I find it hard to believe that it will soon be six months since my husband, Dunc, died. It has been the longest, most difficult and utterly exhausting six months of my life, and yet, the evening of Dunc’s death seems like yesterday. I’ve said previously that the hours I spent at the hospital that night are becoming a blur, but the rest of that day is still totally clear in my mind: I know that Dunc had helped the boys to build a marble run after work; I can remember every word of the fateful phone call from his friend at the pitch; I know that as I drove there I was concerned enough to overtake a long traffic jam on the wrong side of the road, but that I was not anticipating for one moment finding him receiving CPR in the back of the ambulance. After all, I had been told that Dunc was having some kind of fit. The children with whom I work have fits (seizures), and they don’t require CPR. That was the moment when I realised that life might not be the same again.
The last six months have been a steep learning curve in so many respects. One of the first things I realised was that while my world might have temporarily stopped turning, the world in general had not. I opened the curtains the following morning and saw the post lady at work down the street. I wanted to shout out of the window, “What are you doing?! Don’t you know that my husband has died?!” Luckily, common sense, and a very real wish to hide away prevailed. I still have that feeling at times, as if the people around me are carrying on with their normal lives when there is nothing left that is normal about mine. I can feel very detached, and confused by it all. The world often feels like a very noisy place to me now.
One of the first positive things I learnt after Dunc’s death was that I have some truly amazing people around me. I have friends who give me an evening of their time every week, to keep me company and to help me with practical tasks. I have a friend who sends me a message virtually every morning and every evening, just to let me know I’m not alone. (I reckon that’s more than three hundred messages she has found time to send me, whilst trying to manage her own family life!) I have received more hot meals and shoulder massages than I can ever possibly repay to my lovely neighbour, and many random parcels of treats and goodies from a group of online friends, half of whom I’ve never actually met. My lawn has been mown; mounds of soil have been removed; my filing cabinet has been organised and flapjack made. The boys have been dangled upside down and chased (as is very important to little boys!) and we are excitedly awaiting the arrival of a beautiful Mumsnet ‘Woolly Hug’.
I always knew that Dunc and I had wonderful friends, but I could never have imagined how great they would be in a crisis, and how consistent they could be with their support, even though they are all living busy lives themselves. I can’t ever repay their kindness, but I know that they don’t expect me to do so. I feel very humble. Sometimes, it can be hard to accept help, and especially to ask for it. I liked the fact that Dunc and I were able to be relatively independent and able to help others, and I often feel vulnerable now in the knowledge that I can not always manage everything on my own. In addition, it is very strange to receive all this wonderful help and support when I am rarely able to return the favours that I regularly have to request.
I have learnt a lot more about me personally in the last six months too. I remember writing in my first blog that I was already aware of my own inner strength. It’s still there and still getting me out of bed each morning. It helped me through my brother’s wedding at the weekend and I now trust that it will see me through my first solo parents’ evening at school next week too. I’ve been amazed at the stamina that Dunc’s death has required of me. I’ve been more amazed that, somehow, I’ve found enough to get me through each long day. I know now that special dates and anniversaries will be hard, but that they pass, and that the day after is usually a bit better again. The shaking, which appears to be my body’s reaction to extreme stress, subsides, just leaving me feeling more tired than usual. I know now that I can occupy myself for five evenings of every week, when Dunc used to moan that I was rubbish in my own company (mostly when he wanted to play the Xbox in peace!). I am beginning to trust myself more. I don’t have my partner here to reassure me at the end of a battle with the boys that I got it right, and my inner voice is beginning to take over that role, slowly but surely.
I have learnt that the boys are just as strong as I am, but that our experiences of bereavement are different, even when we are grieving for the loss of the same person. Sam puts on a brave face at school and completes activities about families without complaining. Most of the time, no-one would know that he often feels sad, and worries about how we will cope without Daddy (as he finally told me after bedtime one evening last week). Thomas continues to smile and laugh, but he has now developed the vocabulary to express his own sadness, usually at night time. I have realised that while the boys might be coping well, they too must go through the anger involved in the grieving process. Naively, it hadn’t occurred to me earlier that their anger would be directed at me, because I am the one left behind, the one who now does the reprimanding all the time, rather than just half the time, and I’m the grown up who didn’t or couldn’t stop Daddy from dying, but who definitely should have done! I am now the one they love the most, but I can’t take away their sadness and give them the one thing that they really want.
I have learnt that life for Sam, Thomas and I is harder, sadder and sometimes lonely without Dunc, but that we are most definitely not alone. Six months after his death, the world has started to turn once more, with the ongoing help of our friends, and the boys and I are finding enjoyment in our new lives. We are still here, and still smiling often. I hope that in another six months the sadness may have started to recede, the tiredness to lift, and that we will feel more at ease with our new version of ‘normal’. I hope that I will be able to look back and feel proud of what we have achieved so far. When I imagine Dunc up on his cloud above us, I suspect that he would be pretty pleased with our progress so far, and would give us an A+ for effort, at least!
Thomas, Sam and I at my brother’s wedding on October 12th, 2013.