Im 69 now, and its been six months since my husband passed away. Hes gone to a better place, I suppose. Wed been married for forty-two years. No children. Just the two of usour routines, our little moments, the gentle family we built out of ordinary days and work and habits.
It all started out so simplyhe was tired, had aches and pains that would come and go, nothing urgent at first. Then there were the doctors appointments, tests, hospital visits, treatments I stayed by his side every step of the way.
I memorised his medication schedule. I learnt which foods he could no longer eat. I could tell by the look in his eyes when the pain set in and he couldnt sleep. Id just sit up beside him and hold his hand because sometimes thats all you can dojust be there.
Most mornings I got up before him just to make his breakfast. I helped him with his bath when he got too weak to manage on his own.
I kept talking to him, telling him little stories and snippets from the day, so he wouldnt get lost in worry or sadness but sometimes he just wouldnt answer. Not because he didnt want to, but because his body just couldnt keep up anymore.
He passed away one morning, still in bed, holding my hand. There were no dramatic last words, no big theatrics. He was just here one moment, and then quietly he wasnt.
I rang 999, but it was too late.
The day of the funeral felt so strange. People I hadnt seen in years turned up and said the usual thingsHe was a good man, Hes at peace now, Be strong, Margaret. I just nodded, not really sure what I was agreeing with.
Then, all of a sudden, everyone left and the house felt enormous.
Not because its big, but because its empty. Lifeless.
The nights are the worst. I go to bed earlier now because I cant stand the silence. We always used to watch the news together; hed make remarks, make me laugh, then offer to put the kettle on.
Now I leave the television on, just for the background noise. Anything to fill the quiet.
We never had children. No grandchildren. And theres no one left to phone and tellno one to say my backs aching again, or my doctor changed my prescription, or that I was frightened the other day when I felt faint and there was nobody to fetch me a glass of water.
Sundays are the hardest. We always used to go for a walk in the park, buy a loaf of bread, stroll home slowly as if time meant nothing. He always lagged a few steps behind, and Id tease him for being stubborn. Hed chuckle.
Now its just me. People glance at me with pity or dont notice me at all. In the supermarket, I buy only whats absolutely necessary, because who am I feeding now?
Some days pass without my speaking to a single soul. Entire days in silence. Sometimes when a neighbour calls out a hello, Im caught off guard because my own voice sounds strange, as if I havent used it in ages.
I dont regret not having children, but its only now that I truly understand what it is to grow old alone.
Everything moves more slowly. Its all heavier. Quieter.
Theres no one waiting for you to come home. No one asking if youre all right. No one making sure youve taken your pills.
Im still here because what else can I do? I get up, do what needs doing, and then I go back to bed. Its not pity Im after. I dont want anyones sympathy.
I just needed to say it out loud: When you lose the one person youve built your life with, the rest of it seems to lose its meaning.
