One year

Reaching a point where B has been dead for a year just seems unimaginable, and yet here I am facing that painful reality. How can it possibly be? How can I have lived a whole year without him? How can I say “my husband died last year”, when it still feels so recent?

When talking about marriage, I sometimes used to joke, but with an element of truth, that the first year’s the worst. B and I had both been single and independent for some years and so, naturally, it took us a while to get used to each other’s quirks and habits, to learn to live with one another. Now that it is a year since he died, I wonder if the first year after his death is going to be the worst. I had assumed it would be, getting used to the massive absence he leaves behind, getting used to myself without him, becoming ‘I’ instead of ‘we’. Although I try to be hopeful, in my darker moments I do wonder how life can possibly get any better now that he’s not here. I have seen not a few others write that the second year is worse. I really hope this is not true and, in some ways, I know it can’t possibly be worse than this year. How could it possibly be worse?! But, thinking about what lies behind that statement, I can see why some might say it. Perhaps my grief is less conspicuous (?), support could drop off and the loneliness increase. Others may assume that I am, or should be, okay by now, or think, ‘It’s a year now, isn’t she over it yet?’. Let’s face it, speaking in the abstract, life has moved on for most people, and they may simply not notice that the missing person is no longer around or the impact their absence continues to have on those close to them. For me, though, even after a year, B’s death is still the thing that most affects my life. The life I once knew was blown apart. Admittedly, life had become different because of B’s illness and the pandemic, we were shielding and I had become a carer, but we were still together and content, although I probably didn’t appreciate that as much as I should have done at the time. I still had a purpose and some enjoyment in my life, although it had altered. B was here and we were together. Now my life just feels empty – not because I’m not doing anything, but because B is not here. So, I can understand that some might find the second year harder than the first, but I really hope that this is not true for me. I know that I need to rebuild my world, find some purpose again, but I need to get passed today before I can think of new things. Being realistic, things have changed because of coronavirus. Before B died, I did think I might go on a month’s trip to India when he was no longer around, but that doesn’t really seem feasible at the moment, and volunteering opportunities have changed, but I will find my niche, even if it takes a little time.

And, yes, I still want to ask the same question: how can it possibly be A YEAR, ONE WHOLE YEAR since B died? I will remember something we did or said or enjoyed together and it still, almost, seems like yesterday that he was here. It seems such a short amount of time, and yet it’s a year. Conversely, it also feels like forever since he was here with me, since we gave each other a hug, since we laid side-by-side, since we ate together - all those simple things that we so take for granted. Yes, it’s the same old theme, but it’s still true. The pain of missing him remains. I am, possibly, better at carrying my grief now, but I am still grieving. I still miss B terribly, despite trying to get on with my life without him. I’ll admit that it hurts that people speak about him less with me, although I recognise why that is. (I find it easier to talk about him than to not talk about him. Talking about him makes me happy despite the sadness, and I’m not sure that most people realise this. To not talk about him just emphasises his absence and makes me miss him more.) And, yes, I can now go out and enjoy myself, sometimes not think about him for a couple of hours, but at the heart of everything there is still this big, black hole. The space around it is getting a little larger, but the hole still feels horribly real and, just occasionally, I still feel like jumping into it. Everything is still impinged by his absence.

I look back over the past twelve months and try to compare now with then. I wonder what I was experiencing in those first weeks, as it is hard to remember what it was really like. I think I was on autopilot, numb with shock, and the reality of what B’s death meant for me hadn’t really hit me yet. I was also alone in lock-down, of course, so that added to the complexity of it all. I think about the day B died. We were so fortunate – he was at home, comfortable and peaceful, and I was able to be with him. He died at about 9.20 pm, and I rang family and started to make the other necessary calls. I think about the kind GP from 111 who chatted with me for 15 minutes; the lovely Marie Curie nurses who came and verified death, who washed B and changed his pyjamas, who chatted and took their time with both him and me; the very patient undertaker I spoke to, who kept asking me if B was a large man, because for some reason I couldn’t understand what he was saying! I knew there was no rush to call the undertakers (I wonder if everybody knows this) and I didn’t call them until about 1 am - they came at 2.30 am - so it meant I was able to spend time with B and to potter around the house, and I am grateful for this. When the undertakers did come, I sat in another room and played music while they removed B’s body – I didn’t want to see him being carried downstairs, presumably in a body bag. Not everything about B’s last week had been good, but his last day and his death was, and for that I am very thankful.

