How can I cope with the pain of losing my husband?

DEAR BEL,

I AM 72 — born with spina bifida, so a wheelchair user, although I can walk short distances with two sticks. In 1968, I met the man who was to become my husband.

He, too, had spina bifida, but to a lesser degree. We were both heavily involved with our disability organisation (national and local) — and for a while fostered two girls separately with spina bifida. We had such a good life.

Eight years ago, the man I adored died of a brain tumour. In our 38 years of marriage, he never put a foot wrong.

By that I don’t mean that he didn’t have faults, or that we didn’t have rows, but he was so ready to put things right as soon as possible. After Alan died, I had six weeks of counselling, which helped enormously.

Eight years on, I know this bereavement journey affects people in different ways, but ‘time heals’ is absolute rubbish. It doesn’t. For me, to quote the Queen Mother: ‘It doesn’t get any better but you get better at it.’

Friends and neighbours care about my welfare, so to save their concern I’m able to put on a front that I’m fine, just like before.

I am also able to adapt more to this different life I didn’t want, coping physically as best I can. Having said that, nothing — but nothing — alters the pain, grief and isolation. It’s as real as eight years ago, like a knife turning in your insides. I have those wonderful neighbours, friends and a social life (although naturally I’m a loner), so I expect you are wondering why I have written.

What help can I ask of you? Just an opinion to help me cope with a life so changed from the one shared in utter contentment. MEG

Thank you for sharing this love story. Two people born with physical problems overcame them, found each other, created a truly wonderful life, helped others along the way, negotiated normal disagreements, drew the affection of others, grew older together.

But then death, the implacable thief, stole one away — leaving the other bereft. and yet so brave.

What need for hollywood or romantic fiction when ‘ordinary’ lives contain such quiet joy, everyday courage, enduring love — and, indeed, greatness?

My own problem is feeling too humble to offer the words you seek — simply because you have done all I would advise, and are (in truth) coping as well as anyone could.

There are no easy words to address such a loss, and of course it does not go away. On the contrary, it leaves a mark, a tattoo, a permanent badge of honour, love and grief. What is to be done about that? nothing. You are blessed to carry within you the story of this great love, thus making it as permanent as your own life. On the other hand, if love is indestructible, then so (unfortunately) is grief. This is at once our glory and our tragedy.

Perhaps you can help me, Meg. I had an email from R, a retired nurse and midwife, who wants to help a bereaved lady (let’s call her Joan) ‘in our church family’. Joan lost her husband four years ago and is inconsolable. She was his third wife, he her second husband.

But years ago Joan’s son by her first marriage died in his teens, and clearly that is having an effect on this later grief.

R writes: ‘She has a lovely flat, no financial problems but is sad, lonely, miserable to the point that people have stopped asking her, “how are you?” I make a point of trying to chat to her, but it’s jolly hard work and whatever one suggests, as timeusing exercises, as well as counselling, her answer is the same, “nothing will bring him back.”’

R is concerned and wants to help Joan with ‘words of wisdom’ — which

is why I’m wondering what you, Meg, might say.

I can almost hear you inside my head — sighing that there are no easy words (as I say), but that counselling can help and that Joan has to learn to present a ‘coping’ face to the world, as you have done, even if she is bleeding inside.

Is that about right? The trouble is, some people are resolute in their refusal to accept any advice. Poor lonely Joan is eager to help with church activities; the trouble is, she doesn’t present a friendly face or want to chat. And no matter how well-disposed and sympathetic people are (and many are not), they do not want to be made miserable by the pain of others.

Every day we are horribly aware of our own mortality — which is why somebody endlessly moping and saying, ‘Nothing will bring him back’ can become intolerable. That’s why the old song advises: ‘Put on a happy face.’

Yes, it’s a mask, but what else is there to do? Somebody (perhaps R) will have to be brave, take Joan for a coffee and suggest she go for some counselling, to make sense of her two losses — or at least help her live with them.

And then (with great kindness) explain that if she does want to alleviate her sense of isolation by helping at church (or anywhere) she will have to learn some acting skills — because this is the only way forward.

You, Meg, know all this, so I hope you agree with me. If you have more advice, do pass it on and I will be sure to let R know. As you so wisely say, people experience bereavement in different ways — and since this is a subject I’ve been writing about since 1975, I know that truth.

Nevertheless, we can learn from each other and from the stories of strangers.

I strongly recommend to you Julia Samuel’s marvellous book Grief Works — and thank you for turning your private grief into a letter I found quietly inspiring.