FIFTY-TWO WEEKS

I stopped counting the weeks some time ago, but today I'm counting. Today it is fifty-two weeks since my husband died, at 9.15 in the evening, on Easter Monday. The date was april 6, which is the day after tomorrow.

During these fifty-two weeks I have lived a lifetime. I lived a lifetime up until his death, then I lived another one the following year. I have experienced a range of all emotions possible to human beings.

I have cried, I have shouted, I have raged, I have cursed. For hours I have sobbed quietly into my pillow at night. I have tossed and turned in my bed, half asleep, stretching my arm out to him, thinking he was there. I have heard his voice calling me.

I have had conversations with him in my mind - and out loud. I have talked to him about everyday problems, I have told him stories of our grandchildren, I have asked his advice. I have yelled at him insanely for leaving me alone.

I have thought I would go crazy. I have wondered if I AM already crazy. I have had mornings when it has been nearly impossible to get out of bed, both for lack of sleep and for simply not being able to face the world. There have been days when I have not got out of bed at all.

There have been days - and especially nights - when I have descended into a bottomless pit and seriously wondered if there is a point in going on living. I have been in some very dark places.

I have been frightened to hell and back, scared of being alone, terrified of not coping. I have been sick with worry and anxiety.

I have felt the deep void in and around me, the indescribable emptiness, the big black hole that your closest person leaves behind when he dies. The wall that has disappeared from your house, the rock that you have leaned on, the person always next to you that you take for granted and that you think will be there forever.

I have felt a loss and a longing that I didn't know existed.

I have been torn apart by guilt. I have run over again and again in my mind what I could have done differently during his 18-month long illness before he died. Was I near enough to him at the moment of death? Did he feel my presence? I have beaten myself up over how exasperated I was with him before he was diagnosed, how bewildered I was that he was falling asleep all the time, that he was so constantly exhausted. Why did I not put more pressure on him to contact a doctor earlier?

Coco Chanel said: "Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death." Yes. The burden of guilt is heavy. And very counterproductive. But not easy to shake off.

I have experienced that some of my closest loved ones have turned away from me during these fifty-two weeks, when I have needed them most, adding extra grief to an already exhausting struggle. I have spent a little time wondering why, but have come to no conclusion. I don't think I have laid my burdens on them. But I have learned that we all deal with grief in our own way, so I bear no grudges.

Have I not felt any happiness during these fifty-two weeks? Not seen one glimpse of light shining through to me again? Happiness, no. A little bit of light now and again, yes. I feel I'm living two parallel lives - one day-to-day life that must be lived in order to keep my head above water - meeting friends, spending time with my family, taking care of daily chores. Making a real effort to go on living. The other life is one trudging along through a dark tunnel, somewhere deep down under layers of sand, earth, clay and heavy clouds. Thick fog wrapping a stupefying blanket around it all.

I, who always saw happiness and light and joy everywhere, who looked on the bright side of life, angling things positively, have changed. Grief has changed me. But I have not lost my ability to laugh, I have not lost my sense of humour. I am still able to see the beauty in objects around me, in nature, in food, in books, in music. I enjoy myself with my family and my friends! Of course I do. My tightly knit family has if possible grown even closer, and a long Easter holiday spent with some of them in France is the kind of thing that gives meaning to life.

A year ago, at the Hospice

We learn from our experiences, well, most of us do. Not all, unfortunately! The three most important and profound types of knowledge that have become completely lucid to me over these fifty-two weeks are:

Life is short. Life is precious. Your loved one is there one moment, gone the next. Be nice, be kind, in brief: LOVE. We should stretch ourselves far to show our love, to live it.

People are there for you. They really are! I never thought I'd discover so much sympathy, empathy and genuine concern from both close ones and not so close ones. Now they're all close! I look at people differently now, and have realised how willing and ready they all are to show you their heart. 

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." (Alfred Lord Tennyson, from In Memoriam).