Remembrance Sunday

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British people are familiar with sight of the London Cenotaph in Whitehall, the focus of the annual ceremony to remember those who were killed serving their country. For a brief moment yesterday I was watching the ceremony on TV, when suddenly the camera focussed in close on the words engraved on the side, below the stone wreath. If I had been asked, I don't believe I would have known what they were, but now I feel I shall not forget them.







THE GLORIOUS DEAD

What, I ask myself, is 'glorious' about dying on the battlefields, or on the home fronts, of wars which are not of your making or choosing. True, many will distinguish themselves with acts of great courage, but the context of their deaths remains the same.


I hear echoes of British jingoism in the words, chosen by Rudyard Kipling ,a year or two after the end of the 1914-1918 war. I feel that it is time to let go of the notion that such deaths are glorious. The words seem designed to conceal the horrendous and wasteful realities of war - indeed, perhaps they were.

I am not suggesting for a moment that we should not remember and honour those who died. And I suppose that at least as long as there are veterans still surviving of the two great world wars, remembrance ceremonies will continue.

But I can't help thinking to myself that a more appropriate inscription would be:

THE WASTED DEAD

Clothes for dying

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I recently went with friends to an exhibition of photographs with the above title. We were intrigued by the concept of 'clothes for dying', and wanted to find out more. The photographer was Margareta Kern, a young woman from Bosnia-Herzegovina, who now lives and works in London. On a return visit to see her mother, she learns for the first time of the relatively unknown and rather private custom among women of her country, of preparing special clothes in which to be buried. She is so moved and at the same time so curious about practice, that she decides to turn it into a photographic series.

Lisa

She writes very interestingly, in the exhibition catalogue, of her journeys into remote rural areas to interview and photograph older women, with the clothes in which they wish to be buried which they have either bought or made, and of how she had to create an atmosphere of trust for them to pose with their most intimate possessions, but nevertheless felt like something of an intruder. I think the images are incredible. The different expressions on the women's faces alone are a study: dutiful, resigned, smiling, even resentful. They were mounted on enormous frames, so that one felt as though one was inside the rooms. You can see the rest of the series here.

Julka

But my personal slant on this, is to take issue with the author of the Introduction to the Exhibition Catalogue. He writes:

To westerners, the mere idea of an elderly woman creating a suit of clothes - effectively a Sunday best - specifically in which to be buried is almost beyond understanding.

I just do not agree. It has been, if it is not still, a western practice for women to collect a trousseau, or 'bottom drawer' of items in preparation for marriage, and again to collect a layette for a baby. These are happenings of great significance in a woman's life, and death is another of our rites of passage. For me it is a quite logical progression to prepare for death in the same way.

Anka

And nowadays it is becoming commonplace for us to determine how we wish our funerals to be conducted, what sort of coffin we want to buried in, even to choose a gown to wear. It is a short step from there to preparing a gown oneself, and setting it aside. It is not unknown to hear of people who have bought their coffins in advance. I am considering saving my family some hassle by making and paying for a funeral plan in advance. This will certainly involve choosing my coffin, and also choosing the plainest shift, shroud or gown that they can offer. I shall probably choose flowers as well.

A coffin being decorated

Some time ago when in Bishop's Castle in Shropshire, I visited the shop of The Purple Funeral Company, providers of traditional and alternative funerals. They also held workshops where one could decorate one's coffin of choice. I am told that they have gone from there, but they now have premises in Kington, Herefordshire, and Gladestry, just over the border in Wales. Their website is worth a visit, if you are interested in an alternative way of going..

A montage of the coffins on offer in the shop

Compostorium

Those of you who have been following my posts about 'green burial' may remember my eldest son's contribution which I quoted here. Today I have received a follow-up from him which is worth adding to the series:

Interesting idea in the paper today – facetious but nontheless interesting. Discussing how to use waste to produce compost – an Australian has been doing composting trials on cattle carcasses (in case we get foot-and-mouth). He stuck 16 cattle in pits and added organic matter like straw and woodchips. They were buried in pairs and he exhumed them two at a time, every three weeks for six months. After 3 weeks the bones looked steam cleaned. After 6 months they had good compost. Suggestion was then made that instead of heading to the crematorium you could head to the compostorium to continue being useful after death.

