On a sunny Sunday evening last year, my husband died. Soulmate and fellow traveller, he slipped away, leaving me alone on the adventure.
Since then, Sunday has become rather a tricky day for me.
To go from the relaxed feeling, peculiar to Saturday, directly into Monday morning, the start of a new week, would suit me very well. It would provide the perfect solution and cut out the utter melancholy that Sunday invariably brings.
It’s curious, because I’m not someone who goes in for anniversaries; I’ve never held on to days or relived particular memories, good or bad.
My wedding anniversary has often come and gone, and I have to think hard of the exact date my mother died. This does not mean that I don’t hold the event, or the person, in my heart.
But this widowhood thing threw me into a different world, a lonely world, where the lack of the other person is beyond belief.
Becoming a widow, in my case anyway, is not about loneliness; it’s the appalling loss of one special person.
Adventures
We had, in 22 years, spent almost all our time together, shared many travels, adventures, even changing countries, living for 10 glorious years in rural France. We travelled a lot, explored new places, sampled endless food and wine. Never needing a larger circle, we probably shared more than 7,000 evenings during those years.
That’s a wickedly wonderful amount of wining and dining, in all sorts of places.
Tiny cafes in remote French villages where Madame cooked just one dish. Gastronomic, elegant Paris restaurants, the table set as if for a surgeon. Spanish cities, where dinner began at almost midnight. Gigantic steaks in New York, outstanding seafood in Toulouse and on Greek islands. Real pizzas in Rome and Sicily, wild boar stew in Corsica, and a jaw-dropping selection of world cuisine in Dubai.
Most exotic were our North African trips. A Land Rover from the airport, across the desert, to the fabulous Palais Salam in Morocco.
When we cruised the Nile, the stirring sound of the gong announced time to dress for dinner.
These two exquisite journeys were the beginning of my husband’s fascination with clothing and accessories in the style of Hercule Poirot. Embracing online shopping, his list of suppliers grew with his enthusiasm.
We packed in a lot of living, a lot of loving and planned many more years of travel, escapades, and foodie experiences.
Then came the horrendous diagnosis, and all plans were off.
Being an essentially happy person with an optimistic outlook served me well during the next two years. In a severe test for both of us, our final voyage was our most challenging.
Looking after him, watching with horror as his suffering increased, I was a witness to the reality that, unless he was to be knocked out and rendered unconscious, nothing, absolutely nothing, could control the appalling pain.
Regular sleep for either of us was a thing of the past. The night brought all the terrors that, during the day, we seemed able to keep at bay.
There were many discussions, usually at 4am, about whether we should have gone to Switzerland, something he had investigated, and insisted he would pursue, should he receive a diagnosis with no happy ending.
I know now how easy it is to speak of this option, sitting in the sun, glass in hand. The reality wasn’t for us after all. Days became precious.
Only at the very end, more than two years after the diagnosis, did he seem to have perhaps four days of peace.
But I can never know for sure if it was peace, or just the sledgehammer doses of morphine keeping him still.
Seeing such agony and distress at close quarters, over a long time, it crossed my mind that when it ended, I might feel, as well as a sense of sorrow, perhaps a sense of relief.
Having lived the full horror day after day, there was no relief for me when it ended. Nothing prepared me for the profound sense of shock, of utter loss, when my soulmate went to sleep for good.
I look at photos, think my thoughts, walk, sob and recover sanity on Dollymount strand.
Memories
Time does heal, the black fog lifts. Life goes on. I am, in today’s world, relatively young and fit, and still love to travel. How different it is now though, without my dapper companion, suitably dressed for every occasion.
Despite this sunnier mood, with sights and sounds of spring everywhere, heartbreaking memories from the past two years haunt me. Sometimes, I manage to outfox them by focusing on the great memories. That’s a start.
But still, no matter where I spend it, or how busy I choose to make it, the saddest memories crowd in on Sunday.
