So here it is. The moment you’d expected for so long.
It’s the central moment of this story — since everything else here falls before or after.
Please forgive me if I say that nothing can prepare you for it, if only as that’s true.
Because regardless of how long you’ve seen this coming, no matter how often you’ve glimpsed across the edge — the view looks different when you get there.
Opening her wonderfully inspiring book, Death — and How to Survive It, Kate Boydell describes the impact of this moment — and the visceral emotion of the widow’s wail — better than anywhere else I’ve read.
But so many sites like Matt, Liz and Madeline, Monday Changed Everything, Snickollet, Crash Course Widow, Dreams of a Wildflower, Forever Changed, and Laura’s Zoo … they all describe parallel versions of this moment.
Each one is different, and yet they’re all the same. Defined by their finality.
What happens next?
You have to tell your children. Her parents. Your parents. All your siblings. Friends, colleagues, neighbours and acquaintances.
It dawns on you that eventually, a thousand others — the butcher, the baker, and up to and including the candlestick maker — all these people will have to know as well. But they can wait, at least for now.
So first things first. The mechanics of the situation might surprise you, if you’re uninitiated. There’s just so much to do. There’s a body in your house, and you have to decide what happens to it. That leads you into the maze of funerals.
You’ll very soon find out that a funeral demands so many dozens of arrangements, and there are even more decisions to be made. Whilst you’ll have good ideas there, now your plans must fit around other people.
You have to register the death. There might be a will. There are literally hundreds and thousands of letters and forms and financial arrangements which you need to take care of. And who’s going to do all those things?
You. And you alone.
It would be a lot to ask in the best of times, and anyone who has seen their wife or husband die beside them is never ready to face all this. But there is no choice.
For days and weeks, and maybe even months ahead, you’re swept along. What follows is a strange transition where life and death and time are blurred by shock, and you’re going through the motions.
Mostly, it doesn’t seem real, and you find that you can cope with it, more or less. You might feel that you’re acting out a part – and to be truthful, that’s exactly what you’re doing.
A kind of defence mechanism cuts in, doubtless to protect you.
Following the initial searing wave of pain, suddenly your mind feels numb. Your brain is somehow bypassing emotion by working at double, triple, quadruple speed, whilst your body functions on pure adrenaline alone.
You’ve fought through hard and desperate days to get here. But this is not your journey’s end. There’s another journey starting, and it leaves right now.
The next seven days within my story were the very hardest days I’d ever lived. Yet looking back, I think the crazy thing is that I simply had no idea.
I didn’t remotely realise, not then, that the days ahead would get so much harder still.
But they did.
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16 responses so far ↓
sparkle333 // 30 October, 2008 at 02:45 |
This is some of your best writing yet, and I will check out the sources that you quoted. This is the part of your book that can really offer help to others, by letting them share what your true, raw feelings were during the coming days. It makes all of us realize that almost anything we feel, during the time you will describe, is okay. There are no rules for this–just people who have walked the path before us. Thank you so much for willing to be vulnerable, so that others will not feel alone. Hugs-
Sparkle
shadowlands1501 // 30 October, 2008 at 03:18 |
Thank you Roads for telling us this part of the nightmare. For me, it was past nightmare, it became a night terror…
Then the silence. The contrast of having a house full of family and friends to no one but myself and silence was too stark of a reality…
I wish I could say that I have everything in order, but even after almost four months, there are still things that I need to do and money to pay. I am no better equipped to deal with these details than I was at that moment…
Does it ever truly end? I need to know…but I think I already know the answer…
canadada // 30 October, 2008 at 15:43 |
That moment when life leaves a body is like no other …
The candlestick maker was top of our list too, after the butcher and baker …
Love to you, all of you – who feels this pain of loss.
Roads // 30 October, 2008 at 19:44 |
Sparkle
Many thanks. The early days of bereavement are characterised by shock and disbelief, no matter how expected the loss may be. And as you say, there are no rules for this, and almost anything we feel is okay.
There’s a huge amount of ignorance out there, though. People will tell you wild and crazy things, and because everyone around you is suffering the same loss, although in a less acute way, tensions can rise to breaking point very swiftly.
More than anything, I think the overwhelming sensation is of feeling absolutely alone and abandoned, and having to rely on your own meagre emotional resources. Since no matter how much support you may be receiving on the surface, it’s impossible for anyone to provide much realistic comfort.
The sad truth is that all of this is to be expected. It’s simply how it is.
Roads // 30 October, 2008 at 19:52 |
Shadowlands
Yes, that silence. The sudden emptying of the house, after a funeral. Day and night, and nightmare – eventually they become inseparable, and merge into blank existence.
These are desperately frightening experiences for the bereaved, which serve to hammer home the realities of a loss in a desperately awful way.
Then there’s the paperwork, the sheer mountain of administration, and the realisation that only you can sort it out. It’s daunting in the extreme, and as you describe, it takes months and months to bring to any kind of order.
All this lies just ahead in my story — but I know that you’re living it today.
Thank you for your unstinting support and belief in this project. You have road tested it, right from the beginning, and I so wish that weren’t the case.
Roads // 30 October, 2008 at 19:57 |
Canadada
How good to hear from you. I’m sorry this isn’t one of your short and delightful tales. It’s an age old story, older than the hills, and with a future of retelling stretching just as long.
It’s kind of you to spare a thought for all those who have suffered loss like this. If you know someone in this position — reach out to them.
