Response

I feel as though I no longer belong in the world. Everything continues to happen as before, people carry on enjoying themselves, going out, being with friends, and I am looking through a window at them like some urchin from a Dickens novel.

It is almost as if everything stopped in 2015 - it did for me. I can't accept that it is now nearly five years ago. I actually resent having to say it is that long. In daily life, the days pass, every day the same, it seems such a waste, but all is bland at best.

I have abused it - I have eaten far too much, I don't exercise, so as a result the aches and pains of advanced middle age have turned into the aches and permanent pains of old age.

I have very little motivation. I feel as though my life has come to an end, and wonder what the point of anything is. I am still working full-time but after a restructure, which meant a drop in pay, and being passed over for promotion I was encouraged to go for, I feel no enthusiasm and indeed no real desire to be conscientious, which I was before.

I think it could be described as changing, gradually, from acute to chronic. It is no longer as sharp, as much of the time. It is now a continual, deep, sadness.

Momentarily, very often. I hear a door creak in a draught and for one split second I have a memory of anticipation. Occasionally I will see someone of the same build in the distance and again for a split second I have that memory.

I think nearly all the time. From wakening in the morning and suddenly realising what has happened, I now waken already knowing. I drive to work and to visit my sons (not at present of course, due to Covid restrictions) and every mile seems to contain his absence. Even at home, since I live in the house my husband lived in from birth, his absence is in my mind. At every family event I feel his loss, most of all at the birth of our grand-daughter. ... I grieve so much for the grandad he never got to be.

I know of the belief that people have of white feathers and to be honest I have picked up feathers I have found in my path, even in the house, and have kept them. My sensible head tells me it is nothing unusual given the amount of birds, particularly pigeons, which have come to nest in the trees at the side of our garden. I have also on two occasions when I have been alone, once at his grave, and again on a walk through a National Trust garden, and a robin has settled near me and sang for ages.
There is one particular dream (I have had a fair number of dreams in which he has appeared) which seemed to happen about 3 months after he died - I noted it down - he came to lie down on the bed beside me, just dressed as if he had finished work. I thanked him for coming, put out my hand to touch his hair, knowing exactly what it would feel like, and my hand landed in thin air. Yet he seemed so real, so solid.

I fear that my connection with him is fading to an extent. I would actively seek out ways of connecting with him, playing his music, keeping bits of paper with his writing etc. but somehow that is not so powerful. This makes me feel sad, though the act of playing his music etc. made me feel the grief in a very raw way, but this seems to be fading to sadness and, I suppose, acceptance.

I would like to speak about them, but the opportunity for that rarely presents itself. If I introduce his name into a conversation it feels forced.

I have not moved anything of his, despite it being nearly five years. I still have his clothes, and have made up my mind that his wedding suit will stay with me even if I have to get rid of the rest (as I will need to, in order to move into a smaller house).

I found it very hard to stop the subscriptions to his hobby magazines and for them not to drop through the door every month. I suppose I try to seek out opportunities to 'connect' with his hobbies, people who indulge in the same hobbies, but it doesn't work as they don't realise why I mention it.

I have several bottles of his aftershave, and have poured some on a piece of card to have in my purse and on occasions have put it on myself, and on my pillow.

I go through phases when I play his favourite songs - but it mostly makes me cry and I sometimes just don't want to inflict that on myself.

I actively avoid any mention of CPR on television or anywhere else - although I could tell he was dead when I found him, I was trying to perform CPR under instruction when I dialled 999.
There are cupboards in the house with hobby materials which I avoid opening, this is just a reminder that all his stuff is sitting unused.

I don't think I have 'coped' with grief, I have just struggled on day on day. I have been very, very touched by certain small kindnesses from people I did not expect to take any notice. I keep telling myself I need to try to be strong for my sons. I had imagined that somehow people around me, family, friends, would provide an arm to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, in point of fact I have felt very much on my own.
One thing which I feel makes me particularly distraught and miserable is the expectation that I 'should be over it'. A lot of that may be my own perception of what people think, but certain people have the knack of saying something which hurtles you downhill very quickly. I have joined several internet forums for those grieving and one in particular has become very much part of my day.

Most people were very kind for the first fortnight. Thereafter they seemed to forget about me. A special few have maintained that kindness and support.
Even close family members can say something which upsets.
Those who have empathy or understand don't need to say much to help. One old lady, widowed herself, and who I have known since a child, simply said 'Oh lassie, lassie...' That spoke volumes to me and has made me weep typing it. Another woman, much younger than me, simply said ' It's s***'.

I think I was always a glass half empty person, unfortunately, but however down I was, I seemed to manage to bounce back with the hope that things would get better.

I no longer have that hope. I just feel old and discarded.

I would describe myself as a spare part for an obsolete piece of machinery.

I rate the loss of my husband as the worst thing that ever happened to me. There are losses I have experienced - not person related - and they, though painful at the time, fade into a vague memory over time.

I have lost a parent, all four of my grandparents while I was between the age of 14 and 22, much loved aunts and uncles, and dear friends. All my family members have died at an age when you expected it, it did not dilute the loss, but I found I was able to accept it as the way our lives knitted together. Friends died far too young and I still think of them and the lives they should have been able to enjoy, but when this happened I had my husband with me and we shared the grief, as they were his friends as well.

I feel the loss of my husband has left my life shattered in a thousand pieces, and I don't know what to do with them. I find it hard to accept that someone who was absolutely the other half of my life, someone who was so alive and strong, and who was the person who was the centre of our family, has gone, just like that.

I would have described myself as a person of faith. I thought that my faith would help me, would comfort me. As the years pass, I find it has less power to comfort me. Perhaps that is because I see so much pain elsewhere in the world.

No, I have welcomed the chance to write about my grief.