Feeling gloomy

Since coming back home after Christmas it has felt as though I have been moving backwards rather than forwards. The weather hasn’t been helping because, bar a (lovely) day or two, it has been pretty grey for the last several weeks and this has seemed to reflect, and magnify, my mournful mood. This has been compounded by the fact that I have been sleeping less well. For some reason, it has been harder to stop my brain going into over-drive when I switch off my bedside light, or if I wake up in the early hours, and it’s harder to distract myself at night. So, I have been feeling generally gloomy and the old feeling of grief welling up inside me has re-appeared – chest, neck, chin, nose, eyes. It’s strange, I hadn’t really noticed that it had gone, until it reappeared! It took me a little while to cotton-on to what had caused this change, but I realised that I have been getting out less because of the holidays, not to mention Omicron, and, more significantly, that the anniversary of B’s death, which is only a couple of weeks away, has been hijacking my mind (it seems impossible to avoid). Whereas I was able to mark other significant dates, such as his birthday, our wedding anniversary, and so forth, with some measure of gratitude, remembering the good things B and I had shared, whilst holding the sadness, somehow the anniversary of his death feels different. ‘How can I find any good in it?  What is there to be thankful about?’ I can’t ignore it, though, so I have to mark the day, and I definitely need to do something other than mope around at home, as I don’t want it to be all doom and gloom. The question, though, was what? I couldn’t work out what I should do, so it was been burning a hole in my brain. As B was an astronomer, I did have the idea of visiting the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, and it’s a while since I’ve been there, but unfortunately it is closed for refurbishment until the end of March. So that put paid to that. After some thought, I reached the conclusion that a good thing to do would be to re-trace a walk that B led in the summer of 2019. It was a nice walk, and it would have that link with him. Some friends have kindly agreed to join me, as I realised that I don’t want to do it on my own. Now, I just hope that it is not throwing it down with rain. Although, in some ways, that would feel quite fitting, I don’t particularly like walking in the rain, and it would make the occasion feel less positive, so I still need a contingency plan. If it is fine, I shall probably go to the crematorium beforehand, and wander around the gardens there whilst reflecting a little, but I don’t want that to be the main focus of the day. So now, I feel (a bit) more relaxed about it. It had been bugging me more than I realised. In the evening, I may, or may not, re-watch the Service of Thanksgiving for B’s life. I’m not sure whether having a recording of the service is a blessing or not (one of the hidden consequences of online services), but I’m glad I have it even if I don’t watch it again! I may look at all the photos I have of both of B and of us together, or I may not. I won’t know until I know how I feel. One thing I am going to do, though, is to pay for some trees to be planted in memory of B. A positive symbol of his life that will make a lasting contribution to the earth.

I have now, also, made an effort to get some things into my diary and to get out and about again. The other day I went out for a walk with a friend whose husband died about 6 months before B. It is good to walk but, more importantly, it is good because we both understand what losing a husband is like. We can smile at the fact that we have both cleared away most of our spouses’ things and yet we have both kept their slippers by our respective beds – this made me feel so much better when she told me this! We smile, and understand, when we tell each other about the items of our husbands’ clothing that we are each wearing. We understand if the other sees something that would be inconsequential to others and yet it makes us weep. It is fine if we talk about everyday things, or have a laugh, or if we end up crying for a minute or two, whilst walking through Hyde Park. We see ourselves in each other, and this is both supportive and helpful. She understands and I understand. Over the last year, despite having many empathetic friends, I have found myself thinking on several occasions, ‘you don’t understand what it’s like… but why should you?’, so it is good to share with someone who does, although I wish for her sake that she didn’t. However, empathetic one’s friends are (and I feel so grateful for having several), they can’t understand what the experience of widowhood is like unless they’ve been through it. There is no judgment in this, it’s just the way it is. I was shocked, though, when I read one book detailing a person’s grief where the author wished that her friends’ spouses would die so that they would understand what she was going through. I could never wish that. Why would I want to inflict such misery onto my friends? And I definitely don’t want my pain to turn my grief into something ugly and bitter. I want to find the beauty in it.

On a different note, I thought I had managed to kill off the potentilla I bought to mark B’s birthday last year (I’m not very green-fingered), but I notice that there are now some green shoots appearing, and that seemed very encouraging and hopeful. So, I find myself wishing the anniversary of B’s death was over, just wanting to get through it and to reach the end of January, but hopefully after that there will be other green shoots, and the signs of hope will re-appear.