It is one year today since my husband died, four months after being diagnosed with a brain tumour after suffering a series of seizures at work. We had no idea he was ill until that day.
There is never a walking moment that he is not in my thoughts. Even when I am not thinking consciously about him, because of the distractions of work for example, I feel his presence and influence. Somewhere, he is there. One thing I know - there is no shortcut. We were happy; we loved and trusted each other deeply, and the grief that I feel comes from the loss of that one, central, precious relationship.
The last year has brought many practical challenges as well as the pain of loss. Anxiety stalks me constantly. I have caring children in their twenties, not living at home, who are grieving too. I can talk to them about their dad and know they share understanding, but I cannot burden them with worries about money or job security or problems with the house. I am alone now and it is exhausting and scary. People say I appear capable and strong - inside I do not feel it.
But. I am asking myself, what would he want me to do now? He was a kind man, someone who cared for others, was always gently spoken. He was humble, too. When treated unfairly at work, finding himself unable to challenge the situation, he saw that the most pragmatic choice was to carry on and ensure we did not lose our income. He was loved by colleagues and the people he cared for (he was a carer) and that helped him to put the attitudes of remote managers into perspective. When told his condition was terminal, he came home and let us care for him, never once showing self-pity or anger or resentment. Towards the end he told me he was at peace, something which gives me comfort now. I think he would want me to carry on in the best way I can, and to be grateful for the years we had together and the family we made. He would not want me to be bitter or self-pitying, but he knew me well and he'd understand that there are lots of times I fall down and lots of times I struggle to pick myself up again. At those times I literally imagine him putting his hand on my arm as he did many times in the car, or letting me put my hand in his, as he always did when we went for walks together.
When he was ill, I read an article in the newspaper about love for which several people of different ages and backgrounds were interviewed. One woman had lost her husband when they were both very young. She was caring for a young child alone. Asked about her feelings towards her lost partner, she said simply "He is my light". That's what I'm remembering today.
