Walking on Saturn

Posted by camilla on Fri, 18 Dec 2015

My husband died the day before yesterday. I am walking on Saturn in some heavy ass gas having to hold onto the furniture when crossing the room.

He is not upstairs sleeping or working in his study. He won't be home at nine. He isnt up in London working or having a curry with his friends. He wont turn over in bed and put a big hand on my hip.

I'm going to be a slow learner of "gone" and in between memories of "gone" there will be sattelite  moons of traumatic memories shining some toxic light.

I had to see all of it and smile.I had to feed my brilliant husband pureed food when he could no longer swallow properly. I had to watch him lose the ability to stand,  sit, write, speak,  see.

Oddly at the end he looked beautiful and very youthful. The decades of being overweight had been stripped away and his skin plumped by steroids. He looked 25 again.

I read to him the morning of the day he died and I was crying so hard I could hardly say the words.He turned to me , saw me, and held my hand.

Warm and safe is gone. I have been left on Saturn with no way home. The warmer planets are just a distant twinkle.

It was 5 weeks from being told he had a brain tumour til his death. It was just 5 weeks.

He had time to say all the love words but for most of that time he refused to believe in the end of his life and luck.

On some days my being there only stirred him to fight it but he could no longer stand so was not allowed out of bed no matter how much he threw off bedclothes and turned sideways in the bed.

For most of the 5 weeks I thought he would somehow "fight it off" by effort of mind and will. I thought well he is not eating much surely he is starving the tumour.

I could not believe that even the most deadly brain tumour would defeat him. He always bobbed to the surface.

This time he ran out of air.

Comments

Submitted by Jack Fritwell on

I do not know you, but your grief has touched me. I am not a religious man and I have nothing to offer but my condolences. If there was anything else I could give that would help you at this time then I would give it willingly. 

Jack

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

Camilla I read your incredibly moving posts about your husband's illness and I am so sorry for your loss. Sending you a very big virtual hug xxx

 

Submitted by camilla on

 

 

Submitted by Denzella on

Camilla,

I am so very sorry for your loss.  A year ago I was in your position as my husband died on the 21st December.  I would like to say after a year it gets better but if you have had a long and happy marriage, then a year is no time  to get used to being without the one person who made you happy..  What happens is you learn to cope and keep yourself from thinking by keeping yourself busy.  At least, that is the way it was for me, but everyone is different.  I have had to learn new skills like mowing the lawn, changing light bulbs and being introduced to all the benefits of a Phillips screwdriver, which was something I never even knew existed, but somehow I have got through the year, but it has been so hard.  I still cannot look into his memory box which contains all the wonderful letters, cards and notes of all the comments people have made about him.  Time may be a great healer for some, but not necessarily for all.  This is the first piece of your writing I have read, but it is a wonderful piece and I congratulate you on your ability to write so movingly so soon after your husband's death.

My best wishes to you

Moya

 

Submitted by camilla on

Is a great idea. Lots of people have sent cards and I can also put in it the lovely cards he would buy me for my birthday and for Christmas.

 

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

I am so very sorry, such a terrible thing to have happened.  Thinking of you. x

Submitted by celticman on

I am sorry for your loss takes up no space, no air, and is not there, but what you feel, matters a greet deal. No words of comfort will hold. And there is no way back. And yet. There is a space for -yet. The times you met. The times you held. The void between the unseen.