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I wasn't going to continue this diary today but it is not all over yet:
Monday 4th 40-47F, Up at 3.00am. Gales and rain forecast all day. Wandering aimlessly in search of something to do. Where to start? Best not to do anything until later. I need a plan. A lot of her boxed possessions need to be found a new home. Where they won't impede movement or demand double handling. The bedroom is all but impassable due to bags of segregated clothes. Our beds take up most of the free space available in the middle. I can't remove any furniture until the bags are all cleared out.
4.00 Coffee, then tea and muesli later. I sat and chatted with my dead wife about my home improvement options. She is still lying there, but completely unrecognisable, on the hospital bed in the lounge.
Back to bed for an hour from 5-6am. The roaring wind and driving rain on the front windows woke me again.
6.45am. Another cup of tea. Feeling completely numb. I haven't lit the stove to keep indoor temperatures low. Hovering around 63F. The doctor is expected but I have no idea when. Without the doctor's formal confirmation of death not much can happen. I am supposed to ring the funeral director after that.
Not a day to venture outside much. Probably just as well. I keep hearing odd sounds. Yesterday, just before she died, there was a bird trilling loudly. High up in the big Horse Chestnut. I had gone out to bring in the towels from the washing line. No sign of any bird as the sound moved around. I have never heard such a birdsong in my entire life.
My wife died only 10 days from diagnosis. It was far too late to begin invasive surgery. Or any other treatment, except morphine, to dull the pain. Which is a great blessing. [In the completely non-religious sense] She would not have survived any of that. Being able to come home and be cared for by the wonderful, mobile medical staff. Was the best possible exit. They were all so very kind, gentle and caring. They would call her by name as they approached. Each of them provided vital comfort for us both in an utterly intolerable situation. My thanks go out to them all.
The doctor called and provided the death certificate. We had a long chat and he suggested I come in for another chat after Easter.
The coffin arrived at 12.00m and left at about 12.30 for the crematorium. I had said my goodbyes over the last few days. There was nothing more to be said.
The cold, emaciated figure, lying on the hospital bed, was not the beautiful girl. Whom I had loved for all of my adult life. I kissed her cold forehead, none the less, as she lay in her open coffin. The lid was gently added and she was carried out to the hearse. I helped by supporting one handle. Said one last goodbye. Then watched from upstairs. As the hearse moved sedately along the pot-holed main drive and out of sight.
I lit the stove. To bring the cold lounge back up to a more comfortable temperature. Then I had lunch. Before continuing to go through her secondhand furniture. Discarding all the loose cardboard and empty packaging. She had more clothes pegs stashed away than you can possibly imagine. All hidden away in different boxes. It all still seems completely and utterly surreal.
The bed, toilet chair and a mobile bed tray are all still here. I gave the depot a ring and left a message. With these items gone I can use the empty lounge for sorting and storage. Then decide how best to proceed. The sorting is filling the empty hours and giving them purpose. It has become a voyage of discovery of a person I now feel I never really knew. I even found stuff which had disappeared from my own possessions!
15.00 Now I keep nodding off at the computer. So I really must try and have a nap. My backlog of lost sleep is beyond count. I am so tired I cannot remember where I have just put things. Having to keep searching for them. Only minutes after putting them down.
I only managed an hour of sleep before I resurfaced. Made a cup of tea and toasted another roll. Then went through her tall chest of drawers. Usually known as a "Tallboy." There were some lovely blouses, tops and scarves in there. Enough to overfill another 100 litre bag.
I had better be quick about sharing all these clothes with the charity shops. Or the smell of these translucent bags will linger. I never saw my wife wear any of these clothes. Unless it was over 20 years ago. Perhaps she bought them simply for their beauty and just left them all folded neatly. Like some hidden treasure. She was a genius at maximising storage space.
Was she hoping for a social life which never came? She never expressed any interest in going out. Not in that sense. She said recently she just just liked collecting pretty things. Many [most] of these clothes may have come from charity shops. Back when we used to escape the toxic neighbour's constant chainsawing on the other side of the hedge. She would complain if I tried to drive home before it was dark. Knowing that the tedious, repetitive sawing would not be over for yet another day.
By the time I discovered her vast buried "treasures" it was far too late for curious questioning. Her face had become a frozen mask of misery, bare bone and sinew. Her power of speech had already gone. Her bright blue eyes would usually stare unblinking, back at me.
Only occasionally could she mutter anything decipherable. Often repeating herself with some cryptic word or short phrase. Which I or the nurses would struggle to understand. In a desperate attempt to help her. She could not even indicate clearly if she was in pain. So I would listen to the edges of her shallow breathing for any hint of suffering. Which could only mean a descent back into the morphine fog. Her mouth wide open. Her open blue eyes glazed and devoid of any clue as to her inner suffering.
Sometimes she would surface from an overnight dose of morphine and react subtly to my presence. Perhaps some gentle blinking and a light squeeze on my fingers as I found her hand under the warm duvet. Had she recognized me and sought contact? I do hope so but I will never really know. Perhaps the cancer had already spread to her brain?
I only want to remember as she was. So quick in movement I would often call her "whippet." So intelligent that she eclipsed any delusions of my own. Always a helpful word or two to ensure success in a project or task. Scathing in her criticism of my failure to think clearly. Or to see things through..
Goodbye my love. My guiding light. My tears are flowing for your suffering. Not my own, selfish, crippling loss.
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