After that, I focused on the necessities and the rituals, and that’s probably what kept me going  – contacting everyone to let them know of B’s death, and later the details for the services; planning the Committal Service, and the Service of Thanksgiving for B’s life; liaising with the undertakers; arranging to view B’s body; clearing the house of equipment – so much equipment: a hospital bed and mattress, stair rails, two shower chairs, a perching stool, chair raisers, toilet frames and seat raisers, a bed rail, pads, catheter supplies, walking frames, nutritional supplements, drugs, gloves, aprons, masks, wipes, and probably other things that I have forgotten. Most of the equipment went within a day or two, and then the house felt empty, and strangely sterile. I / we didn’t particularly notice it’s arrival, as it came in dribs and drabs, but it did build up over the months. The hospital bed and mattress were a different matter as it remained in the front room for about three weeks. I made it up – I didn’t want to leave it bare as that was just a reminder of the emptiness. I gradually started to use it as a kind of table, putting on it all my notes about who I had contacted, friends and utilities; letters I received; the folder from the undertakers, etc., so it became useful and less obtrusive. When it was time for its removal, it was hard – this was where B had died and the last place he had been in the house, and suddenly it was gone. Literally, there was this big gap where he had been. It wasn’t that I wanted to keep it, but I guess it was just another piece of emptiness, a symbol of the hole he left behind.

I started to sort through B’s things, deciding what to give away, what to throw away and what to keep. Perhaps the oddest thing, I started searching, searching for anything personal related to B, anything tangible to look at and keep, anything that validated our relationship and told me that it had all been real: any message he might have left me (which he hadn’t); cards he’d given me; photos. I wanted anything that would prove what I meant to B – this seems so crazy now, because I know he loved me, but grief does the oddest things. I also searched for personal papers he had written; letters to The Guardian; professional publications (even though I don’t understand a word of them!), and so on. All this, though, I suppose, gave me something to do and kept me occupied, taking one thing at a time, one minute at a time. At that stage the sorrow was so raw and so immense I couldn’t contemplate the next hour without B, let alone think about my future without him.

Thankfully, my grief is less physical now – I no longer have the heaviness in my chest or the pain in my stomach. I feel less tired. I am now getting more than four hours sleep a night, although it is still not as it used to be. My appetite has returned. I only get that physical sensation of the grief rising up inside me rarely now, and that feeling of nausea when things feel too much has also retreated. I didn’t notice all these things fading, but I notice if they return!

I cry much less now, though I still cry. I spent a lot of the time in tears in those first months, and I also became obsessed about various things: the jumper of B’s that I couldn’t find; the female (!) friend / colleague of B’s who I didn’t know and didn’t know how to contact and wondering what his relationship with her was (!!!) - completely mad, as I trusted him completely; the photos - I went a bit mad with the photos, as well, finding all those I could and making sure I had them both in hard copy and on the computer. ‘What if there was a fire?’ They needed to be in the cloud, but I also needed to be able to hold them, to take them into another room with me, to look at them again, and again, and again. I printed out two large photos where B was looking directly at me and stuck them up next to the computer. They told me that he had existed and that we had been together. Anything to keep him and us real. I then ‘had to’ copy his personal papers, things he had written, again in case of fire (!). I went through all my diaries to recapture times before and after we were married. (I am so grateful for my diaries, as doing this helped me to remember things I had forgotten, and they helped me smile and remember the happiness we had shared.) I wrote down everything that I could remember about B! I was so afraid that I would forget him. I wonder whether I would have done all this if I had not been in lock-down, but I did have a genuine fear that I wouldn’t be able to remember him and what we meant to each other, although this does seem strange now! I know now that I won’t ever forget him, even if some of the details do start to slip away. 

Another peculiar thing, was all the questions that started popping into my head. Questions that I had not thought to ask B when he was alive, for example, ‘where did he live when he first came to London?’ or ‘how long did he and his first wife know each other before they got married?’ Why now, I asked myself? And why, anyway? They weren’t important / necessary questions when B was alive, so why should they become important now? And why would I even think about these things when there was no likelihood of getting an answer? I realised that there are some questions that I will never know the answer to, and that has to be alright. Other questions were those like, ‘What did we used to talk about?’, where the answer is, probably, everything and nothing, but it is amazing how difficult it is to remember those every-day conversations. Before we were married, we could talk for one, sometimes two hours, on the phone – whatever did we talk about?!

