My drawings of heartache & hope
When illustrator Gary Andrews, 57, lost his beloved wife, Joy, aged just 41, he was utterly devastated. But, with their two children to care for, he knew he couldn’t fall apart. Here, he reveals how they learnt to cope
How one family learnt to cope in the face of tragedy
‘Every evening, for the past three years, I have followed the same ritual. As a long day draws to a close, I tuck Lily, 11, and Ben, eight, into bed and kiss them goodnight. Closing their bedroom door behind me, I make my way downstairs, take out my “doodle diary” and begin to sketch. Today’s drawing illustrates the three of us on the sofa this evening, watching the film Wonder Woman.
The kids loved the movie, and I try to capture this in their expressions. Once it’s finished, I put down my pen and sigh, because the picture is missing something – or, more accurately, someone.
Losing my wife, Joy, has been unimaginable. I met her over 25 years ago. We were members of the same amateur theatre company. Something clicked between us and we spent every minute together; she made me feel like the luckiest man on the planet.
We married in 2004 and went on to set up our own media company, which I did alongside my career as an animator and director. We had our first child, Lily, in 2007, and Ben followed three years later. We’d do everything together as a family; my happiest memories are of the four of us on long walks in the hills, on family holidays, or playing board games around the table in the living room.
My life was full of joy and I wanted to capture this, so I began keeping a diary the way I knew best: by drawing. Every night, I’d get out my brown-paper notebook and record a snippet of the
day’s events in a single sketch, with the date in the corner. Looking back, these early drawings of us as a full family are infused with humour and delight. Today, they tell a very different story.
My work for companies such as Disney took me overseas occasionally, and when I kissed Joy goodbye at the airport before a flight to Canada for a week-long work trip in the October of 2017, I never would have imagined that it would be for the last time.
Neither of us liked being apart, so we always stayed in touch when I was away by calling and speaking on Facetime. During one call home, Joy told me she was feeling under the weather. She said she thought she had a touch of the flu, but assured me it was nothing to worry about. I told her to get lots of rest and that it wasn’t long before I’d be home.
The next day, I received a message from Joy’s sister, Marie, who’d gone to see her. Marie told me Joy had become dehydrated and so they were taking her to hospital. The kids were going to stay with their grandmother. My fears mounting, I booked a flight home that night. Just before we took off, I checked in with Marie, who told me Joy was no better, but was being treated. I spent the whole nine-hour flight worrying, trying to tell myself that she’d be okay. Joy was never ill, of course she’d be fine. That overnight journey was the only time in three years I didn’t do my doodle diary.
But when I landed at Heathrow, I saw my mother-in-law and Joy’s brother in the arrivals’ area; their faces were ashen. In quiet, gentle voices, they told me that we’d lost her. My Joy had died. For a second, I just stared at them, numb, not believing what I’d heard. They told me how Joy had been rushed into theatre for an emergency operation, which she hadn’t survived. They said the doctors still didn’t know what had caused her to become so ill. I broke down at that. How could my beautiful Joy have been taken from me just like that?
Reeling from grief, I made the journey home. Lily and Ben ran to meet me. I scooped them up and took them into the garden to tell them the hardest words I’ve ever had to say, that Mummy wasn’t coming home. I held them both in my arms as we cried together. That night, I picked up my pen, and, through tears, drew a large broken heart, from which one tear falls.
Those next few days were agonising. I wanted to know why Joy had died but we were waiting for the post-mortem. When the doctors finally told me that she had contracted sepsis, a deadly
‘How could my beautiful Joy have been taken from me just like that?’
‘Through those darkest days, the doodle diary was my therapy’
condition triggered by an infection, I spent days shaking with disbelief. I couldn’t stop going through what-ifs. “What if I hadn’t gone to Canada?” “What if she’d seen a doctor a day earlier?”
Slowly, I learnt that neither blame nor unanswerable questions were going to bring Joy back. Lily and Ben had lost the most central person in their worlds, so I had to step up and make sure that their lives went on as normally as possible. That first Sunday without Joy, I took her place on the sofa and switched on
Strictly Come Dancing, her favourite show. In the drawing I did later that night, the three of us are cuddled up in front of the TV, tears pouring from our eyes.
Through those darkest days, I found that my doodle diary was my therapy, my way of getting some sort of emotional release. And while many of my cartoons were full of sadness, I slowly managed to bring a bit of humour back into them, too, as I navigated a new world of play dates, shopping and Girl Guides. And when I felt overwhelmed, I’d ask myself, “What would Joy do?”
I had to brush up on my culinary skills, too – the kids weren’t impressed with some of the burnt offerings in the early days! And yet, in this past year, I have come a long way. I have a spreadsheet of the children’s many after-school activities, and I even did Lily’s hair and make-up when she dressed up as the White Witch from The Lion, The Witch
And The Wardrobe on World Book Day. I never thought I’d be starting over as a widowed single dad. Joy was so healthy, she had never had a day’s serious illness. I know I can’t bring her back, so now I want to raise awareness of sepsis and the symptoms, to stop this happening to another family. I’m working with the Sepsis Trust and hope to publish my illustrations to raise money.
I still think about Joy all day and every day, so she often features in my doodles as a guiding presence. In one, she stands behind me as I read the children’s school reports. The kids love seeing my drawings, and sharing them allows us to have conversations about how we’re all coping. I’ve realised that kids are much better at living in the present than adults are. They’ll cry that they want their Mummy, and then ask, “What’s for tea?”
Drawing my life is helping me come to terms with what has happened. I will always love and miss Joy, but Lily and Ben are teaching me to live for the now. In the evening, I’ll pick up my pen and record our day. I feel comforted knowing it’s what Joy would want. It’s my doodling legacy to her, the very best wife and mum a family could have wished for.’
To follow Gary’s diaries, visit his Twitter page @Garyscribbler For more information about sepsis, visit sepsistrust.org