THE LONG AND WINDING PATH

Again I have been away travelling for a few days, to Bulgaria, and again I find it hard to return to everyday life. I realise more and more that the routines and activities of my life were so closely tied up with my husband's that my biggest challenge is to create a new structure for myself, raise a new framework, even find a new path. My husband and I would both claim that we gave each other a lot of space - "holding each other tight in a loose grip," as one of my husband's favourite sayings goes - but having lost him I see clearly how synchronised we were, how very much in step. This is no wonder, really - thirty-four years of mutual life - building it, exploring it, being challenged by it, loving it. Yes, loving our life, each other and our children.

Lives intertwined. Lives lived side by side, day in - day out. Interdependency. Always pulling in the same direction. But also having domestic discussions. ("You call it discussions," our daughters said. "We call it fights.") Last week in the apartment in Bulgaria I suddenly lost it with him and shouted at him through raging tears: "Why the hell did you die?! Why the fuck did you leave me!! Can't you see how ALONE I am?"

And yes - I am alone. Aloneness is of course the essence of my existence at the moment. Used to doing most things together with another person - and one who was very capable too - I find myself easily slipping into passivity when it comes to meeting and solving problems these days. Rather than face them straight on I turn away and bury my head in the sand. Some mornings I hardly want to venture out of bed because I worry about the tasks that await me. I would simply like to hibernate.

I'm aware though of how my grief overshadows everything else. Sometimes I feel that nothing else is important, because my grief overwhelms me completely. All I can manage is cry.

Still. Still I know deep in my heart that I will emerge eventually and that my path will be found. And that path might not turn out to be so very different from the one I'm walking now. But the restructuring will be different - raising a canopy that will cover one person instead of two.

Last trip to Bulgaria for my husband - September 2014

Travelling is always good for me - it gets my head out of the sand and my body out of hibernation, if only temporarily. My trip to Bulgaria last week, with my best friend Svein, was pure relaxation - reading, having massages, sharing meals with good friends, enjoying unusually warm evenings on the balcony. And I was efficient too - cleaned the apartment, did small repairs, threw out things (but not my husband's holiday clothes. It is not yet time, not in this particular place).

Lamb and cabbage brought from Norway and cooked in the Bulgarian apartment - Fårikål

Take-away pizza on Svein's terrace, from Palazzo in Nessebar, best pizza around! 

Shopska and calamares at Tangra Restaurant in Nessebar, lunching on their terrace in October

Wonderfully tender lamb shank at the Rosé Restaurant in Bourgas - with Norwegian friends

Salad and crispy whitebait shared with Bulgarian friends - and a couple of Slovakians!

Beautiful Nessebar, on the UNESCO world heritage list - one of my favourite towns

On my return to the empty apartment in Oslo and the usual despondent feeling, I spent most of a sunshiny Sunday wetting my pillow with tears and despairing at my own heartbreaking sighs. Then telephone calls and texts started coming in. Three lunch invitations, two dinner invitations, conversations with people who seriously want to know how I'm doing. I will never stop being amazed by my caring friends. I love them endlessly. 

My daughters. My granddaughters. Genuinely happy to see me! Though I am alone, I am not.

I do wish to creep out of my hibernation sometimes and blink incredulously at the world - this world that both beats me up cruelly and caresses me gently.

And sometime in the future - when my grief gets milder and the world seems less harsh - I will look back on everything my husband and I did together and think - "Yes, it was all worth it. I'd do it all again. Even if you died on me, you idiot..."

Cut my hair!

SIX MONTHS

Today - October 6 - marks six months since the day my husband died. I have no idea where those six months went. My state of mind has not changed much during this time and my husband's death day is still as vivid to me as if it were yesterday. If I even thought on April 6 or in the ensuing days that six months on I would feel lighter and less in grief I was so wrong.