Now there’s an idea.

One of my greatest regrets is that, not only shall I never see my grandchildren grow old, but also that I shall not see how the world at large develops, and how mankind manages to save our planet, or if indeed he does! Green burials have become pretty commonplace in my lifetime, and perhaps, as we take recycling ever more seriously, there will eventually be a move towards recycling our corporeal selves in this novel way. A compostorium does not seem likely to have the appeal of burial in a woodland glade or park, but to the scientists and rationalists among us, it might be seen as an appropriate and acceptable means of disposal.

UPDATE :: I just found this article on "the death industry" on the web, and thought it well worth reading. It's dated 2003, so compostoriums/compostoria (?) are not such a new idea. You have to read to the bottom to get to them though. http://www.theecologist.org/pages/archive_detail.asp?content_id=382

Green burial - more

I wrote here about my visit to a green burial site. Afterwards I talked to a couple of funeral directors, who made it clear that there would be no difficulty about a woodland burial, not even if I wanted to travel 100 miles or so to buried in another county, so I decided to sound out my children on the subject, since they would be doing the organising.

My son in Australia sent an entirely supportive reply, of which I simply must quote you the first paragraph. I should tell you that I headed my email: "Serious subject - please pay attention!" My son's response was headed: "SERIOUS RESPONSE!!!?????"

"Glad to understand what plans you have. Does the burial involve planting a tree on top of you so the full cycle of nature is complete – ashes to ashes, body to compost, nutrients to tree etc. This is what I had heard was available. If so I look forward to celebrating your contribution to bringing back the original ‘wild wood’ of England. Will the tree need fertilizing – I pee on our compost heap to help it get started but I’m not sure what the protocols are on doing this at burials. Perhaps you could advise?"

That's my son, bless him, he's always on my wavelength.

The Manneken Pis, famous Brussels landmark.

Green burial

Last weekend a friend and I visited a green burial site in Worcestershire, the county in which I spend most of my childhood. At the entrance to the park you pass this little pond full of yellow irises, with buttercups on its banks.










Within the park there is the most incredibly lush meadowland, with a driveway through it, an area for parking, and lots of footpaths to give access to the graves. As it is on rising land there are wonderful views over the Worcestershire countryside beyond, and there are a number of bench seats where one can sit in quiet contemplation.








Some of the graves are tended, some are not, but most have a small plaque at one end. There are no gravestones or monuments, but trees have been planted on some of them.












In addition to the wild flowers among the meadow grasses, there were other beautiful blooms on individual graves which were outstanding.

The feeling of tranquillity was exactly what I was looking for, and what finally did it for me was to hear the cuckoo calling. It is a sound which is so evocative of my childhood, and I seldom hear it where I am living now. I think it would ease the pain of going to know that I was going to lie in that meadowland when I was gone. I left with my mind made up.

Though what my children will think of taking me for a two-hour drive to bury me, I dread to ask! It is worth clicking on the pictures to enlarge them, by the way, to get the detail of the meadow growth.

Nothing under the beds

As the day draws to an end, this seems like a good moment to take stock ~ not of all those years, but of where I am now.

The past 12 months have been difficult and disturbing, in unexpected ways. A year after my husband's death I continue to grieve for the failure of our life together. And although we had lived apart for 20 years, I have been feeling strangely without purpose, now that he is no longer around. I have been surprised at just how much a person becomes part of you when you have been married for 50 years, and have been in, and out, of each other’s lives for 60. But he was, after all, the one I chose, and the only one.

I find I am immersing myself in projects centred on Michael, such as the research I am doing into his family history. I guess this expresses a need in me to both mourn and celebrate him still. I am doing this by putting my research onto a family tree website, with photographs, so that our sons and grandchildren will be able to see who he was, and where he came from.

All of this seems fairly positive, even when it is uncomfortable for me, as it recognises Michael 's value, and the value of the 29 years that we had together with our family; I feel that in some sense it is restoring a balance.

