Dear Dennis and all who are suffering such torment,
I want to tell you that you are understood on this forum, in a way that even the closest of friends cannot, unless they too have walked in your shoes.
I too tried to bargain with God. “Take me instead. I can’t live without him.” How glad I am now that He knew best. My beloved husband was afraid of nothing except losing me. He had nightmares about it so even in my worst storms of grief, I tell myself that this is the best gift I could ever give to him - to be the one left. I am doing this so that he will never have to suffer it.
He loved and cherished me for 60 years, making my life easy and creating a beautiful home for me. We always knew how blessed we were and in times of loss, sorrow or fear, we used to hold onto one another and say, “As long as we have each other, we can cope with this.” Oh dear! What do we do now?
We have heard all the platitudes from those who have never walked this way. I have even been told by a sister-in-law that mine is not the worst sort of bereavement because it is worse to lose a child. My experience is that it is NOT. For some, it may be so but for me, the loss of my soulmate has meant the loss of a great part of myself, to the extent that I do not recognise what I have become, lacking in confidence, lacking motivation and energy, lacking the capacity to make decisions etc. It has meant the loss of my way of life. I do not drive, live in an isolated place and now never leave the house unless taken by someone.
Invitations from kind friends (I have no family) to join them, have me looking for excuses not to go. The daily loneliness feels unbearable until I have to endure the loneliness of being with other couples. We were married because we wanted to be together and that never changed. We were completely on the same wavelength and enjoyed so many activities together, with no separate interests.
At first, I felt like a broken jig-saw puzzle with more than half the pieces missing and no edges - never to be put together again. Now it’s different. I am like one of those iron age pots in a museum - just the rescued shards held together with large areas of cement. In company, I feel a sense of not belonging. Now I am looking at a completed jig-saw puzzle and I am a spare piece that doesn’t fit in anywhere.
This ghastly sense of not belonging, overwhelms me. I can say it here because you understand. It is impossible to explain to those who have not experienced it and who would be hurt and bewildered to think that their efforts are not scratching the surface.
This has been described as a journey no-one wants to undertake but recently I have heard it likened to a landscape and that resonates with me. A journey has a linear connotation and grief is not like that. It is the unknown, in all directions, with no path visible at all, even a rocky one.
My great blessing is that I have a strong faith, which prevented me, in the early days, from ending my life. I hope it will continue to do so as I am afraid that I shall be separated for ever from the wholeness of my love, should I succeed in precipitating my end.
The early days, weeks and months are hard but there is the anaesthetic of shock to cushion and protect the mind and the structure of essential tasks and of the dreaded first anniversaries of all kinds. For me, the second year was the hardest in all sorts of ways. I was no longer sobbing my way through the days but the sheer loneliness and dullness of every joyless day and the realisation that this was all there was ever going to be, brought me to my knees time and again. The routine of always being the one to turn off the light at night, take out the bins (something I had never done), decide what to watch on television or to put on the shopping list, had me in weary tears.
People stopped being kind, not because of callousness but because they had just returned to their normal lives. Nothing was changed for them and they saw me coping, told me I was “strong” or “doing very well” and it made them feel better, allowing them to leave me to it.
The loss of my beloved was exactly like a terrible injury. It happened two years ago and that’s how other people perceive it - in the past tense. For me, his absence confronts me every day, all day as I manage without him throughout the empty, dull hours. Had the injury resulted in an amputated arm or leg, it would be clear for all to see and they would know it was not a case of “getting over it” but somehow, getting on without it.
The good news is that the second year was worse than the first but now, beginning the third year, I am beginning to recognise the territory and have learnt how to negotiate it better. I’m still trudging along, wondering if it’s the right direction but I am not caught off guard so often. I still crave company and then find that it is not the company I need.
Those of you who are blessed with children or families close by will learn how to direct all that love with nowhere to go, into them and shared activities, I think. Those of us without support of that kind will find some other way, I hope. For now, a profound sorrow has replaced all joy but I believe this state will not last. The lost limb cannot regrow but we shall become accustomed to coping without it.
God bless us all.