October is generally a difficult month for me and always will be. My husband's brain tumour was diagnosed on October 9 two years ago and he had urgent surgery only two days later, when the tumour was removed. But already we were aware of the seriousness of his illness and the most probable outcome. On November 1 2013 the doctor explained to us the malignancy of the tumour, the fact that there was no cure and very little knowledge of causes, and finally in that meeting my husband asked about the prognosis. I did not want to hear it but I had no choice, as long as he wanted to know. We were told of an average survival rate of 12-15 months.

He lived 18 months.

Yes, I am still very much in mourning. Nothing has changed in that respect over the past six months. And I might be in mourning for the next six months for all I know, maybe even for the next six years. I can't possibly know this, and I have come to terms with the fact that this is how my life must be for as long as it takes. My state of mind is basically profoundly sad, but this doesn't mean that I can't enjoy myself, take pleasure in the little things that surround me, or have fun. I am good at being "in the moment" - concentrating on whatever occupies me there and then. Call it "mindfulness." Or you can even call it "escape" - which perhaps all positive concentration is really about, whether it's work, books, TV-watching, art, cooking. I find pleasure and distraction in all the above, and they will definitely steer my mind away from heavy thoughts for a little while.

Colouring books for adults - the new mindfulness! Very relaxing.

The repetition of knitting soothes me

I'm very aware though, that my own sadness is mine and that others have moved on. A few episodes lately have taught me that I have to be very clear in my interaction with other people and simply inform them for instance that today is not a good day for me. Well, it's not even a question of "good" or "bad", because no mournful thoughts are really bad. They are actually good, because they remind you of the one you loved, and this love is basically a huge part of the mourning.

I must remember that as others have moved on, they will also forget sometimes that I still mourn. They need to be reminded now and again, but at the same time I don't want to come across as complaining or moping. I want my friends to want to be in my company! Still - I believe that true friends will bear with me, for as long as it takes.

This time of year is also half-term school holiday. Two years ago my daughter Johanne, the two granddaughters and I went to our cabin in the mountains for a few days. I was worried about going away because my husband was showing signs of what I thought might be a slight stroke, but Sophie promised to stay with him all the time and told us to go ahead on our 4-day mountain trip. On the Saturday night - October 5 - I talked to him on the phone as usual, and he told me that he'd been too tired to finish his golf round, but so had his fellow players. They had wrapped up the evening at a restaurant in town. "But I wasn't feeling too well," he told me. The following day, driving down from the cabin, a very worried Sophie called me and said, "He needs to see a doctor, as soon as possible." That's how quickly his condition had changed.

Six days later he was in surgery and our lives turned upside down.

To take a break from daily routines my daughter Johanne, the two granddaughters and I decided to visit Copenhagen this half-term holiday. The ferry to the Danish capital, a night at a fabulous boutique hotel - the trendy Twentyseven - some delicious Danish meals and a bit of shopping - what more can four girls ask for?

Leaving Oslo

 

Danish design everywhere

The Hotel's Honey Ryder Cocktail Lounge, with the best of Danish design and changing coloured lights

Finally got myself a pair of (almost) authentic Jackie O shades. From Marc by Marc Jacobs. Hmm… proud?

On my return to Oslo I found three gifts waiting for me. Roses and a new tumble dryer from daughter Sophie, and a candle with the inscription "You Are the World's Best Grandmother" from granddaughter Mira. She had bought it before we left for Copenhagen, spending her own pocket money. 

A few people have said to me - "Why don't you see a therapist? To help you through your deepest grief?" A well meant suggestion, I'm sure, but is it necessary? No. I honestly don't think so. As long as I know that my mourning is normal and an inherent part of my present state of mind, as long as I feel completely sane and not a burden to my friends and family, as long as I function and find joy every now and again - then I know I'll be all right.

An acquaintance that I don't know very well, but that I do like a lot - someone who knew my husband and who has suffered a heavy loss of her own, wrote this to me recently: 

"You must be patient. It will take you a long time to get through your grief. And you will probably never finish grieving. But grief changes and gradually you will find more air and understand that it is possible to move on. At least this is my experience. You will be happy again - if that's a little bit of consolation."