THE HEALING

Hotel Barolo in Piedmont

I have been neglecting my blog for a month. I have been travelling again. 

All my travels with my husband are now over. I have to go on alone. But I know how to do it, because I have done it before. It doesn't frighten me. What frightens me is that I won't have him to share my experiences with, to tell my tales to when I get home. As he did with me when he'd been off on his golf and poker trips. Nor will I feel the sweet relief of coming home to my safe haven. Coming home now just means saying hello to another stream of associations and memories, and they will easily make me cry.

This is why I carefully chose my first two destinations - both begin with the letter "I" - to places I don't particularly associate with my husband. I thought these visits might give me a time-out, and they did. For a while anyway, but I certainly experienced those emotional moments that come and go as predictably - or unpredictably - as rain showers, sometimes lightly drizzling, sometimes hitting hard like hail.

Wine tasting at Conterno Fantino in Monforte d'Alba

My 60th birthday was on May 21, and I celebrated it with good friends and family, cooking for them, appreciating them, and feeling their love flow back. There must have been a lot of love in the numerous champagne bottles I received! The following morning I was picked up by my good friend Anne-Helene - leaving the birthday mess for my daughters to clear up - and off we flew to Milan and Piedmont for a wine tasting weekend. As I have written about several times in my blog this is something I do love! I'd been invited on this trip by some of my best friends, but we were eleven people altogether, four of whom I had never met before. 

 

Risotto with generous truffle shavings - a solitary and voluntary lunch for me

Oh yes, I loved being back in Italy, which I hadn't visited in the last sixteen years. I love the Italian language! Sneaking in a word here and there (yes, I did take Italian lessons ages ago), one of my fellow travellers asked me if I spoke Italian. "Well, it certainly seems so," I replied and felt immediately that I will start learning again!

When I went to bed the night after our first wine tasting day - my head overflowing with impressions and getting-to-know-new-people conversations - the former exceptionally sociable me suddenly felt very anxious about another day filled with similar experiences. So I texted my friends the following morning and asked to be excused from that day's vineyard visit, and instead I spent it in Barolo in my own company. Walking through the Sunday market, enjoying a three-hour lunch on the terrace of the Hotel Barolo, reading my book, contemplating, not talking to anyone - and yes, welcoming my emotions and my grief once again. Wishing my husband had been there to share it all with me. He would have enjoyed it so much. And I am certain the others understood my need to be alone.

Only a few days after my Italy trip I was off to another country - Ireland! A country I had never visited, but always wanted to! Well, the Norwegians and the Irish are definitely related from way back - I know that now. 

For eleven days I stayed with my friends in Cork, and when they asked me if I wanted to do some sightseeing - or anything else for that matter - I replied, well no, not really. I'm perfectly fine right here in your house, thank you. You have given me your best room, with a fabulous view and my own private bathroom, you pamper me and you take care of me, you let me cry when I need to, you let me laugh when I need to, you listen to me when I pour my heart out. I have only known you for a few years, but already you are family. You love me, and I love you back. A simple decision really. 

As my friend Addie said - you can do your sightseeing next time. Or the time after that. Or even later...

A room with a view - and it's not a hotel! 

But wow, the Irish are a sociable race! Come to think of it there wasn't any time for sightseeing at all because we were so busy meeting people! Lunches, late lunches (!), afternoon tea, dinners. I just took it all in, and I cooked Norwegian food for one of the meals. I think of all of them now as my extended family!

Afternoon tea on the River Lee - sandwiches, white chocolate cake, biscuits and of course Prosecco. At the home of one of my new "family" members.

This was my home for eleven days

Sympathy flowers from another Irish friend - Mairead

But still. Still. Someone's missing. Someone's missing in my life. Suddenly I fall out of conversations a bit, and my mind wanders. Suddenly I see him there amongst us, laughing, enjoying himself, catching my eye across the table, raising his glass to me, whispering… cheers, sweetheart. 

