I’ve lost my wife of 50 years and the grief is unbearable

DEAR BEL,

MY WIFE and I moved to Spain ten years ago, leaving a grownup family behind, but with plenty of visits both ways.

In late March this year, Denise started feeling unwell. After many tests they found out her lymph nodes were cancerous and she also had a blood disorder.

She gradually got worse and they moved her into intensive care. She didn’t make it and passed away on April 4. Within the space of two-and-a-half weeks she was gone and I never got the chance to tell her how much I loved her — my best friend.

We thought she was going to pull through, but she lapsed into a coma and it was too late.

The funeral was attended by loads of people, everyone genuinely sad. But nobody really understands how you feel unless they have been through it themselves. After the funeral, I went back to the UK for two weeks and ended up staying for five. Coming back to the empty house was horrendous.

My family have been fantastic, particularly our youngest son, who has been coming over as often as he can.

Our friends have been magnificent, especially a couple who took me on holiday and will again next year. Denise and I used to go for coffee every morning in the village and I still do, crying as I drive along.

I don’t know what to do. The pain is becoming unbearable. I still can’t come to terms with the emptiness.

The sympathy cards remain unread. I can’t look at photographs of Denise or listen to anybody talk about her because I break down.

I can’t stop thinking about her — we were together for 52 years and married for 50.

A couple of times I’ve thought of joining her — though I won’t do that because of the family.

But I miss her so much it’s breaking my heart. People tell me time will heal things, but it certainly isn’t doing so. I can’t sleep at night.

I don’t really know where to go from here. ADAM

There cannot be any reader who doesn’t weep for you, perhaps in the fearful realisation that such grief could be their own one day.

recently, we went to a friend’s beautiful funeral in Norfolk and it was heartbreaking to watch her widower trying hard to be brave. I longed to reach out, but knew there was nothing to say or do for the moment.

however, like most bereaved people he was delighted by the warm thoughts and memories of those who had loved his wife, and printed some in a sheet to slip into the funeral service.

So I do encourage you to read those unopened cards and letters. You are in pain now, Adam, so why not let your heart open itself just a little to share the love that others felt for your late wife?

All my years of writing, reading and talking about bereavement prompt me to make the gentle suggestion that sharing grief can be a real help. People can and do understand. Let them in by letting your words out.

That’s why people find the charity Cruse so helpful. It offers face-to-face,

telephone, email and website support, a Freephone national helpline (0808 808 1677) and local services. Look at its website ( cruse.org.uk). The helpline is extending its hours over Christmas, which can be so miserable for those who are bereaved.

All the information is on the website — and it may do you good to pick up the phone and pour out your feelings to somebody you don’t know. It’s sometimes easier than talking face to face to a friend, though I want that for you, too. Your desperately sad letter is still full of hope in the acknowledgement that you are loved and have support. It’s still early days, so nobody will expect you to shake off your grief at any time soon.

Looking through my books of poetry on loss I found a sheet of paper with a poem called He Said Farewell To Her From Me by Stanley Howarth. There is good counsel for you in it. It recalls a funeral service for the narrator’s wife, taken by a man of God who knows and does not mind his ‘ unbelief ’. This priest found ‘simple, seemly words’ and ‘spoke of gratitude / (And not of loss!) for having known a while / The blessing of her grace, her love, her smile / Her laughter, lovely skills and varied mood.’

The words bring some comfort to the bereaved husband: ‘Self-pity died. I wrapped her deep inside / In softest shrouds of love and care and pride / And faced the time of mourning now begun.’ I know, for you, comfort seems impossible. You have still far to travel through your sorrow, but please imagine your beloved wife walking beside you, begging you to be strong — and live on her behalf.

She know how much you loved her — as surely as she knew the taste of coffee, the warmth of sunshine, the delight you both took in family and friends. Where you ‘go from here’ is (slowly) forward — for the sake of the love you shared.