Im sixty-nine, and its been six months since my husband shuffled off this mortal coil. Forty-two years we were side by side. No children. Just usour work, our home, our odd routines, and the bits of happiness we cobbled together over the years.
It all started rather unceremoniouslytiredness, an ache here and there, check-ups that never felt urgent. Then came the tests, the consultants, the NHS corridors. I was with him for every tedious moment.
I learned when his tablets were due. I remembered which foods he couldnt touch anymore. I got to know that look on his face when the pain crept in and let him know sleep wasnt on the agenda that night. And me? I sat there, wide awake, just holding his hand, because sometimes you havent a clue what else to do except to just be there.
Up before him to make breakfast. Helped him into the bath when he didnt have the strength. Tried to jabber on about inconsequential things so he wouldnt get lost in his own head but sometimes he simply didnt answer. Not because he didnt want to, justwell, his body had given up on the conversation.
The day he went, he was in bed, holding my hand. There was no great speech, no final scene worthy of the telly. He just stopped. One minute he was here; next, hed sloped quietly off somewhere I couldnt follow.
I rang 999. Pointless, of course.
The day of the funeral was oddly dreamlike. People Id not seen since flares were in fashion turned up, telling me things that barely seemed to reach my ears: He was a good bloke. Hes at peace now. You have to be strong. I just nodded, not entirely sure what I was agreeing to.
Then they all left. And the house it became vast.
Not because its a manor, but because life drained out with him.
Nights are the worst. I go to bed early just to escape the silence. We used to watch the news togetherhed give his running commentary, making me laugh and then offer a cup of tea. Now I leave the telly on just to pretend theres another soul in the house. Anything not to notice the emptiness.
No children to ring. No grandchildren coming round. Nobody to tell that my backs acting up again, or the GP put me on new pills, or that I nearly panicked the other day because I felt so dizzy and there was no one to pass the water.
Sundays are a proper slog. We used to stroll through the park, buy a loaf from the bakery, meandering home like wed all the hours in the world. Hed always dawdle, and Id tease him about being stubborn. Hed just laugh.
Now its just me, and the world either stares at me as if Im made of glass, or ignores me altogether. At the shops, I only pick up essentialsas for cooking, well, whos it for now?
Whole days go by without me speaking to a soul. Sometimes hearing my voice when a neighbour says hello startles meI sound like a stranger after so much quiet.
I dont regret that we didnt have children. But now Im starting to really understand what it is to grow old on your own.
Everythings slower. Heavier. Quieter. No ones waiting for you. No one asks if you got in all right. No one nags you about taking your pills.
Im still here, but more out of habit than anything. I get up. I do what needs doing. Then its back to bed. I dont want pity. Honestly. I just wanted to say it, out loud:
When you lose the person you built your life around, whatevers left doesnt quite know what its meant to be.
