My wife's breast cancer of 2014 was finally pronounced all-clear in July, 2019. We made grand plans to pick up our lives and enjoy more adventures together.
Three weeks after, she was violently sick in the car. The breast might have been clear, but the cancer had metastasised into her liver, lungs and bones. She refused further chemo and lasted eight weeks. She died in my arms, just the two of us in the house, shortly after one midnight in November, 2019.
People have been extremely kind, but this is the most awful despair of my life. We had no family and for the first time in 30 years I am alone. The house feels desperately empty and I fill my days with trivia trying to blot out her death. I speak to her constantly. I shout in rage in the depths of the night. I am exhausted. I am trying hard not to step over the line between justified grief into unjustified self-pity, but I have no idea where the line is.
People will tell you that the first year is the worst. The truth is that the second year isn't any easier, at least not for me. I have had bereavement counselling and it was valuable but not a golden bullet.
Friends of my wife have offered to matchmake, which just infuriates me, as if she is now past-tense to them and should be to me. The bottom line is that I am still married. When I tell people this, I can see a look of pity, as if to say: "You poor man. You can't let go." Dead right I won't let go. We were inseparable in life. I see no reason why we have to be separated by death. It does not feel like a sacrifice to me.
The one thing that helps I discovered for myself: I send a nightly text to her phone. I know she can't read it. I know it doesn't go anywhere. The point is it helps me by giving me an illusion that communication is still open. Perhaps I am losing my marbles after all. This is a two-dimensional, monochrome life now.
I hope to goodness it is over soon.
