‘I hear Hubby calling me, even though I know he is not here’
I have not been able to cry since his death, it is as if something is blocking the tears
My husband, Russell, and I were married for 63 years. We met on the pier in Clacton-on-Sea, where we did ballroom dancing to a live band, and went on to have two children and manage pubs together. Even though I’m 84, I still affectionately call him “Hubby”.
Russell and I both caught coronavirus. He had already been in hospital for about three weeks with a list of ailments, including early-stage Parkinson’s and suspected bronchitis, when he contracted it.
“Cheerio, love, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to him at the end of a visit, as I always did. The next day, he was swept into a Covid-19 ward and I was barred from seeing him again. He was 87 and had diabetes. Soon after, my blood pressure dropped and I was taken in an ambulance to hospital, where I also tested positive.
Russell died five weeks after he was admitted. I was on another ward and didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. A nurse sent me a nice note saying she had been looking after Russell and that he wasn’t alone when he died. But he didn’t have his family around him.
I came home to an empty flat. At times, I think I hear him calling me, like he used to, even though I know he’s not here. I haven’t been able to cry since his death, it’s as if something is blocking the tears.
Only three people were allowed to attend Russell’s funeral: myself, our son, Mark, and daughter, Maddy. We had to maintain our distance in the crematorium. It was awful that we couldn’t comfort one another.
My children and grandchildren can’t visit me because of the lockdown. I get them on the iPad but it isn’t the same as giving them a hug or playing with them. I phoned 111 to ask if I could visit my children, given that I have already had the virus, but they said there isn’t enough known about immunity for it to be safe. I wouldn’t want to risk passing it on.
On my way home from a recent doctor’s appointment, I stopped by Maddy’s house and sat on a chair outside the porch so I could wave at the kids. They brought their toys to show me through the window. It was surreal. The other day, one of them was playing with bubbles in the garden and he said, “I’m sending some up to granddad.” That almost made me cry.
It’s different from the Second World War. My dad was away but I had my mum and six siblings to keep me company. I can remember going to the beach at Clacton-on-Sea and putting one of my sisters on my shoulders so she could see the ocean through the barbed wire. A plane came over so low that I thought she might get hit. They used to fly from London, out to sea, where they would drop excess bombs.
I have been in a muddle since Hubby died. When we moved into this retirement apartment, three years ago, we joked that it was our last home and that we’d go out in a box. End of life was in our peripheral vision, but we hadn’t yet confronted it.
A neighbour has helped me put Russell’s things into one room, but we need to wait for lockdown to lift before Maddy can come around and help me go through it all. That will be painful.
His ashes haven’t come home yet, but I have his death certificate. It lists everything he was in hospital for – coronavirus is written right at the bottom. Dreaded thing. I don’t remember much of my time in the hospital with Covid-19 but I had a mild form, and wasn’t coughing as many people are.
An enduring memory is of Russell on one of our last visits together. When I arrived he looked elated. I asked what was happening and he said, “I’m getting married tomorrow. To Pauline.” I have no idea who she is – Maddy and I have since found it very funny. It can be difficult to have those reminiscent calls with my daughter and then be in the house on my own. I lie awake thinking about everything that has passed.
On the balcony, I have a bouquet of flowers I took from Hubby’s funeral, which I have been nurturing for three weeks. Every morning I make a cup of coffee, sit with the flowers and have a chat with him.