Writing is hard. Packing up a life is harder,

I flinch away from writing this diary, I fear to touch the wall of grief. I know I have an appointment with pain.

Today, my best friend and her daughter helped me fill the big bin I had delivered. We cleaned out the rubbish from the garage. For a long time I have been stashing stuff in there to make room for Arthur's equipment. We found many things, including cards, photographs and ornaments, which I have carefully put aside. It is so sad to see Arthur's little things being packed away, and to see the cards we gave each other and photos of us doing things together.

I found the letter that Arthur found in France in 1945, on 6 June, D-Day. He just picked it up, with no envelope, on the ground. I must find the family one day.

This is almost too painful to write. I have packed up a lot of things, and I have found a workman to move it. And all I can do is say sorry, sorry, sorry Arthur, that I have to do this, that I have to pack away your life. I am sorry I cannot stay in the house anymore, but I cannot stay there without you. I cannot bear it.

Arthur, I miss you.

I am numb, few tears flow. I am not giving in to grief, for tasks call me; only I can complete them. But I ache, a deep unrequited yearning. I want to pick up the keys to the car and drive to the hospital, drive to Semaphore, leave my Mum's place, where she is caring for me, and drive home, drive anywhere to see Arthur, to hear Arthur, to hold Arthur. I just want to touch his hand, feel Arthur hold me close, hug me, to feel his hair, his hand, to hug our dogs between us.

I hurt to the core of my soul.

Love and grief.

It is my birthday, seven days since the funeral service for my husband, 14 days from when he died in my arms, as our little dog Chelsea lay between us.

I am here, Arthur, in our room, the dogs are with me, and my whole being aches for you. You promised me when you lay sick in that A & E bed, that you would be here for my birthday. Now I know your body could not hold out that long, but I am here, I am having my birthday with you.

I love you.

Last Rites.

The hospital called at about 1am this morning to say my husband's condition had worsened and that they did not expect him to survive this hospital stay. I came straight in. The fluid has built up in his lungs and they think his kidneys are not working.

I must be matter-of-fact in writing this, I am in the room with him as he sleeps and I do not want to weep. I am determined he should be comfortable and have dignity. He has had morphine for pain. I instructed the doctor to recommence the i/v antibiotics as he cannot take the oral ones now. He has slept all night.


I do not know if he can hear me say 'I love you" and "I am sorry', or if he knows one of the dogs, Chelsea is sleeping by his side, or heard the Anglican give the Prayer for the Dying. I half-hope he did not hear the last one, or he will be frightened, maybe. Or maybe not.

He has a single room and caring staff. Last night he complained of an earache and the doctor said there was a build-up of wax and the EN&T could not do it till the next day. Arthur got distressed by the pain so he was given a shot of Fenadril??? and later had 1 and 1/2 Temazapan, and later some morphine so he is sleeping heavily. I am watching his catheter drain, and not a great lot of urine has been voided so my hopes are fading.

I played some of his music he lives, Handel's Largo, that he told me he played on the violin for his mother as a schoolboy. He had to give up violin studies to go to work on the fishing boats at 14 years of age. He really regretted that. Many years ago I bought him a violin and he played that Largo for me.

My son said he would come out from London to help, my mother and my other sons will help me too.

But now is the wee small hours, I am still his wife, I still care for him. I am writing this part of his story. Not an end, but a passing. I must pass him on, in his time, to his Mother, Father, only sibling - his brother and other loved ones who have gone before. I have taken a lock of his hair and tied one of mine to his wristband.

Our love will be forever.

 He is groaning a little, I must tend him now.

The First Box Packed, and I Accept Reality.

Arthur is was eating and taking sips of fluids last night. His colour is better and he is talking. He complains of not being able to sleep and the staff woke him to reposition him, but otherwise he is looking okay.

This morning I started packing the kitchen up. I have finally accepted that this is nearing an end. Last night Arthur said he had not lot of time left and he wants to spend it with me. For the first time, I agreed with him. It was a profound moment. I have feared it for so long, cried bitter, frightened tears and told myself that we had years yet to live and love. Now I know we do not.

I am truly helping Arthur close his life with dignity and comfort, as much as I can. Today I packed up the first box, my kitchen implements and cooking pans I know I will not be using in this house again. I will cook Arthur no more pastries he so loved, much preferred to sponge cakes. His food is now pureed or soft. I will not be him cooking rock-cakes, roast dinners with Yorkshire puddings or pancakes, or mixing him a shandy or a gimlet drink.  When I made fruit mince pies at Christmas, when he would steal them from the cooling racks, trying to look innocent with mouthful of rock-cake.

Will these memories comfort or sadden me in the years to come?


Truly now, I am also helping myself to close my life as Arthur's wife. I am preparing to be his widow.

Visit, Thursday.

Arthur is awake today, and his colour is better. The speech pathologist ordered moderately thickened fluids and foods for him. He has a urinary tract infection back and has pneumonia of the lower lung. I sat with him for about 6 hours then I visited my mother. 

While I was there, someone we knew from the soccer club came in, he recognised us. This man {beddall?) is 64 now. Arthur told him he remembered how good a player the man was for City in his hey-day.They talked and afterwards this friend said he would tell other people from the club.

I talked to Arthur and reminded him he has to be home for my birthday. I made myself appear happy around him. We talked about Manchester United and the EPL title. I said he needs to get back home to see the dogs. Arthur turned his head, and with his still-clear and beautiful blue eyes looking to mine, he said, "I just want to see you, you are all I want to see."

My whole body and soul aches with grief.

Now Arthur is in a ward.

I rang the hospital this morning, Arthur has had a good sleep and they are waiting for the doctor to see him. /He has a catheter in. I expressed my concern about him getting another UTI but the nurse said he had a dry pad and when the scanned his bladder, he had about 600 mls of urine in there but Arthur didn't feel it. I am now scared his body is ceasing to function. I need to get myself to a point where I can be with him when he goes through this, if this is finally his death occurring. If I am scared and horrified, what must Arthur be feeling when he is awake, although he is very sleepy. 

Last night I asked him to promise me he would be there for my birthday at the end of this month. He said "I promise."

I feel a part of me is being taken away.It is impossible to describe the deep devoted love we have for each other. We in a lot of ways were not compatible, the differences not just in age, but it is amazing what works when two people really love and care for each other.

Maybe I am being too pessimistic, I remember when I came out of an operation and I couldn't urinate. Maybe it is just the tiredness that is effecting him.

I am so sorry I never recorded his memoirs or wrote his stories down.