It's been a month now since Markus died, and I feel really strange. At first, I was very hyperactive and zooming around all over the place, cried in the strangest places. Went to the supermarket, looked at all the pasta, and realised I didn't know what to buy any more because for 2 years I had only bought for Markus. So I cried into the noodles. It was the same all over - it had been so intensive buying stuff to get weight on Markus, things he could eat and things he liked, that I had totally forgotten what I like to eat. So I'm still learning that.
I also had to clear the medical stuff out of the flat. I couldn't wait to get rid of the oxygen flask, the intravenous feeding stuff, the medication. I called the mobile hospice and they came to take the stuff away, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I've just been clearing out some papers today, and every time I meet a paper concerned with cancer, peg tubes, gastroscopy, metastasis, I scrunch it up with the greatest feeling of anger. Somehow I feel let down by it all - irreal, I know. I have the greatest desire to get back to some kind of normal life.
I miss Markus, yes, but often not as much as I expected. It's as if I carry him safe inside me, where no one can harm him. I don't want to talk about him, I don't want to talk about, think about the past few months, except with one or two special people - Markus's sister, for instance. Somehow, it is rounded, complete - I am so grateful I was able to have the 27 years with him, grateful that he was proud of our relationship, so grateful that this can never be taken away from me. I can see the world through his eyes with his photography. I can laugh when I find yet another sign of his obsession with technical things - pockets full of computer connections, drawers full of cables. And I can cry over stupid things - the pen he obviously treasured, one of his last hankerchiefs.
I can sleep better now - falling asleep is difficult, but with a bit of alcohol and a boring TV programme I can manage. And I only wake up once or twice a night instead of every hour. Waking up on Sunday is no fun - it's pretty lonely, in spite of the cats, so a friend invited me over for breakfast this morning. Worked a treat.
I have to find a new identity, a new course of life. Friends are being very helpful, and I have a load of invitations - but I'm still pretty tired and have a lot of work to catch up on. At first I thought I must be really strange not to grieve for my husband so much - but now I know this is my brain's way of doling out small doses so I can recover from the last few months, when sometimes I felt I could drive a knife through my hand, because that would be a pain I could see and feel and deal with, instead of this awful stress. And now, if I press the right buttons, look at the right things, think the right thoughts, or am surprised by something belonging to Markus that I find, then the enormity of emotion that comes is overwhelming. So I leave those things well alone. And get on with rebuilding my life. Hopefully I'll get energy back and be able to continue on some of the projects that Markus had in mind.
What I can't do is call myself a widow. I'm still married to Markus.