But I am also feeling that I have moved up a place in the queue for “the pearly gates”, that my relatively good health is less reliable, and that I should be putting my affairs in better order, for the sake of my executors. This has prompted me to sort out my business papers into a tidy, up-to-date row of ringbinders, and also to undertake a major programme of house clearance and chucking out.

Possessions and clutter can feel like a heavy burden at times, and I am a lifelong hoarder and collector, not only of objects of interest and appeal, but also of “might-be-usefuls”. But now suddenly I have started to let go of stuff. I seem no longer to have the urge to keep things, just in case, in some unforseeable future, they might serve a new purpose. I can see clearly and cheerfully what I am not likely to need, especially when I have not needed it for the past 20 or 30 years anyway! This is remarkably freeing - I feel lighter every time I throw something away - or better still recycle it.

Hence the title of this blog: my aim is to end up with nothing stored under any of my beds any more. (And no unresolved relationship issues pushed there out of mind either!)

My brain has become frenetically active in the past year, which seems likely to be a counterbalance to this increased sense of my mortality. The genealogical research I am doing is fascinating and compulsive, and gives rise to many ideas for pieces to write. But my mind darts from one idea to the next, embracing the new while longing to pursue what is already under way, but remains unfinished.

So the past year has been sad and reflective, but busy and creative as well, and I think that on balance the positive is winning. And yet ..... I am worried by a growing inclination to stay at home and live life in my head and in my computer, rather than make the effort to go out and socialise. It feels kind of weird. It's almost as though I am not quite the same person that I was two years ago, or not quite in the same world.

Is this the effect of bereavement? Or of ageing? Or simply of being a disgraceful old woman?!!

[The snowdrops were painted by Julie Oakley. You can see more of her work on her website.]

Taking in, getting rid, and saying goodbye

It's been a hectic time these last two weeks. As soon as I got back from my holiday I had to set to and clear space in my garage to store the last of the boxes of stuff from my late husband's house, until such time as the family can get together to go through it all. Also needing storage is the stuff waiting to be packed and dispatched to my eldest son in Sydney.

The buyers of the house were getting very impatient for a date for vacant possession - you have to wait for probate before the sale can be completed - and when we finally got that it was a mad scramble to settle the matter before they lost interest in buying. By last Saturday the garage was still full of furniture and boxes awaiting collection by No 2 son, but by Sunday that was dealt with, and on Monday we finally handed over the keys of the house. I paid a last visit on Sunday, and said my goodbyes to Michael yet again, almost a year after he left there himself. Stripped though the house was, it was still his place. Here are two pictures of him, aged 16 months and 83.



















I have taken advantage of all this house clearance, to get rid of some furniture of my own for which I no longer have a need. When the auctioneers came to collect my husband's unwanted furniture, I said a sad goodbye to this child's cot-bed, which I have sent to the auction house as well. It was bought for my mother in 1902 from Heal's in London - I had the receipt to say so - and I and my children have also slept in it. To my regret, I never got a grandchild here to use it though, and now they are all too big. I wept a little before letting it go. I kept my teddybear however. He is not quite so old as the cot, but almost as old as me.

No recall

I hear voices from the past
Telling me that I was wrong
And I'm listening at last
To the meaning of their song

And I'm feeling so much pain
For the hurt that I caused you
If I had the time again
How much better I could do

But the saddest thing of all
And the hardest pain to bear
Is to know there's no recall
For you are no longer there

The man I missed in Bollington

The babies kept coming...1, 2, 3, 4

My tribute to Michael

I haven't written much about Michael here, because we lived apart in recent years, and he would not really have understood about blogging, and so it did not seem appropriate while he lived. But I would like now to share something of him with you. Here is what I said in my tribute:

Michael and I first met at a Christmas Eve party in 1946, and I fell in love with him there and then.

For 60 years we have been part of each other’s lives, and I can scarcely remember a time when Michael was not a determining factor in what I was thinking or doing. I cannot imagine that this is ever going to change.

In these last sad months, while I have cared for him, as he has cared for me in the past, I have come to know Michael in a way that I did not do before, and that is very important to me. Even at the last he has added value to my life.