Cheers, my darling. I know you are there. 

But I think the healing has begun.

THE COLOURS OF DEATH

My husband's funeral was beautiful. It was important for us that it was. It was colourful, friendly, dignified - but also a bit skewed (not least thanks to the funky and incredibly moved woman vicar). Never has the word "poker" been mentioned this often in a church sermon, that's for sure! It was all so definitely in my husband's spirit, the songs he liked, his granddaughter singing, and his brother-in-law interpreting the Willie Nelson classic "Crazy." Which he especially enjoyed when Patsy Cline sang it. Oh, my husband would have loved it all! 

At least 250 people were there, many of whom I'd never even met, poker friends, childhood mates. Some hugged me, some explained who they were, some I've learned about later. I was deeply touched by the turnout - all people who respected and loved my husband immensely.

I wore a white dress with a red scarf and red high heeled shoes, daughter Johanne wore a bright yellow skirt, daughter Julie wore a white dress, daughter Sophie wore a peach dress, granddaughters Jelena and Mira wore flowery dresses. Son-in-law Josh wore my husband's favourite shirt from "Moods of Norway" - turquoise, yellow and blue-checkered with different coloured buttons. I was so delighted he liked it and wanted to keep it!

Looking for a black shirt or sweater to wear to work a few days earlier, Sophie rummaged through her Dad's clothes and found nothing. Only his dinner jacket and some trousers were black. 

His gravestone will not be black. 

His favourite colour was yellow. 

I decided on a woven carpet of twigs and moss and grass entwined with yellow spring flowers to cover his coffin.

Below is my speech to my husband at the funeral.

"And so death did us part – Petter and me. And to tell the truth there really wasn’t anything else that could part us, we agreed on this at the altar on July 2, 1983. And we have repeated this vow to each other – for nearly 32 years.

Third time lucky. Anne-Kari – and Per – tried to bring us together several times – and the third time, well no, actually the second time, they managed. We just had to settle a few things first, respectively. When I look at the sea of flowers here today I recall another sea of flowers sent by Interflora to my bedsit in England in 1978. I knew then that the two of us were meant to be.

It is not often moments of pure happiness are bestowed upon us, but I have experienced them with Petter. When we drove that winding road to the summer house in Kragerø just after our wedding, when the sun flashed almost epileptically through the green foliage of the roadside trees, and I in the passenger seat was blinded – no, intoxicated – by the beauty of summer and our own love – then I thought: Is it possible to be this happy? This experience was something I brought with me into our relationship, and even in my everyday life this became my guideline.

Yes – everyday life. Petter and I went on numerous travels and adventures together. The hard but oh-so-satisfying travels at home, when we were entrepreneurs together and worked side by side – our desks facing each other for nearly 15 years. Then our travels abroad, to Jakarta, Bangkok, Sydney, New York, London – ”What should I write on the immigration card, Petter – Business or Pleasure?” "Why don’t you tick off both, sweetheart.” Always with the entreprenuerial glance turned forward, on the lookout for new ideas that could be implemented in Norway.

Yes – everyday life. Petter and I had a common belief in everyday life. Everyday meals, everyday conversation, everyday tasks, driving kids, collecting kids – and not least, for Petter – the horse races at Øvrevoll race course. And then, at the end of the day, snuggling up on the sofa to watch a crime series or two. And perhaps discovering way into the plot that we had watched it before.

We loved our holidays and our time-outs together. But we both agreed that everyday life was underrated. And we always pulled in the same direction. Whether it was Business, Pleasure or Family.

I’d had a relatively restless existence before I met Petter. Many stays in foreign countries, many partings and goodbyes. One of the first things he said to me was: ”I would like to grow old with you.” That was it. The uncomplicated honesty, his generous sincerity – they won my heart right there and then. Only – we wouldn’t become that old together, as we had planned, in our house in France, where Petter had taught all the neighbours to play poker.

