enough, and I like them, and they bring me some measure of comfort. Just to say, I do know that I already have too many cushions in the house, but I’m not going to worry about that at the moment! I’ve just realised, though, that I’ve given myself a reason to get rid of his jumpers, but I think they will be staying where they are for a while longer!

To give an idea of what I mean by searching, initially, after B’s death, I kept going through all my photos to see if I could find any more of him. When I did, I printed them out, and then I would look through them all, often several times a day. That need has lessened and I only look at them occasionally now. I went through all the papers I had, more than once, to see if I could find any others that were particular-ly personal. I searched for things B had given me – cards and presents, and especially those things that have more meaning attached to them. Just to say, these things weren’t necessarily lost, but I had to ‘catalogue’ them, for a better way of putting it, in my head. Things such as the limited edition Winnie the Pooh picture he gave me for our first Christmas together; my eternity ring; the ring he gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary; a bracelet he gave me for one of my birthdays; but, particularly the cards in which he had written messages for me, mostly anniversary, Valentine’s and birthday cards, but one or two others as well. Sometimes, in my diaries I recorded what he gave me for my birthday or Christmas, but often I didn’t and I so wish, now, that I had. But I realise that there were far greater gifts that he gave me, such as his love and support. He was happy with me being myself; he was just ‘there’; he was the stabilising factor in my life; he cheered me up, if I was low; he made me laugh; he put up with all my annoyances and idiosyncrasies; he looked after me if I felt unwell; he broadened my gen-eral knowledge (although it will never be anywhere as good as his!); we shared lovely holidays, and days out; he shared his dry sense of humour with me, that I didn’t always get (!), and so on. So, I try to hang on to these things with gratitude but, of course, these are also all the things that I miss the most, those intangible but hugely important things that, generally, we take for granted until they are gone… 

Recently, I have been noticing that I now sometimes get a tiny glimpse of B in my mind’s eye – he will ‘appear’, for instance, standing with his arms open as though about to give me a hug; or flattening my hair as we’re having a cuddle in bed (it used to tickle him!); or displaying a little mannerism of his. These cause me joy, as they feel like the ‘real’ him, but because of this they also make me sad as they remind me of all that I am missing. I still can’t hear his voice and this both distresses and baffles me. It makes me cross that I can hear the voice of a friend that I haven’t seen for years, and yet I can’t hear B’s, someone I know - knew - so well. Perhaps, it’s a type of self-protection (although I don’t understand why that should be), or perhaps it will just appear one day just like those other little glimpses that I now sometimes get of him. But nine months on, my fear of forgetting B has lessened. I might forget events, and my memories of him might soften, but I know that he will always be a part of me. We were what we were, and that will always be.