A man of determined independence, who gave freely to others but would ask nothing for himself, Michael met the indignities of his final illness, not only uncomplainingly, but with spirit and humour, refusing to become any less of the man that he has always been.

He spoke of me to others as “My Judith”, and despite his confusion, from time to time he would ask me: “And how are you doing in ‘all this’, dear – are you coping?” I feel his love for me more strongly now than ever.

Seven years ago, when the whole of our family came together for Michael’s birthday, we made a special book for him, in which each of us wrote our personal tribute. I cannot do better than read to you now what I wrote for him then:

Michael ~ For me you have always been ~

constant and dependable; patient, generous and forgiving.

You have supported and encouraged me in being my own person.

You have been strong for me where I have been weak, but prepared to follow where I could lead.

Together we have raised four splendid, loveable and loving sons, and reliably and equably, you have maintained the fabric of our family life.

For all of this ~ and for being hardy and long-lasting ~ I love you.

I missed you this morning ...

Last weekend I unexectedly found myself driving through the little mill town in Cheshire where we lived from 1960 to 1970. It turned out to be a very affecting experience.

I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
Chasing up the shadows of a time long gone
Missed you in the place where we made our first home together
Still looks the same though it’s forty years on

Missed you when I drove past The Olde Cock and Pheasant
Nice drop of Boddington’s - your favourite beer
Then past St Oswald’s where the boys were christened
The school and the corner shop - they’re both still there

Missed you when I stopped by our little farm cottage -
An Aga in the kitchen and nappies on the rail
And then at the big house we had to move on to -
The babies kept coming - now it’s up for sale

Missed you in the High Street where the shops are familiar
Then under the aqueduct and up by The Mill
Along the canal bank where the ducks are still squawking
And looking for White Nancy up on Kerridge Hill

You weren’t there to share with me our own special memories
I left it too long and you weren’t there to share
I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
I missed you... I missed you... you should have been there…..

[Local landmark White Nancy]

Do not resuscitate

I had the unhappy experience recently of having to stand by and watch the paramedics spend half an hour trying to revive a sick old man of 89, whose heart and breathing had stopped, but whose brain was still giving out an electrical signal. I knew that he had agreed with his GP that his hospital notes should carry the notation DNR, or “do not resuscitate”. It was his wish, in which his family supported him, knowing that resuscitation would be likely to leave him worse off than before.


But it seems that here in the UK, unless there is a letter from a doctor written within the previous two weeks, stating that the patient need not be resuscitated, the paramedics are legally obliged to continue trying, until not only the heartbeat and breathing have stopped, but the last electrical signal from the brain as well. If they have had no success after a certain time, they must take him to hospital where doctors can make the decision.

Is there no way to avoid this happening? I can understand the reason for such safeguards, but it seems unnecessarily distressing at an already painful time. If he had been in hospital they would have let him go, but it had been his wish to remain at home. Or if his GP had been sent for instead of the paramedics, he could have been left in peace and dignity. It is something to think about, if you are preparing for the death of someone you know. Here is a good framework to work with on this and related issues; I believe it originated in the British Medical Journal.

Principles of a good death

• To know when death is coming, and to understand what can be expected
• To be able to retain control of what happens
• To be afforded dignity and privacy
• To have control over pain relief and other symptom control
• To have choice and control over where death occurs (at home or elsewhere)
• To have access to information and expertise of whatever kind is necessary
• To have access to any spiritual or emotional support required
• To have access to hospice care in any location, not only in hospital
• To have control over who is present and who shares the end
• To be able to issue advance directives which ensure wishes are respected
• To have time to say goodbye, and control over other aspects of timing
• To be able to leave when it is time to go, and not to have life prolonged pointlessly
  
  

[Edited 06.01.08 - I wrote this piece to replace the two previous pieces, at a time when I had decided to delete them as too personal. I have now decided to restore them as the truer versions, but I am leaving this in place too. It has some interest as an exercise in writing about one event in two different ways.]

Do not resuscitate

This is a distressing subject. I need to write about it because I am still distressed by what happened. And I think it may be helpful to others in a similar situation. But you don't need to read it, so give it a miss if you'd rather.

