Something and Nothing.

I moved our bed to my room at my Mum's place today.

I could no longer sleep in the single bed as it made my back hurt, so I paid a couple of men to move my marital bed here.

This is the first time I have gone to bed in it since Arthur died. I have settled the dogs under the quilt with me as usual: there is an overwhelming sense of familiarity and strangeness. Something I know well is forever changed. When do I roll over to talk to Arthur, when will I feel his weight next to me, hear his breathing, feel the heat of his body, or smell the scent of another human being that I know as well as my own? When will I talk about our beloved dogs or...but this is pointless because I know the answer. It will be never.

I am glad to have back a little of that which I had - the bed we shared; but I want Arthur back. I long for him.  If I think about it too much, it is truly horrifying, beyond endurance, so I cannot write anymore tonight.

Sorry, Arthur.

Today the hire bin was collected. Most of it was stuff that was water-damaged or broken. I found some photographs, and greeting cards and trinkets, and saved it all. I also found some of Arthur's first wife's things that I had stored away. She died before I met Arthur, he must have been in this kind of grief when he met me. I have carefully put those aside too.

I feel sad every time I pack his things. I say 'Sorry Arthur' over and over out loud, particularly when I lock up and leave the house. I say it as if he can hear me. I wonder if, and hope, he is somewhere where he can.

Last week's feeling that I had, that any minute I should be driving off to visit Arthur, has changed. That has faded, and is replaced by the regret and guilt of the things Arthur will not know or experience again. I just want to keep saying sorry.

I cannot look forward and looking back hurts too much, so here I am; nowhere.

It just stops?

Last week was bad, I felt that I was away from Arthur for too long and it was time to visit him, in hospital. I spent a few hours in each day at the house alone, packing. With a 'project' to focus on I could just remain numb and do one thing on a time. I held Arthur's Manchester United shirt, one that he wore so much in the last months, to my breast and cried as I remembered holding him to me, the hugs that had to be gentler as he become frailer, the last embrace as he died in my arms. I lay on the bed in his place and smelled the scent, fading day by day, of him on the pillows. I could not do it for long, with an ocean of pain lapping at the wall, like a flooded dam that needs only the gentlest agitation to send the water crashing over the top.


I despaired that meals I would never cook again for Arthur, the football matches we will never see together, the sweet tea I would never make for him again. I will never feel his touch on my hair again or a playful touch of my breast, followed by a cheeky grin.

I despair the things Arthur will not know, the Manchester United wins he will not see, the dogs he will no longer cuddle, the touch of my hand, the Christmas dinners and jokes we will never again share.

I do not understand this sudden severance, how can things just stop like that? I cannot comprehend it. Last week I was numb and just operating.

This week I am still not crying, I am just horrified by it all.

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.