He became my anchor. Our home became my harbour. I explained this to him, and he said – ”Yes, it’s my harbour too. It’s OUR harbour. This is where we rest and recuperate.” And I told him – ”Every time I hear you come through the door I’m happy. I’m so afraid of partings, but I know that you are always there, you enter and you yell – ”I’m home!” Yes, there you were, and I was grateful every time.

Many have said to me now that it was merciful that Petter was released. No! This is wrong! Don’t say this to me again! Petter wasn’t released – he let go by himself. My guy – always a master of timing and control – decided himself when he wanted to leave us – Johanne, Julie, Sophie, Jelena, Mira and me. The six girls who were gathered around him until the end and the entire night afterwards. The six girls that he loved endlessly and who loved him back. A deep love and affection that he felt for us all the time and that was returned. And he was blessed – despite everything – with a type of cancer without pain. And yes – a longlasting illness – but with a lot of time for long dialogues, sincerity and good words. We would not have missed this for the world.

What an evening and night we had when Petter closed his eyes and mouth and became himself again in death. Gone were all the facial distortions from the brain tumour, gone was the swelling from the cortisone. I have experienced now that not everyone understands what the six of us shared at the Hospice Easter Monday at 9.15 pm and into the night, so we might not tell everyone about it. But be assured of this – death is not frightening. It is in fact the opposite.

Petter – when we stayed with you after you had passed away and you still lay there so incredibly present with us, I stood in your bathroom at the Hospice and looked at our two toothbrushes that finally again had shared a glass during Easter. I contemplated for a short while – and suddenly I felt a bit mischievous and brushed my teeth with your toothbrush. You would have gone nuts if you had seen me. But then I heard you say in your beautiful voice: ”It’s okay, sweetheart. Tonight you’re allowed.”"

CIVIL STATUS: WIDOWED

I am a widow.

I don't even know what to make of these words yet, I don't know if they have registered at all in my mind. It's like I don't understand the meaning of the sentence. Because I keep hearing his voice, I keep asking him questions, I keep feeling his presence. I get disappointed, even a bit angry sometimes, that he's not here. 

During his nine weeks at the Hospice we talked, we discussed, we joked, we laughed, we exchanged daily experiences - how was your day, I have a new idea for a business concept, I just remembered this and that…. Like we have always done. 

However intensely prepared you are for someone's death it will always leave you empty and grieving. 

Some have said to me after his death: "Well, you must have been grieving already for a long time." Or: "It was merciful for him to go now, with his terrible illness." No! As long as he was there with me I did not grieve! He was alive and perfectly capable of taking part in conversations, even if it was just by nodding or shaking his head, which he did until hours before the end. And he was warm and present, gripping my hand tightly. So much THERE. And no! He didn't want to die, he wanted life! He never thought of death as "merciful." But he knew when enough was enough. He decided to let go then.

I am the definition of volatile at the moment - suddenly elated, suddenly deep in grief. My tears come unexpectedly and are triggered by anything and everything - a noise, a smell, a song, a flower, a view, the sky, the sun, the rain, a piece of road, an object, a thought, a memory. Of course a memory. They are all memories, gathered through thirty-four years, almost to the day. 

We started going out on May 9th 1981. 

Grief comes after death. The mourning. This is a process that I must let in. In fact I have no choice. I need to open up for it, and when people ask me how I'm doing I must allow myself to answer: "Not too good. Terrible actually. I think of him every single minute of the day."

Today we have chosen the spot for his grave. His last place of rest, where I too will be buried when the time comes.

All six of us girls - daughters and granddaughters - were driven off in a golf bus at full speed through the cemetery. (Never done that before, and the granddaughters were given an extra spin later, even faster). Our African driver/cemetery employee made us feel good about the whole process, and with his advice we decided very quickly on a spot a few metres between my husband's parents' grave and my parents' one - all facing the same way. On the way back to the cemetery office the driver told me he was leaving this evening on his holiday to Africa. I asked him where. Kenya, he said. And suddenly we had a common reference, me with my youth in Tanzania.