When my husband was in hospital for one of his fairly frequent recent visits, he agreed with his doctor that his notes should carry the letters ‘DNR’, for “do not resuscitate”. We were all relieved that he agreed to the notation, as we knew he was living on borrowed time, and that with his age and present state of health, resuscitation would be likely to leave him in a much worse state than before. Nobody talked to us, however, about what would happen in this connection if he died at home, as he hoped to.

When I got the call from his carer, to say that she thought he had gone, but had called the paramedics anyway, I was over at his house within 15 minutes. I made straight for the stairs so that I could be with him, but the paramedics turned me away, saying "We are doing all we can for him". The significance of those words did not register with me straightaway, and it was some time before I realised that they were trying to resuscitate him.

My pleas to them to stop were useless. The fact that nobody wished him to be resuscitated, including he himself, counted for nothing. Here in the UK, unless there is a letter from a doctor written within the previous two weeks, stating that the patient need not be resuscitated, the paramedics are legally obliged to continue trying, until not only the heartbeat and breathing have stopped, but the last electrical signal from the brain as well. If they have had no success after a certain time, they must take him to hospital where doctors can make the decision. Once I understood this I rang our GP at once; but thankfully, by the time he arrived, after half an hour's strenuous efforts to revive him, my husband had finally 'died' in their terms.

I can understand the reason for such safeguards, but I found it excessively painful at an already painful time. If he had been in hospital they would have let him go, and I could have sat beside him and held his hand. And perhaps while his brain was still bravely sending out its signal, although his heart had stopped, it might also have recognised in some little corner that I was with him. Instead I was barred from his presence, because in the bathroom where he lay there was not room for me as well as the paramedics.

And if it had been me who found him at home, and not his carer, perhaps, knowing his wishes, I could have sent for his GP instead of the paramedics, and we could have been peacefully together at the very last. It is something to think about.

[Edited 06.01.08 - I deleted this post for a while and wrote an alternative version, as I felt it was too personal. Now I have decided to restore it as the truer version. I have left the alternative version too (see 12th February), as the two together have some interest as an exercise in writing about one experience in different ways.]

Identity theft from the deceased

Identity theft is something we are becoming increasingly aware of, but here is an aspect of it which had not entered my mind until I read a magazine article this morning. I am going to reproduce it here because it sounds sensible to me.




You can help protect a deceased relative or friend’s identity by taking some simple precautions:

[1] If you place an obituary notice in a newspaper don’t include details such as age, date of birth, maiden name or address. These can provide criminals with the initial information they need to commit the fraud.

[2] Ensure that all relevant organisations are informed of the death.

[3] Contact the Royal Mail to have mail redirected to you or another responsible person. Also check with the Royal Mail that a redirection has not already been put in place, another favourite of fraudsters when trying to obtain the deceased’s information.

[4] If you take clothing or other belongings to charity shops ensure that all personal documents are removed from pockets, wallets or handbags.

[5] If you use a house clearance company also ensure that any documents are removed. Check drawers, wardrobes and any other areas where documents may have been stored.

[6] Any correspondence which is not required and which contains any personal details should be shredded or burned and not placed intact in refuse bins. This not only applies to bank statements or official communications but to all personally addressed mail. A simple personalised gift catalogue (eg with your personal account number on it), for example, could provide sufficient information for a fraudster.

[7] If the deceased’s home is left unoccupied make sure that the house is checked regularly and that all mail is removed.

[8] If the house is put on to the property market, ask the estate agent not to include ‘vacant possession’ in advertising literature and ensure that all viewings are accompanied.

