The Hardest Post

February 25, 2018 Longrider Personal Stuff 76

This is the hardest post I have ever had to write. It’s nearly three in the morning and I can’t sleep, so I am putting my thoughts onto the page, because I need to.

On Friday, Mrs L, that anchor who travelled along side me as I navigated life, who was always there, with a quiet word, who shared my strange humour, died of the cancer that had made her so ill this past few months. The end, when it came, was peaceful, and she slipped away in my arms. In that moment, I lost half of me and ahead, all I see is a chasm, emptiness. I have had two disturbed nights now, because she is so much in my thoughts. For her sake, I am relieved that it is all over, but I am now devastated by an unimaginable loss. And, as an aside, I feel that the whole miserable episode could have been handled better.

I’ve talked about the experience when we had the oncology appointment in January. What a pointless and miserable episode that was. My moans about the NHS are not directed at individuals, for there have been those who cared for her and treated her with kindness and dignity, but the whole system treated her like she was on a sausage machine – it was impersonal and is riddled with a casual indifference; not to mention the incompetence we experienced that day.

Moans aside, this woman was intertwined in my life and now I find myself having to untangle it and as I look around me, the house is filled with her – her taste in decor and the clutter that she so loved. She was an inveterate collector with an obsession for getting the whole set of something. Not for her a collection of Terry Pratchett novels; no, she had to have all of them in hardback and preferably first edition. But, then, I can talk – for I am the same in my own way. I buy a bike and I have to have all the relevant accessories and they have to be high quality and match. We were as bad as each other for that underlying obsessiveness.

There were times when we would have long silences, yet that didn’t matter, because there was nothing to say and nothing needed to be said – and there were times when I would go off on one of my rants and she would understand. I will never fully understand how she managed to say the right thing, or not say anything if that was the right thing.

We first met at a Christmas party in 1983 and this May we would have celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary – I had hoped she would make that, but it wasn’t to be. I would not say that it was all plain sailing because it wasn’t. She struggled with alcohol and in those early years, I found that difficult. When she went dry, things improved dramatically and she only took to drinking again in the latter years following our difficulties in France. Oddly, though, this past couple of years, she seemed to have control over it, so I said nothing and let it go. But the return from France did cause tension and it was an irony that we seemed to have recovered by the time she fell ill about this time last year.

I will miss her so much. Ours was not a passionate affair. It was more of a quiet understanding, a meeting of two similar personalities who rubbed along easily, for I am as quirky as she was. We shared a love of music, art and literature and an equal contempt for the nanny state and the morons who seek to rule us. She was my proofreader when I wrote and I will struggle now on that one, for she was able to read text and analyse it for grammar, punctuation, syntax – and as she would remind me often enough; a tendency to repeat myself. And on more than one occasion would tell me that I had gone off on one of my rants again.

Ransom, my first novel was drawn very much from her experience as an IT support technician. She was of a generation that was self-taught and she was bloody good at it. So much so, that her colleagues will miss that expertise. I know this because I have spoken to them over the years and her ex-supervisor was here a few days ago. She had a knack of just fixing problems without fuss – and was happy enough to bypass the usual protocols if needed, to just get someone up and running again without insisting that they go through the help desk. So it was that people would wander up to her desk with a problem with their PC knowing that the fix would come without fuss. She was quietly competent and efficient and I tried to draw on that when writing that story.

I loved her more than I ever told her. More, I think, than I ever realised and now that she has gone, I so much wish that I had been more articulate about that. I don’t know how I will cope with the rest of the journey.

51 Comments

  1. You have my condolences. I can say little that is pertinent other than all things must pass, this is true from many perspectives. If you find you need a break, I am happy to offer you a place in my home in the Dordogne. I am still, despite being crippled in a road accident, a keen motorcyclist and I am certain we share many things related to that activity in common.

  3. My condolences on your loss. There is little anyone can say at moments like these, but my thoughts are with you.
    My wife has had breast cancer twice, the first in 2004, the second was diagnosed late 2016, she’s still undergoing treatment. Twice I have had to try and face up to losing her and on both occasions it is her who has been the most practical and better able to deal with it emotionally.
    I agree with you about the NHS, there have been some marvellous individuals but there has been many occasions where no-one had bothered to read her notes. I can only hope that the good memories of her help you to overcome the feeling of loss.

  5. “There were times when we would have long silences, yet that didn’t matter…”

    The mark of a true soulmate. May she rest in peace.

  6. The end, when it came, was peaceful, and she slipped away in my arms
    It doesn’t get much better than that, for her or you.

  10. Very sorry to hear this. From what you have written, I am absolutely certain that she knew completely how much you loved her.

