Response

I know it's silly, but in the weeks and months after B's death, I wondered why the world was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Did they not know? I was half expecting reality to eventually catch up with the news and start to fold in on itself, because there was no point any more.

Oh, yes! The last six months or so, working from home during the pandemic, where the days merge into each other, has done some really weird things with time. But even before then, some days it seemed like it happened yesterday and was so fresh and new, other days I can't believe it's been so long - almost eleven years, 3,989 days. I remember thinking, in the early days and weeks, "I wish it was five years from now, then I would be over it and it wouldn't hurt so much.".
I don't believe I will ever "get over" it, and I don't really want to. I am generally contented with my life. Sometimes, I'm even happy, and I can still have fun. I still get "moments", but they're fewer and further between.

I had put on weight during B's illness, I didn't eat properly and didn't take much exercise. I'd pick up pies and cakes for tea on my way home from hospital when she was in there. And this pattern has continued since her death. After all, what's the point any more?
I went in cycles sometimes thinking "Why bother?", other times not wanting to put our children though losing another parent. I do want and need to lose weight, and it was going in the right direction when we were put in lockdown and I suddenly found myself no having to go out much and being 24/7 in close proximity to a well-stocked fridge. But that's not what you're interested in.

Motivation is an interesting subject. It's where the "Why bother?" monster rears its ugly head. It was very useful still being in employment, it gave a certain structure to what could have been a chaotic life, and having to do the legal and social things surrounding a death gave a focus. But it's the optional things that were very difficult in the early days and took a large amount of self discipline on occasion. I had (and still have sometimes) an amount of social inertia in that if I was at home, I didn't really want to have to "put my face on" and go out, and when I was out, I didn't really want to go back to an empty home.

Yes, definitely. The early days/weeks were very intense, waves hitting several times a day. As time went on, they generally became less intense and fewer and farther between, and I developed ways of dealing and coping with them. I think my attitude of keeping busy and still believing the world to be a beautiful place, even though it doesn't need to be any more, has contributed to this.
There are still times which bring everything back again, for instance my sister-in-law died suddenly this year. And about three weeks ago a friend died of Cancer. Those were tough.

In the early days, yes, I think that's probably what inspired the early days dreams. But not any more. Although I do sometimes find myself pleading that I wouldn't be cross if it was a practical joke that had got out of hand and she just came back now and we could carry on.
I don't know if it's relevant, but I do remember a dream (can't remember when) where I was in what I identified as our kitchen, although it bore no resemblance to our actual kitchen, and wherever I looked I found things that B had left for me - money, notes, useful things. And then she came in wearing the sort of summer top and skirt that she favoured. She worked around the place as if nothing had happened. I was overjoyed. And then we went out into the garden, green grass soft under our feet. She turned to me, smiled and kissed me, and then turned and walked away. And I couldn't follow her, I couldn't move. I woke up crying, as if I'd felt the loss all over again, but strangely I did feel comforted.

Every time I go to bed and get up in the morning. All the celebration days throughout the year; Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Easter, Father's Day, Bank Holidays, Sunday afternoons, my Birthday, her Birthday, our Wedding Anniversary, the day she died.

Not a physical presence, but I'm always "talking" to her. I like to think that she is still there, looking out for me. Although not to the extent that I would walk out into the road without looking first. I'm grieving, not stupid.
I have long since realised that it doesn't matter what I believe, it doesn't change what's actually true. As long as it doesn't harm anyone and gives me comfort, then it's fine.

Yes, probably answered in Q11. B has been a major influence on me, and that's not something that can just be thrown away. She was a very caring person, and did a lot of work to help vulnerable and disadvantaged people. When I first knew her she did volunteer shifts at a homeless shelter, having come up to college in [place name]. She still guides my thoughts and decisions. I wish it was still a two way conversation.

I have worn some of her jumpers in cold weather and have her engagement and wedding rings on a bit of waxed cord around my neck. I missed having her in bed at night, so I got a body pillow to create a "lump" that I could reach out to, and would hug a pillow. I would occasionally spray some of her favourite perfume in the bedroom. I've actually had to buy some more of it.

No. I never want to forget her. That was my biggest fear in the early days, that my memory of her would fade. That has not happened.