[9] Register the deceased’s details with the Deceased Preference Service:
[0800 068 44 33 or www.deceasedpreferenceservice.co.uk . This is a completely free consumer service which allows relatives or friends to register the details of a deceased person online, by freephone or freepost. The details are passed on to reputable organisations who use the information to stop unsolicited mail and for fraud prevention purposes. The data is also used by the major credit reference agencies to ensure that any credit applications made in the name of a deceased person are detected and prevented. Both recent deaths and those which occurred in the past may be registered.
[Active Life Magazine - January/February 2007]

[10] Be sure to remove the deceased relative's name from all joint accounts. Finally, contact the credit reporting agencies and request a 'deceased alert'. This places a notice on the deceased's credit report, telling companies that the person has died and cannot be issued credit. [From the web]

The urn's turn

I wrote here about collecting my husband's ashes from the funeral directors, and wanting to buy a nice urn to keep them in. After discussing it with my son, we decided to order this one on Ebay, even though it has to come from the American manufacturer, because it is just so right for my Michael. The shipping costs are almost as great as the cost of the item, but it still works out cheaper than the only posh urn the funeral directors could offer us.

Since placing the order I have enjoyed an exchange with the supplier which has taught me something about the value of the emoticon in emails. Following confirmation of my order the supplier sent me two advertising emails, simply drawing my attention to his catalogue. This irritated me, as I had only ordered one, and it seemed obvious to me that I would not have a regular need to buy cremation urns. Here is the rest of our exchange::

From me: Please stop sending me these notices. I have purchased one cremation urn from you, and am unlikely to need another until I am put in an urn myself.

From supplier: I'm very sorry--I took you off the list--------Paul

[At which point I thought I had been a bit terse, so ...]

From me: Thanks ~ I'll make a note of your name for my Executors! ;-)

From supplier: Happy New Year !! Paul

Now I am feeling good, and so will put Paul's link here and feel even better. [NB - his site appears to be under construction at the moment.]

Christmas eve

I decided at lunch time today that I wanted to go back to the church where we celebrated Michael's funeral, and be among his friends there again. There was a Crib Service with Carols at four o'clock which would be just the thing, as it is a service for the small children, who dress up and make a nativity tableau. Michael so loved the children.

He loved to sing, and had a voice which would easily rise above everyone else's, sometimes quite embarrassingly! I remembered how much it annoyed him when people did not come in strongly on the first note each verse, but lagged behind the organist. So I did my best to hit these notes on his behalf, though I have no voice at all, and could only reach half of them anyway.

I noticed this morning that most unusually, the holly tree in my garden still had berries on it, so I decided to cut some to decorate the house. When I reached the tree with my secateurs and basket I thought: "I'll leave the ones I can see from the house, I'll cut from round the back". Surprise, surprise, there were no berries at all at the back ! A freak of growth, do you suppose, or a kindly gesture of the birds?

Thank you !

In his comment on my Bereavement blog, 'M' wrote "I am just a random reader of your blog, so my words may not be that important". I want to say that the words of all my readers are important. You never know who will let a shaft of light into your darkness.

In writing "He let you go, and that is the greatest love of all", 'M' has reminded me of something I knew, but had overlooked for more than 20 years. Thank you. You have helped me to see where I need to go next. Now that I understand better the full extent of Michael's love, I need to forgive him for not being able to communicate that to me; and also myself for not being able to recognise it. Then perhaps we shall indeed have reached the same destination.

I was doubtful about sharing such private pain on my blog, thinking it might discourage people from reading. But enough of you have read and commented to make it meaningful, and it has helped me enormously. I do thank all of you most sincerely. (And it's so much cheaper than going to a counsellor!)

Ashes

Yesterday I collected my husband’s ashes from the funeral directors. Sarah Jane, the one who is like our granddaughter, drove us in her car. She had been urging me to get them in case they got mislaid, which apparently happens sometimes. I find that I have to consider her sensibilities as well as my own at this time, as she loved Michael so much. I am apt to be a bit practical and breezy about the jobs that need doing.

I am not sure how I feel about ashes. I have no strong sense that they are part of my husband. He is surely long gone beyond the physical sphere by now. Nevertheless I found myself saying “Do you think I should have ‘him’ on my lap?”, as I sensed that SJ was unhappy about putting ‘him’ on the back seat. So I nursed the very heavy box on my knees, as we drove to his house where I had some things to do.

Then I found myself saying “Do you think ‘he’ would like to be in his house one more time?”, and instantly SJ said “Yes”. “Are we being silly?” I asked, and she said “No, it’s nice to have thoughts like that”. So we took ‘him’ inside. We considered leaving ‘him’ there for the time being, but both agreed that it was too cold and miserable.