Offer your support. They’ll appreciate your thoughts, but there’s no substitute for a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear in times of need.
Best wishes to you from a rainy autumn night in London.
Julia HH // 30 October, 2008 at 22:18 |
Dear Roads,
You have hit the nail on the head as usual. Thank you. As for informing people, the turn of the candlestick-maker, or, in my case, provider of Terry’s stamp collecting catalogues, has finally arrived. Had to tell him to stop sending those. He was gobsmacked to find out “Terry was no longer with us”, as he had known him personally (I hadn’t realised). And after two years of knowing it was true I gasped for breath yet again…right in the middle of my kitchen…
However, may I reiterate the point that you make throughout your book and comments to posts: it is a start of a journey and eventually it gets bearable, better and life regains its meaning. It takes a long time, but it is inevitable. I caught myself thinking today in the car: how come I am in a good mood, how come I am excited about something, how come he has been dead all that time and I can feel joy? I don’t know how…somehow it happens. Let it be…
As for this point in your book, it is utter shock and autopilot. And however anyone tries to help, it is YOU and only YOU who has to deal with everything, both practically and emotionally.
Mendelt // 30 October, 2008 at 23:28 |
Dearest Roads,
While for each person, watching their loved one die is different, you describe it well.
You are suddenly alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.
And then you get tired. Bone tired. Physically, emotionally, cognitively, spiritually tired.
And in that tiredness you know that you have learned something. You don’t know what it is exactly, but you have learned something. It is impossible to precisely pinpoint, but it is something. And if you listen well, that something will be valuable.
And like C.S. Lewis states, you will “misunderstand a little less completely”.
But, like you say, you don’t find that out until later. Because for now, you are too tired.
Peace,
MdH
Roads // 31 October, 2008 at 01:36 |
Thanks very much, Julia.
That’s a good illustration of how long it takes the world to know. You’d think that people would find out much faster, but somehow they don’t.
Just like the end of summertime, when a day or so later you have a shock on finding that one clock you didn’t remember to change — so once in a while even years later, you’ll hear someone ask after your loved one’s health.
It’s hard to take. But it does get easier. And at a certain point perhaps you have to laugh, because otherwise you’d keep on crying for ever.
“So how, is the other half, exactly? In good health, I hope? Still smiling as always?” they beam, eyes twinkling warmly.
“Er, well – not exactly. You see …” And then you must watch their face fall, and you pity the pain they suffer, quite unnecessarily.
Some time, surely and at some point, you’d think it might just be easier to nod, and smile, and walk away. But you just can’t do it, can you?
Roads // 31 October, 2008 at 01:45 |
Mendelt
I’m touched by your words, and full of admiration that you can look back on this time, just a little. Even if a part of it will always be with you.
I can recall last December, very clearly. I remember sitting at a conference in London somewhere, and reading your sad posts then. All the words of well-meaning comfort which so many kind folks warmly offered.
And the thing is, I knew.
You’ve come such a long way. We all do, because it’s a learning experience like no other. And you know that, too. I just wish you hadn’t had to learn.
rhosie // 31 October, 2008 at 06:08 |
i agree, at times we lose someone we love our first reaction will be doubt or disbelief that this thing is happening.we are in state of we feel that this all just nightmare and as we opened our eyes nothing happens…and saddest part is that we realized that we are alone and only left by memories…its really very tough to admit and finally accept that you lost someone dearest to you….only time can tell when the wounds of pain will be healed…but i think sharing your story at some point a one way for you to express your thought and struggle…thank you for letting us be part of your journey…Godbless
Roads // 31 October, 2008 at 09:48 |
Thank you, rhosie. You’re very kind.
Author // 31 October, 2008 at 21:42 |
Being alone. The biggest reality of all. And yet strangely – sometimes being with others is worse. The putting on a brave face, the comforting them, when really you just want to scream with your on pain. The appearing calm, while internally you churn with anguish. Listening to people trying to say the right thing, or noticying their embarrassed looks – or worse the “you’ll be fine” or the “you’ll get over it “approach. And as you say – so much red tape to sift through and sort at a time when you just haven’t the energy. Sometimes I think it is deliberate – society has created tasks that keep you going when it would be so easy to give up. A kind of essential therapy for the bereaved.
Sometimes being alone is easier. For a while anyway.
But then there are the children.
Roads // 1 November, 2008 at 01:09 |
Thank you, Jan. You echo my thoughts.
You mention the comforting of others as one of the responsibilities of the bereaved. Yes, it’s bizarre, and I’ll return to this.
It’s something of a theme within my tale, and I’m certain I’m not alone in that.
Many thanks again.
Judy // 9 December, 2008 at 01:40 |
I didn’t remotely realise, not then, that the days ahead would get so much harder still.
But they did.
Oh yes, the nature of grief. And if people haven’t been through it, they don’t understand that at all.
Roads // 9 December, 2008 at 12:56 |
Thank you, Judy. We’re sheltered from grief in our society. We have a simplistic view of how it works, in part because we want to.
For most folk, it’s so much easier to deal with in that way. Out of mind and out of sight — that’s how most of us deal with the bereaved, I think.
We write ‘You’re in our thoughts,’ much too easily. Because although that may be true, it’s only temporary. The fact is that the bereaved (and the sick as well) would benefit much more from actions than from thoughts.
And that’s the simple truth of it.