The best thing you can ask for someone you dearly love is that if they must die at some point, they do so very quickly. A painful, protracted end is the worst thing for all concerned.
Three years ago, my husband, Tony, died from a heart attack totally unexpectedly. He was 69. Even in the midst of my distress, I was glad when the paramedic announced that he hadn’t ‘felt a thing’.
But such a shock does make it harder for those left behind. Suddenly I was all alone in a boat on the ocean, clueless as to how I would stay afloat. It took me a long time to realise there were other boats bobbing around out there in the darkness, too. I wasn’t as alone or as helpless as I’d imagined.
The first lifeline came three weeks after Tony’s death. I’d forced myself to attend a friend’s party and found myself sitting next to a fellow widow, who’d lost her husband five years earlier.
Somehow, I managed to ask the question: ‘I’ve never been a widow before. Please give me some tips?’ She told me I’d achieved her best tip already — just by getting out of the house and seeing other people.
When I got home, I jotted down her words in a notebook. From then on, whenever I met another widow, I asked the same question.
Within a year-and-a-half, I had quite a collection of advice. A friend suggested I compile a book to f advice. A friend suggested I compile a book to help others who, like me, are suddenly robbed of their soul mate — and a few weeks ago it was published.
Of course, there are no set rules when it comes to coping emotionally. Some people struggle with their grief for years, and maybe never get over it. Others manage to move on.
Personally, I know that for the rest of my life whenever I encounter beauty — an exquisite piece of music or an awe-inspiring landscape — I will break down in tears, reminded of Tony. A lovely old romantic novel or the sight of an affectionate couple is sure to provoke the same reaction, too. But whenever I get myself in a real pickle, I hear Tony’s words: ‘You’re perfectly capable, Janny. Just do it slowly.’
I always said that while some husbands pluck their wife’s feathers to prevent them flying, Tony added more feathers to encourage my independence. That’s something I’m very grateful for now.
We had met back in October 1963 at a party in Cambridge. Tony was studying mechanical engineering at the university and I was visiting my aunt.
He had just returned from working in the U.S. and stood out for pairing his English suit with cowboy boots. He was nicely tanned and had sun-bleached hair.
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