After about 4 or 5 months, other people were getting back to their own lives, but I was still feeling quite wretched. I was thinking "Is this it, is this how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life?". The only way I could see around it was if my grief for B diminished, but that would mean maybe I didn't love B as much as I thought. That was unacceptable. To try and find some answers, I got myself some Cruse Counselling.
I did find it useful. It was great talking to someone who didn't know B or me. I had to remember things about us and our life together that I hadn't thought of for ages, because I'd had no need to. It was great remembering those things. But the most useful thing was towards the last session.
My counsellor drew a circle on a piece of paper, and inside that drew another slightly smaller circle, which she shaded in. "This big circle is your life at the moment, and this shaded one is your grief. It almost fills your life, there's not much room for anything else." I could totally relate to that.
Then she drew the same sized Life Circle, and a much smaller Grief Circle inside it. "Most people think that this is what your life will be in time. Your grief is much smaller.".
Before I could argue, she continued, "But that's rubbish." And she drew the same sized Grief Circle as the first one, and then drew a much larger Life Circle around it. "This is what you need to do, make your Life Circle bigger, make room for other things without diminishing your Grief in any way.". She told me what I think I'd been looking for, and what I knew inside me.
There have been bumps in the road along the way, to be sure, but that is what I have done. And it has been totally the right thing to do.

In general, my family and friends have been so understanding and supportive, at least as much as they can be without having experienced it themselves. In the first couple of years, when I met a new person for whatever reason, one of the first things I would say is that I am a Widower, because it was front and centre in my mind. I don't do that so much these days. Being bereaved used to define me. It's definitely part of who I am, but I don't feel it defines me.
I'm sure there are some people who think I should be "over it" by now, but I'm just glad they don't understand. Let's face it, unless you and your partner are killed in a terrible freak accident, it's going to happen to half of all couples, and that's something that people prefer not to think about. I know I did.
I think being a bloke helped with dealing with officialdom. Most of our utilities, accounts and stuff were in joint names, so I was able to sort those out fairly easily, on presentation of a Death Certificate. I have heard all sorts of horror stories from some of my widowed friends of companies demanding to speak to the Account Holder before allowing any changes. As you can imagine, this can be terribly upsetting. Fortunately, most companies have a Bereavement Department who are usually far more understanding, but you need to ask to be passed through to them.

This bereavement, losing my wife, has made me a better person, I think. I am more assertive, bolder and more empathetic. I think if someone knows you are bereaved, it gives you power and an advantage over them. Most people don't know what to say. I feel it is important that power is not abused. I have only very rarely said "It's what B would have wanted.". I think that's emotional blackmail that must only be used for good.

As I've said before, it's not a competition. The worst loss you have felt is the worst. There's a finality involved in the loss of a person that is not the same with other forms of loss. It's not just the past that has been lost, it's the current relationship and the potential for the future that has gone too.
I have lost things before, a precious item gets broken or mislaid. I have lost pets, although I wasn't too distressed over the stick insect I had as child, or the gerbils we had when the children were young. The cats, however, were a different matter. I listened to a podcast called Griefcast hosted by Cariad Lloyd. A guest one week was someone whose dog had died. I was skeptical to begin with, but in the end I identified with his grief in that he lived with the dog every day, and suddenly it wasn't there any more.
Everyone's grief is different.

I don't think I find anything puzzling about grief any more. How you feel as a bereaved person is totally normal and totally valid. I remember in the early days I would say, should anyone ask, "I'm doing OK, and most of the time I'm not feeling bad that I'm doing OK. But sometimes I feel bad that I'm not feeling bad that I'm doing OK. It's complicated.".
One thing I do find difficulty talking about is the loss of intimacy. When B died, I was 53 and she was 56. We were well beyond the first flush of passion. I probably wished we had sex more often, I think she was at the stage she was happy the way it was. I do miss the sex and the intimate contact, but by our age that's only a small part of the relationship. Far more I miss the casual social interaction, the hand on the shoulder as they pass, calling out that the kettle's on and would I like a coffee, me reading a book and B reading the paper and between us putting the world to rights, sitting snuggled together on the sofa of an evening or a Sunday afternoon watching something mindless like a Morse or a Midsomer Murder.
There is something electric about the gentle passing touch of someone with whom you've been sexually intimate. And that's what I miss.

Not really, I think I've covered it. As indicated previously, I feel grief can take you one of two ways. You can either give up and drown, sit in a corner hugging your knees rocking gently to and fro all day. Or you can start swimming, get out there, join in, accept invitations, be honest about how you feel (your real friends will stay with you), make your life bigger. That way your grief and your love can stay the same and fit comfortably within your new normal. This is what I decided to do, and I'm so glad I did. That spark of determination needs to come from within. I don't know whether I'm naturally like that, or if it's B's influence on me.
I could (if I do something about my weight) easily live another 20 years. What I don't want to happen is, when my time comes and I arrive in Heaven, or Paradise, or Nirvana, or Valhalla, or wherever, find my B waiting there with a frown on her face, arms folded and foot tapping saying, "What did you do with those last 30 years of your life?".