  11. I’m very very sorry to hear of this Long. I’m sure you brought good things to her last thirty years though.

  12. I am extremely sorry to read your sad news. To lose someone who was part of your life for so long makes you feel as if there is now a part of you missing. I lost my wife late last year and am still walking round in a daze, depressed, and no longer interested in any of the things we enjoyed doing together. I was told that everyone grieves in their own manner and eventually finds their way out of that dark box they feel trapped in. I’m still in mine, but I sincerely hope that you find your way out of yours in due course.

    • This is a sad and loving post, Longrider.

      She’s only in the next room, so you can still think and chat amongst yourelves.

  13. Sad news indeed.

    They say time is a great healer but i disagree, those who have been loved should always be missed just as much as at this moment, that’s not to say one should curl up and join them, but in everything we do our loved ones will metaphorically always be by our side, sometimes we’ll laugh because we know what they would have said or done, many times we’ll cry because that ache for them has never ceased, and it never will.

    I’m so sorry for your loss, and wish you all the very best for the future.

  14. My sincerest condolences, Longrider. I read but rarely comment, but hope that these words from a complete stranger offer some small solace. My prayers are with you.

  18. I was so sad when I read this, LL, I know your lady has been ill for a long time and all I can do is add my name to the long list of those who wish you well and keep you in my prayers.

    May she rest in peace and may perpetual light shine upon her.

    Be strong, my friend, and God bless you.

  19. I am right sorry to hear this, not much I can say that is any help, but condolences from me too.

  20. My sincerest condolences: I will not add anything which might come across as trite or banal but having been through it myself recently with my dear sister, I feel for you.

  21. I’m so sorry to hear this, LR. My deepest condolences go to you, and I’m sending you the most massive online hug imaginable.

  23. So sorry to read of your great loss, Longrider.

    We lost my father a couple of years ago. My mother has moved on from the intense sorrow and is now able to talk of him with affection and humour. He had is own library. My mother resisted all offers of help to clear it out. She has allowed us to take some items as mementos of our father/grandfather, but otherwise has left as was. Every now and then she sits in it and thinks of him.

    We do grieve in different ways, my wish for you is that you find the best way for you that lets you carry on with life while remembering with love and happiness the life you shared with Mrs L.

    With love and very best wishes for your future.

    DocBud

  26. Life has so many twists and turns. You have articulated – better than you might have wished – some of the joy you experienced along your shared path. Take your time to decide how to move on. You will find that you have more friends than you dared to expect.

  27. What they all said. I don’t have your way with words, suffice it to say there are tears in my eyes.

  28. Longrider – so sorry for your loss. For what it’s worth you have a
    Large number of followers who share your views and are glad to see them so neatly expressed and for sure, even though we are located around the place you are not alone.

    Stay strong, and please accept my deepest codolences.

    I didn’t think it would happen so soon after your previous post.

  30. I have no words other than to say I am so, so sorry for your loss. I don’t know how I would cope in your position.

  32. Having recently suffered a bereavement recently, I feel your loss and pain. Remember it does get easier with time. I cast my mind back to happier days but it doesn’t always help.

    Grieving is the price you pay for love.

    My very best wishes.

  33. I didnt comment this morning as I couldnt find the words. I am so sorry for your loss and understand what you are going through. My husbad died in August 2016 and it has been a lonely journey since then for me. No one can really understand unless they have been through this.

    You are in the very worst stage at the moment. It is just so unreal that your soul mate is no longer there. You obviously loved your wife a great deal.

    I wont promise you that the loss will ever lessen, but somehow one manages to continue living. I wish you all the best, and will pray for you. I do so hope that you have children, because they are life-savers in this situation.

  36. I am sorry to learn of what has happened. You have shared what your life has involved over many recent years and I extend my condolences and kind thoughts to you.

    Will

  38. I never know what to say in situations like this. I’m so sorry to hear your bad news LR, even though, having read your earlier posts, I knew that it would come. I can’t begin to imagine how I would feel if I lost my soul mate. Please accept my condolences.

  45. One positive about blogs is that more people know you than you know.
    They’re (we are) out here thinking of you and supporting from a distance. And knowing that your Love was loved.
    Take care.

  49. My condolences. Small comfort I know but she can still be your editor in a sense. I often reread my posts and ask what the late Mrs P. would have said. After three decades together, I always know. In the same way Mrs L’s wisdom will never be lost as long as you live.

  50. My condolences, and don’t feel under any pressure to write any time soon. It can wait until you’ve come to terms with your loss.

    I just wish I had more words, but for once I’m speechless.

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