When we got back to my house I took the urn out of the box. I was surprised and disappointed to find that the ashes were not in an urn-shaped container, but in a sort of screw-topped jar in dark green plastic – something more appropriate to the kitchen. It had no aesthetic appeal and no dignity about it, and I am wondering why, among all the other choices the funeral directors offered us, they did not offer a choice of urn. I have searched the web and there are some wonderful containers to be had.

We shall probably keep the ashes until the next time our eldest son home, so that the family can all go together to scatter them on a hilltop somewhere. So I am seriously considering buying another urn. The metal one I have chosen for my picture would be just right for the practical, no fuss, engineering sort of man that my husband was.

Bereavement

I find myself in a sort of trough out of which I am unable to climb - a place where the spirit seems to have drained out of me, leaving me unable to resume the activities that made up my life before my husband's death. Somehow the blogging kept me going during these past difficult months, but now I am finding it really hard to connect again and write.

I didn't think about bereavement in advance, although I am usually one to think - and worry! - ahead. There was time enough to do so, but caring for Michael was sufficient unto the day, and I was aware only that I would be thankful for him when he was finally at rest, and for myself and the family when the burden of care was lifted from our shoulders. I did not expect to be deeply affected by his going, as we had lived apart for more than twenty years, and I did not think to miss him as I do.

So I have been surprised by this sense of emptyness and aimlessness, and the sudden feeling of being alone when, I now realise, I was not alone before. Of course, after knowing each other for 60 years, the fabric of our lives is inevitably made up of threads that we have woven together, as well as individually, and that will never change. Thankfully, we remained good friends throughout the years, and so, in its own rather unusual way, our marriage remained intact, as I had always hoped it might.

But there has been more than just the final parting, the knowledge that we shall weave no more of the fabric together. While living again in Michael’s world for a time, I have learned things that I had not been aware of before, because he was never able to talk of them to me, and these have had a profound if complex impact.

I learned from the congregation of his church how readily he gave his love, his time and effort, and his possessions for the benefit of others, and how they all loved him.

I learned from children and adults alike how much his hugs had meant to them – hugs which he had never seemed able to give to me in the same spontaneous way.

I learned from his good friend and neighbour how much he missed me after we had separated, although he had made no word of protest at my going. And his pain became my pain, and I felt remorse.

I learned from the young woman who cleaned and cared for him (and who was like a granddaughter to us both), how often, right up to the end, he asked her to “Look after my Judith for me”.

All this has revived old pains from the past. But it has meant too that, through others, I have at last been able to understand the full extent of Michael’s love for me, and in doing so I feel my love for him renewing itself.

But it leaves me with a new pain, as I wonder how two people who loved each other could nevertheless have missed each other somehow, on the road through marriage, and ended up at different destinations.

Have I got it wrong?

The impact of my husband's funeral on my life has been unexpected in many ways. It was a sad but wonderful day, in which his own family and the family of his church came together, all contributing, all much moved by the occasion, and well pleased to be united at this time, though they were not, sadly, in his lifetime.



At the age of 16, I had found it impossible, logically, to believe any longer in the Christian god, and have since then called myself an agnostic, whilst leaning from time to time towards a number of other belief systems. This difference between us might have been an insuperable obstacle, but somehow we made it work, at least while we raised our children, though I believe it was always a great sadness for my husband that I could not share his faith.


Over the years, I have often been aware of how much was missing from my life by not being part of a church family. With the funeral, during the arrangements, on the day, and afterwards, this has been brought into really sharp focus, as I came to appreciate fully just how much his church meant to him, and how much he was valued by the church.



Can we not create such communities around other focal points? We can be good, caring, generous and honourable people without being Christians, and yet we do not seem to find the same all-embracing commitment, cohesiveness and purposefulness in, say, the Women’s Institute, or other social bodies of people. Or do I do them an injustice?


Some of our friends left the funeral saying that they wanted one just like it! What I do know is that there is no local community at present which will join with my family to celebrate my life, as this church community has done for my husband. Mind you, he was a very special man, in ways which I could not aspire to, but even so ………