Yes, we are all from the same Earth. We are all connected.

And we are all going back to that same Earth.

WE HAVE ARRIVED

PETTER ANDREAS ASPAAS

10.11.46 - 06.04.15

My guy.

MY HEART UPON MY SLEEVE

"It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am."

From William Shakespeare's Othello (Iago's lines)

 Painting by Elin Setara

By being honest and truthful about my situation I lay myself open to extreme vulnerability, but also to incredible love and compassion. I wear my heart upon my sleeve and invite people into the raw emotions that define me now. I might even say that I force them to make a decision as to whether they would like to be a part of this emotional journey - or not. Those who decide they want to be a part will probably find that they reflect a bit upon vulnerability themselves. At least this is what I am told by all my wonderful and caring friends out there.

The price we pay for love is vulnerability and ultimately grief. The day we decide to love someone we invite vulnerability in. And the day we decide to have children we ask vulnerability to be THE huge factor in our lives. No more peace and quiet, no more floating along in a carefree world. Welcome in, worry! Welcome, sleepless nights! Sit yourselves down on my shoulders and pull at my hair and give me headaches!

I spend nights at the Hospice now. Not every night, that's a bit too unpractical, but now that Norwegian Easter is on the threshold - with an enormous amount of public holidays compared to the rest of the world - I will be there continuously. I love being there - having him close.

During a very enjoyable jazz concert (Django Reinhardt style) at the Hospice this week, holding hands, my husband suddenly whispered in my ear: "What would you like, sweetheart? Shall I get you a glass of wine?" Oh, the bittersweet nostalgia of this question, the heartbreaking memories! Wheelchair bound and blind, he suddenly imagined us together in our living room, listening to music. As we have done so very often. And he thought of me and my needs.

Sushi & maki for me while watching over my husband

Colourful paintings by Bengal artist Elin Setara adorn the walls of the Hospice

My spare room at the Hospice

And our toothbrushes are together again... 

Jazz concert at the Hospice! 

Snow fell on Oslo again on Thursday, and everything was chaos. You should have thought we were used to it in this northernmost outpost, but well… when we've got accustomed to spring having arrived we're completely overthrown by a snowfall. Let's put it this way - Norway is the only country in the world where spring precedes winter and winter precedes summer… or something like that. No, I take it back! I spent a week in New York City some years ago and during that week there was summer, winter, spring, autumn - in that order.

Thursday also happened to be my youngest granddaughter Mira's 10th birthday and we went to a steak house to celebrate. This was Mira's own choice, and I thought the time was not yet ripe to discuss sustainable food with her. Mira and I unfortunately both love meat, and my perfectly cooked rack of lamb that I made us last weekend certainly had me hesitating yet again about becoming a total vegetarian.

AND we both love those unhealthy English breakfasts, complete with an authentic English sausage! 

My beautiful granddaughter is 10! (She's on the left - the other one - daughter - is checking her phone for later appointments…) 

Getting a delayed bus back - due to the snow chaos. Mira always delights in seeing me on public transport - "You're sort of always in a car, Mimmi…" (Another environmental challenge for me, I see that). 

Painting by Elin Setara

Love, vulnerability and sorrow have been important themes for me and my best friend Grete during our conversations this week. The initial words of this blog post were bits of the heartbreaking but oh so healing dialogue we've had.

I am paying the price now for having loved with open arms and wearing my heart upon my sleeve, and not least having been loved back - unconditionally. But this is what I think: Would I rather have been without it all and spared myself the grief I'm going through now? Would I have been happier without the deep fear that grips me when I watch my husband in his bed getting weaker by the minute? Would I have missed out on the nerves that practically vibrate on top of my skin while holding his hand, knowing that I'll lose him very soon and that his warm hand won't be reaching out for me?

No. Never. I'd do it all again.