Then, though, there were (are?) the other more insidious questions. These were, essentially, the regrets, for instance, ‘Why didn’t we / I talk about this?’, ‘Why didn’t I / we do that?’ or ‘Why didn’t I ask him about that?’ ‘Why, why, why?’! As I have said before, I knew these were not helpful questions, so I did my best to lay them aside. Again, these things weren’t an issue when B was alive, so why should they become so now? The other insidious questions were the doubts, i.e. ‘Did I do my best for him?’, ‘Did he know I loved him?’, ‘Did he really love me?’ - I categorically know he did, but it would / does sometimes still appear. Why? I don’t know! I suppose there is something in there about keeping it all real, about wanting to know that I was a good wife to B, etc., but I remind myself that he knew me and accepted me for who I was, and vice versa. In the end, I have (almost?) come-to-terms with the fact that there were two of us who did or didn’t do whatever it was, and I have to trust that we were who we were, and what we had together. It was fine when B was alive and him not being here doesn’t change this. I just have to remind myself of this now and again… And, as I used to say to the relatives of my patients, ‘you did your best and you made the decisions that seemed right at the time. No-one can ask for more.’ So, I just have to apply that to myself.

I do have this blog to look at and to help me see how I have (or haven’t) changed over the last year, but I’m still not sure I want to look at it and relive it all. Obviously, it’s still there in my head but it’s softened, seeing it written in black and white somehow seems harder. Don’t get me wrong, I am still grieving, it still hurts, but the pain is different now. Fortunately, I no longer seem to have those awful gut wrenching, episodes of black, black hopelessness or, rather, they seem much rarer now. Initially, my grief seemed rawer, nearer the surface, paroxysmal, an enemy – I didn’t want this! Now, somehow, it is deeper, but a companion that is almost a friend, helping me remember, to process, to acknowledge, and to celebrate all that we had together whilst also mourning it, and teaching me, very slowly, to carry it so that I can slowly continue with my life without B. 

I am grateful that I have had time to grieve, to ponder, to think about our life together and all the good times we had; to think about all those intangible things: the moments of helpless laughter over nothing at all; sitting chatting over a meal out; being in bed together; sitting in church side-by-side; walking along the street holding hands; sitting on a bus or the tube usually in silence, but together; watching ‘Strictly’ and making comments about the dances, or who we think should win, or all the annoying ‘fluff’ in-between; answering quiz questions together; arguing as we made our bed, and so on. In some ways, it’s all those ‘in-between-things’ that I now miss the most and that are hardest to remember, those everyday moments that you don’t even notice when you have them. One of the hardest things I have found about losing B is that it affects absolutely everything, all the important things and all the everyday things that you don’t, ordinarily, notice. It still affects how I sleep; how I shop, cook (or not) and eat; being at home; going out to both places we visited together and places we didn’t (both can be difficult!); visiting friends; coming home after I have been out and not being able to share what I’ve been doing; watching television; cleaning the house; holidays (I haven't tackled that one yet!); my sense of self; how I think; how I see others. Everything changes, and I am now a different person, it completely affects who I am. I recently saw a quote by someone called Kelley Lynn, which is so horribly true: “You are handed a new life that you never asked for and that you don’t particularly want. It is the hardest, most gut-wrenching, horrific, life-altering of things to live with.” I have the rest of my life to live, but I am still finding my way in this new, alien landscape. I still feel like a stranger in a foreign land. Things that were once easy are no longer so.

I feel fortunate, though, that I have been able to be intentional about my grieving, that I have had, and continue to have, the space and time to grieve, to allow and feel the pain, and slowly, practically and emotionally, get a little more used to B not being around. The pandemic certainly added an extra layer of complexity, though, as interactions with others were extremely limited in the first three months after B’s death, a lot of those difficult ‘firsts’ were delayed, and various activities stripped away, but I got through it. I still haven’t reached a place where memories of him or us can no longer floor me, but I’m further along the road. I’m just a little bit nearer to getting used to my life without him. I do wonder how I would have been if I had had to go to work. Perhaps, it would have been a helpful distraction, and I know my ex-colleagues would have been supportive, but I think, personally, that I would have found it extremely hard, although I know it can be helpful for others. 

