One big difference is that I no longer feel strong. I used to think of my body as sturdy, trustworthy, capable of rising above the niggling health issues most people my age face. But since my husband died, that has changed. I get breathless for no reason. I tire easily. I tremble a lot, I ache. Occasionally, I have a panic attack. I’m embarrassed, because grief has aged me so much.
I ignored my body when Kevin was sick. Only his body mattered. This was not selflessness. We’d been together for twenty four years, married for nearly eighteen. We worked together. He was my best friend. His body was our life, our happy, busy life, and all that mattered was sustaining that. So I popped paracetamol, drank too much coffee, ate those triangle sandwiches they sell in hospital canteens. Kevin struggled, he suffered, but didn’t complain and didn’t lose his sense of humour. And he died anyway, in January 2023.
About two months later, I went out to the back garden for something at dusk. The sky was a perfect pink, the moon full and silver. Our cat Ziggy ran in circles like animals do, just for the fun of it. I laughed. Pleasure jabbed my chest with a sharp finger and said guess what – you’re still alive. It hurt. Sadness and grimness are okay, but beauty and laughter can turn me inside out because what’s the point if I can’t share these with him? How can I have lived through his dying? Sometimes I feel like I didn’t. Sometimes I feel like a ghost and am surprised other people can see me.
On good days, I work at creating healthy new habits. I cook lovely meals, have coffee with friends, enjoy the outdoors. On bad days, I pour myself a stiff drink and listen to songs we used to listen to together. Or I stay in bed and watch endless pet videos on my phone. Falling apart can feel self-indulgent, but the effort involved in not falling apart, over days, becomes exhausting.
I’m not unique. Everywhere there are widows and widowers. You find this out when you become one. It’s like joining a secret club. We recognise each other. Joan Didion wrote that the bereaved all have the same raw expression. I find that people who have lost their partners are less likely to advise, more likely to listen. They generously wait for me to stumble through the answer to how are you doing? They don’t comfort, they confirm.
Empathetic
One incredible woman who lost her husband and her child told me she believed her experience has made her more empathetic. At the time my own loss was new and raw and I thought she clearly is a better person than me, because I don’t have room for anyone’s feelings but my own. As the weeks went by, though, I did find that my antenna strengthened, that I could sense another’s suffering and just let that be; not try to fix it, just keep them company in it for a bit. It’s not exactly a skill, it’s more that you become less worried about saying the wrong thing when you realise there is no right thing. The worst has happened, and really there’s nothing to say.
The details of the story matter less than you’d think. Your loved one may have been sick for a while, or they may have died suddenly. They may have been fifty five, as mine was. Or twenty five, or a hundred and five. The pain is the same. The sense of dislocation is the same. You’ve planned your life around this person, and suddenly they’re not there.
And so, another big difference is I’m spending a lot of time dithering, not sure what to do or how to do it. Everything from how to pay bills to what to make for breakfast – it’s all changed. Everything must be rethought. I’d love to get back to normal, but there simply is no normal to get back to. I miss feeling competent, miss being carried along by routine from time to time.
Being around other people also overwhelms in time, even though my friends and colleagues are wonderfully kind. Kevin was a chatterbox who could engage any man, woman, child, bird, dog or cat in conversation. I’m good at intimate chats but have always struggled a little when lots of people are swirling around me. Kevin made it easier for me. He even greeted people loudly, by name, because he knew I tend to forget names when nervous so no harm in providing a prompt. I miss that.
Kevin wasn’t really famous, but well known in certain circles. He was a well published poet, an essayist, a journalist (including for this paper ), a pundit, a literary event organiser, and a much loved teacher. He wore multiple hats with relative ease. I loved all the public Kevins, but was in love with the private man.
And so it’s strange, now that he’s gone, to find myself the representative of all the external Kevins. I speak on his behalf to publishers, to editors, to our solicitors, our insurance provider, even to the State itself.
When it comes to the work we did together, the Over the Edge readings and the classes, publications, projects and events that have grown from that, I must now speak for both of us. Don’t get me wrong; I’m proud to do so. But after years of a finely balanced partnership in which each knew their role, it’s a strain to hold this public stance alone while privately mourning. Even with support (and I have great support ), I think it will be a long time before I feel in balance again.
Another difference is that I’m now the only one left who knows every chapter in the story of us. I can’t ask Kevin who said what or when something happened. I’m the sole keeper of our history. Is that important? I’m not sure, but it feels so.
I think a big part of being in a long term relationship is the remembering and sharing of anecdotes. All those little tales of sex and tragedy and transitions and laughter that give a partnership its identity. What happens to those when a spouse dies? Does it matter? Perhaps not. Or perhaps very much.
Maybe the next thing I should do is to write it all out, the story of us, so it doesn’t just exist in my head. Because to me, the story of our love is utterly unique, sad and funny and joyous and moving and a little piece of magic. Of course, every couple thinks that.
And every couple is right.
