"I'LL BE YOUR EMMYLOU"

I said in my last blog post that I wanted my road trip to France at the beginning of this month to be a tribute to my husband. But the other reason I left Norway in November was because his birthday was on the 10th. He would have been 69 years old that day, and I just did not want to spend it at home. Although I call my house in France "home" too, I seem to be further away from everything here, not least those everyday surroundings that weigh so heavily on me. My daughters and granddaughters said that they would visit the grave on his birthday, and I was alone here, struggling and crying my way through the day. I wanted to be alone.

I've had a lot of time to think about grief during the two weeks I've spent here in France. Thinking about grief - well, that sounds brooding and gloomy, but it isn't really. I've said before that I need to go head on into my own grief and never - never - suppress it. That would not work for me. Going through grief and mourning is like a purge, a catharsis. Or at least that's what I thought. Well, it's partly that, but I've come to realise more and more clearly that this grief will stay with me forever. It will always be a part of me. And there is no such thing as "getting over" grief.

Birthday party 26 years ago - 10.11.89. Four best friends.

Walking in the Pyrenees, nearly three years ago

I was reading recently a blog post that was reposted by someone else on Facebook - I can't remember who wrote it, but they were thoughts by a young man who had lost his father some years earlier. His description of his grief was exactly like mine! It could in fact have been written by me. Other stories on the subject tell me that grief might be a human mechanism that is very similar in all of us. I have always thought that people grieve differently, some are incredibly open about it, others keep it inside, some strive to move on more quickly, others bury themselves privately in their emotions. All kinds of variations. But the way I've now heard people in mourning describe the waves of hopelessness that suddenly roll over you, the abrupt tears that you don't know where spring from, or what initiated them, makes me think differently. The continuous ups and downs, the valleys, the mountain tops. The immediate need to be alone, to pull away, to take a time-out. The churning of the mind, the sleeplessness, the anger - yes, the ANGER - at the person who's had the nerve to leave you! Listening to and drowning in your own never-ending sobs in the lonely blackness of night and thinking they won't ever stop until they break your heart completely. Then that very irrational feeling that the person you miss is going to come back, of course he is! That's why you can't throw away his clothes.

But most of all - the deep, intense, basic sense of loss. It actually hurts physically. Many have described this. The irreversibility, the finality.

I have tried to discover a little bit about what sets off my sudden grief attacks. Yes, you can call them attacks, though it's perhaps a negative word. But they arrive as fast and as unpredicted as strikes of lightning.

This is one: A book on my husband's bedside table here in France. When I picked it up to place it in the bookshelf I noticed the sleeve was wrapped around page 22. That was how far he'd read before his failing eyesight made it too strenuous for him to continue. Memories got the best of me and before I knew it I was sobbing. Out loud. He always had a book with him, and I remember being told to pack this one last year, wherever we went. At home he'd pick it up and try to read a few lines every now and again, but would put it away sighing, a bit exasperated - I'll have to try the optician for stronger glasses.

I did not pack it when we flew back to Oslo exactly one year ago. There was no point.

The fact was the brain tumour was by then pushing so hard on the visual cortex that blindness would eventually be inevitable. As it turned out he was more or less blind by mid-January, when he couldn't see the playing cards any more. That realisation was devastating for him, the biggest disappointment during his entire period of illness. It was a huge tragedy for him. Coming home from that final poker tournament he could only lay down and weep. Until he said - well, I'll listen to music then. Can you put on a CD for me? You choose, sweetheart. I like all the music you play for me. On second thought - put on some Johnny Cash for me.

All these memories - and many more - come hurtling at me, just by seeing this book. No wonder a wave of grief is triggered.

Here is another lightning strike: The song "Emmylou" by Swedish band First Aid Kit. Summer 2014 - the 8th July - when we came back from church after my daughter Julie's wedding, and the marquee was looking so beautiful and the sun had come out and the sixty-six guests were mingling on the lawn, relaxing, chatting, laughing - and everything was under control, except the music. But several people cooperated and cut cables to fit, dug out old loudspeakers that worked - and I found myself letting them do that - letting go of my own control freakiness. And then suddenly the music started and the sound was perfect - flowing through the garden and over the trees at our summer house. Seeing everyone so happy, my husband having a little rest before dinner got started. Smelling the barbecue of "waiting sausages" - a new term introduced by us Norwegians to the delight of our Australian family and friends. Well, you have to eat something while you drink and mingle and wait for the party to start, don't you?

The first song that came out of the old B&O loudspeakers was "Emmylou," a haunting, minor tuned ballad of dedicated, unconditional love. Between Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons. Between Johnny Cash and June Carter. Crossing my mind at that moment were two thoughts: -I have never really listened to this song properly. -Next summer our lives will be changed. I will be alone.

The sorrow every time I hear this song now is almost unbearable.

My grief is so huge it sometimes overshadows everything else. Most of the time actually. But the other day I decided to go to the nearby town of Collioure, where my husband and I have spent so many happy days. Except that every time I pass a certain restaurant I recall that we had a fight just there. (Or a "discussion" as we would call it). With our children present. Of course I don't remember what the fight was about - it's nearly twenty years ago. I don't think my husband ever recalled it at all - he was great at putting things behind him. This is one of the lessons I learnt from him.

Put bad experiences and disappointments behind you. Hold on to the good memories.

This is what I try to do, my darling. But the good memories get mixed up with my grief. It's a difficult mixture to deal with. But it has to be my journey.

Collioure January 2013

Collioure Friday

Suddenly this terracotta stone appeared at my feet on Collioure beach. It's almost heart-shaped and will be brought back to my husband's grave. It's the colour of this region's earth. The houses. The roof tiles. The crazy sunset over the Pyrenees.