It struck me in the shower yesterday that what this last year has been about is love. I have always said that grief is an expression of one’s love, you don’t grieve if you don’t love, but re-framing like this somehow makes it that little bit easier. In the end, I loved so I grieve. It’s been a hard year, and definitely not one that I would have chosen, but despite the misery and not wanting to feel like this, I wouldn’t have it any other way (what a paradox!). I recently watched the film ‘Shadowlands’, which is about husband and wife C.S. Lewis and Joy Davidman, and her premature death (I’m a glutton for punishment (!), but I find it helpful to learn about the experiences of others who have experienced this awful loss - I guess it helps me to know that I’m normal). Before she dies, Joy says to Lewis “The pain then is part of the happiness now’. In his book, ‘A Grief Observed’, Lewis put it a slightly differently, ‘The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That's the deal’. ‘Till death us do part’, that’s the deal. I can celebrate that we made it to the end, not all do, but the cost of that is my grief. So, I grieve. Of course, there has also been the other love, all the love and support that my family, friends and blog-readers have shown me over the last year, and which has kept me going, and for that I say a big ‘thank you’. 

Sometimes, I think that I can hear B speaking to me, not literally, as I still can’t hear his voice (perhaps I never shall?), and I don’t mean that he is sending me messages ‘from the other side’, I don’t believe that, but rather that I knew him and his character and I know what he would want for me. He wouldn’t want me to become like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. He would tell me to get on with my life. The problem with this, though, is that heart and mind thing, again. I know he is (?) right, but it just makes me cry! My heart still says, “How can I leave you behind (because that’s what it still feels like)? I still miss you so much. It is getting easier, but I don’t want you to just be in my past.” I know that I won’t forget him, and that I will take him with me as I move forward, but it still feels like a loosening of the ties and that is so, so hard. So, I continue to grieve, but I also know (the head part) that the biggest thing for me now is to find my way forward, to live my changed life, and to find my purpose in life again. I have taken one step and have joined a choir, something that I find a challenge but enjoy. It’s something new, and something post-B (you won’t know just how hard it was to type ‘post-B’, and now I’ve had to do it twice!). Not long after B died, perhaps with the realisation of how short life really is, I decided I would no longer say ‘yes’ to things just because I could find no reason to say ‘no’. So, hopefully, I will be able to become more intentional about things. Most of the time, I do now feel that I can see a little chink of light that will, hopefully, open onto a brighter future for me. I was listening to the radio the other day and they were talking about grains of sand, and how adding one grain of sand to another grain does not make a heap, but if you keep doing it when does it become a heap?! In some ways I feel my grief is like that, but in reverse. One tiny grain of sand may fall from the heap (grief) but it isn’t noticeable, but gradually, one by one, the grains will fall away, almost imperceptibly, and the heap will get smaller, and one day it will no longer be a heap and I will be able to walk along the beach rejoicing in the sand between my toes, and it will no longer weigh me down.

One of the surprises over the last year has been just how much I have used writing as a tool to process my grief, not only writing this blog but also keeping a hand-written journal, in which I still write most days. I still try to write down things for which I am grateful or, if I can’t manage that, something positive or, if I can’t manage that, I just write, whatever comes to me. I find all this cathartic, and hopefully it stops me becoming bitter. If you had said to me a year ago that I would start writing I don’t think I would have believed you, but there it is! 

I do wonder how long my grief is going to last, I know there is no time limit, but I would like to be happy again. I couldn’t bear to feel like this for the rest of my life, and B wouldn’t want me to. I remind myself, though, that B and I started to become friends and to get to know each other in 1986, and from there on in our friendship only deepened until it developed into something else and we married in 1996. Only (!) a year has passed since he died, a small proportion of the time we knew each other so, if I think about it logically, it makes sense that a year is not long enough to grieve. I’ve heard it said that it takes two to three years to grieve for a partner, to fully get used to their absence. In some ways, I wish this wasn’t so, but I recognise that grief is a natural process that I mustn’t avoid. It creates the time to acknowledge and honour what B meant to me, and everything we had together, and I know that, as much as I want to be happy, I need that. So, I try to remind myself to not worry whether others are thinking that I should be over it by now, but to try to be kind to myself and to not judge myself.

Yesterday evening I was watching 'Skyfall', I chose this because I thought it would be an action adventure with no sentimentality, and it has Adele singing! At about 9.15 pm I suddenly had the thought that it was this time on the Friday evening last year that B died and, of course, it was at the same time that M was dying! Oh dear!! I hadn't anticipated this, but perhaps it might make this evening a little easier, after all it's Saturday today...

So, one year. I don’t want it to be a year! How can it possibly be? It’s still hard, but I can see that my grief is a little gentler now and that I am, perhaps, beginning to carry it a little better, and I know that’s what B would want for me. I needed a way to mark this strange anniversary, so I have had some trees planted in his memory, a positive acknowledgement of his life and, now, I am going out to mark the day. Time to reflect, and time with friends to try to be positive.