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It sounds completely daft, but I am finally accepting that my wife will not be making a "come-back." The proof is resting in the cardboard cylinder in the lounge. If proof were needed. I had also watched her die but it was too unreal to properly grasp.
I was lying in bed this morning. Listening to the dustbin men emptying my green, recycling bin. Wondering what to do about making my clothes more accessible. When it suddenly dawned on me that I had a completely free choice.
Our former "furnishing arrangements." Were almost entirely to accommodate my wife's [and my own] need for so much storage space. We moved in narrow corridors. Which are only now being opened up. As my hastily managed "tidiness" gives way to a larger, clear, floor space.
After the initial, exploration phase I had sorted her boxes back onto the floor. Stacking where possible for minimum floor space. Not always easy under the 45º sloping ceilings, upstairs in the full length attic. Where we lived and slept over the last 25 years. Surrounded on all sides by excess furniture and countless boxes. Including my own on the TV stage behind a series of ever larger TVs. My own bookshelves and audio equipment only added to the limitations on space. This clutter went largely unnoticed thanks to my wife's genius at packing things tightly.
I must be well up to twenty five, large, trailer loads delivered to the recycling yards by now. This huge volume must be seen as only the unwanted stuff being removed. I am still loyal to my wife's demands that I "leave her stuff alone." So I go on sorting and use the excuse that I am delivering "the good stuff" only to the charity system. Her clothes and her books so far.
My problem now is being forced to choose what happens next. I look along the three, tightly packed, but completely mismatched sideboards. Running along one wall of the lounge. I simply cannot decide what I am expected to keep. The furniture was not always covered in assorted things. Not as they are now.
Before my wife's demise she chose what went on top. They were still packed but it was mostly decorative and not nearly so mixed up as it is now. 25 years of almost complete isolation meant that there were only our personal opinions on what was acceptable. Was it too awful for the annual chimney sweep to be allowed in? If not, then it had to be tidied between the door and the stove.
My ingrained fear of marital friction is still seriously hampering my ability to more seriously downsize. Does her entire collection warrant saving for some imaginary posterity? Do I simply place a personal value judgment on everything she collected? Including dozens of curtain rail, end decorations and myriad door knobs? As I discovered yesterday as I finally cleared the space in front of the doors of one of her buried cupboards. No doubt the charity shop will accept them and do their own sorting.
I keep thinking in terms of my dropping dead tomorrow. Not morbidly. Just as a thought exercise. The entire contents of the house would be emptied [unceremoniously] into a skip [or two.] Without so much as a second thought. There is no family coming along like magpies to scavenge "all of the good stuff." As so often happens in Denmark.
Dødsboer [dead people's houses] with no heirs, are sometimes left as they were. Though the Danish word can mean that a house is being sold by the family after the death of a relative. With a special, legal status that the buyer cannot complain about the condition of the house. There is no expert report after a thorough examination. Usually provided by a qualified builder or tradesman.
Our own home was a dødsbo and its special status soon became hideously apparent. Though we knew what to expect it was still a shock. To discover exactly how badly it was rebuilt. Presumably from a former, agricultural building. Up until the 1950s it had hipped gables and was thatched. In the 70s it was "done up by a taxi driver from Copenhagen."
Denmark must be unique in providing free access to aerial photographs and maps online. Aerial photography was once a commercial concern. These firms would offer the inhabitants below photographic prints for their walls. While some farmers may have been able to afford a print all the lesser buildings would still appear in these images.
These flying camera men needed to capture attractive images for their most likely clients. So they would take pictures from different angles. By careful searching through all of these images we were able to discover out own tiny hamlet in the background. Once consisting entirely of thatched houses and farm buildings.
The changes in trees, hedges and other details, were truly remarkable over time. Overhead power and telephone cables were once the norm. The wires were strewn, highly visibly along every road. Now you rarely see a telegraph post in this part of rural Denmark.
7.25 44F. Time for a walk!
8.27. I am enjoying morning coffee after my walk. A cold wind from the NE stole the warmth from the sun. Worse as a crosswind. I brought the green dustbin back with me. "Normal life" goes on. A quick shower now before going to see the doctor.
10.30 I am having a mid-morning cup of tea. Not my usual habit until today. Back from the doctor. I have another appointment in August to see if I am returning to normal. Define "normal!" We had a long chat. I am suffering from the common symptoms of loss of a partner. PTSD, if you like. I have been doing my homework online and from watching YouTube. So I already realised that I was not deeply depressed at this point. Sadness, guilt, anger and loneliness are inevitable and unavoidable. Time is the healer.
My relationship with my late wife is changing as constantly as my mood. We had a complex relationship while she was still alive. We each had our allotted roles and little changed over time. She was the decision maker and I followed obediently. Even if the decision was to do nothing at all.
It was by no means an aggressive control system. She would merely get angry if I did not behave myself. So, mostly, I did as I was told. Except when I didn't. I became a serious tricyclist and my mileages became very silly. I would use any excuse to go for a ride. Leaving her at home. Alone with her garden. She did not complain openly. Provided I brought the correct shopping home.
We were always very isolated. With very few friends over the years. Visitors to any of our homes were very rare indeed. Even when we lived in the city. Later we moved to an isolated cottage in Wales. We were far more mobile back then. With trips in the car to add to our collections going back decades. So we had the usual casual conversations with secondhand shop owners. Or charity shop personnel.
It is ironic that her death has resulted in a further recycling of our decades old collecting. At first we bought things in charity shops because we could not afford much else. Now I look back it became a lifelong habit. One which we took ever more seriously over time. If we went out in the car it was to secondhand, antique or charity shops. It was just what we did.
13.30 60F. Just finished lunch. I had gone in search of a new pickaxe handle and some tea. Returned with neither.
14.30 61F. I have just given my wife's planted grasses a haircut about a foot above the ground. It should have been lower. This is supposed to allow them to bush out with each year's new growth. Now I want to attend to her potted grasses. I have placed the little pots 4" [?] randomly across her flower garden. I should probably dig a hole for each and plant the contents in the soil. What if I plant them right on top of her flowers? Perhaps I should plant the grasses at the back of the flower plot?
The pots had all been sitting together in large plastic containers until today. Which might have provided some watering from winter rainfall. Or drowned them! Except that they were placed under an overhang. Where rain would be almost zero.
The visible grasses are all straw coloured so may all be dead. Or, just have the remaining winter foliage showing from last year. My wife was becoming very interested in ornamental grasses but lost some to bad weather. I know this deeply upset and depressed her. Months of grey skies and rain would do that to anybody.
She was always outdoors when its wasn't wet or cold. Being stuck indoors was just not her thing at all. I had no idea she was so low this winter. That she had stopped eating properly some time after Christmas.
17.50 I have managed a decent nap this afternoon. I haven't been troubled by my stomach ache today. It seems an upset tummy is a result of bereavement PTSD. I haven't done much at all today.
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