Whilst I was writing this book I experienced the death of my beloved husband, Robert, to whom I had been married for over 50 years. It was not unexpected; as readers of my previous book, I Met A Monk, will know, he had been taken ill, very suddenly, with Lewy Body Dementia. When I wrote that book, I was still nursing him at home, but within a few months the deterioration in his condition meant that he had to go first to our local hospital, where he was treated for several months, and then to a high-dependency nursing home.
I visited him at both places daily for over 15 months, watching helplessly as he rapidly deteriorated in mind and body. I was sustained by the unbelievably selfless care and kindness he (and I) received. I was blessed that even when he could no longer speak, he did still recognize me. Almost until his last day his eyes would light up when he saw me, and the final thing he did before he drifted peacefully away in his sleep was squeeze my hand. I am truly thankful for that.
That was nearly four months ago now, and since then I have often felt his presence, and a strange thing has been happening. From time to time throughout the day both my hands suddenly become really hot. It makes me smile because I am certain it’s a sign from Robert, in spirit, that he is close, because he always had warm hands and mine are always cold, and sometimes he used to hold my hands to warm them. When this happens it often seems as though he is reassuring me over some issue that is on my mind, and I am so thankful for that. And of course it links back to his time in the nursing home when all he could do to communicate with me was hold my hand, and that last hand squeeze just a bed – have been so healing, and gradually, very gradually, I am beginning to feel stronger and less like a constantly flowing stream of emotion. few hours before he died. I also feel him close – my hands burning hot – when I am meditating. We used to meditate together sometimes when he was alive, so now, with my eyes shut, and aware of his presence, it feels comfortingly familiar.
That’s not to say I don’t experience much sadness. Some days every little thing keeps reminding me of him, it may be the presence of something – such as catching sight of one of his possessions – one of his tools in his untidy workroom, cast down from the last time he used it; his coat still on a peg by the back door, one of his treasured books or CDs, a straggly, unfinished scribbled note in wobbly handwriting, reminding me like a stab in the heart of when his illness began to take hold.
Or on the other hand, it can be the lack of something that sets me off: no sound of the lawnmower going, or of the cricket on the television; no sight of him, in his jeans and wellingtons, stripped to the waist, lean and tanned, not looking anywhere near his calendar age, trimming the tall hedge or cutting back a vigorous shrub. At first I found weekends particularly sad and difficult; I still do, if I’m honest; no long, leisurely breakfast with the newspapers, competing noisily over who can answer the crossword clues first, no happy discussion of plans for the day – often, no plans at all, actually: just empty hours ahead, and reminders all around me of happier times.
When you’ve been together for as long as we had, your lives are so woven together that memories lie everywhere. A snatch of music on the radio, an advertisement through the door for an opera we enjoyed together; the sight of a couple walking with their arms entwined, a sudden mention of a place visited, an activity enjoyed… these are like rubbing salt into a wound, yet I know the feelings of sadness and loss have to be experienced in order to be released, and that this process can’t be hurried.
I have been so blessed that, apart from writing a few articles and working on this book, my time has been relatively free. My three daughters have all been incredible: so loving, supportive and helpful in every way – and they have encouraged me to accept things as they are, and to grieve, and that in itself has been so helpful. The many quiet days I have been able to spend at home – sometimes (often) just giving up on the day and going to bed – have been so healing, and gradually, very gradually, I am beginning to feel stronger and less like a constantly flowing stream of emotion.
The mindfulness breathing that I have described in this book has been well and truly tested by my situation, and it really has helped me. When I feel upset about the past, or worried about the future, or just plain sad, I breathe in, and gently bring myself back to the present, and the peace of ‘this moment now’. I remind myself that memories are of the past, and fears are of the future, and that when I breathe mindfully, I can bring myself into the present and feel the peace – and the joy – of ‘now’. And that is a great blessing and I feel I am beginning to emerge. In fact I sometimes I feel like a butterfly about to come out of its chrysalis, eyes unused to the light, wings still crumpled and damp, but ready to open up in the warm air, and fly… I hope my wings will be strong and brightly coloured, and that the sun will shine…