Seven years ago, after very nearly 40 years of marriage, my husband died of prostate cancer. The last five years of his life were a constant struggle. Once his cancer was diagnosed we set about fighting it, by a drastic diet change (he became a vegan), and by facing the future with optimism, and a sense of purpose.
We decided that we would work together to find a way to keep him alive longer than the initial prognosis. I helped him to be optimistic when he felt at his lowest, and I shared his vegan diet (recommended by the Bristol Cancer Care Clinic, a wonderful place where we learned a lot about how to work with the cancer), and we continued to travel around the world and to live our lives.
It was not easy. No, that's an understatement. It was hell. There were days when he just sat in his chair in the corner and wept. There were days when he spent hours vomiting, weeping with the pain. Some days he seemed almost normal, almost all right, then the next day he would return to the desperate, hopeless person who was watching his life seep away from him. I hated those days, when he simply could not hold it together.
It was odd, too, that at one moment he would be desperate, and then, when a visitor arrived and asked how he was, he would say he was fine, and behave as though nothing was the matter. He would be bright and cheerful, optimistic and funny, so long as the visitor remained in the house. Almost the moment we were once again alone together, he would resume the mood of desperation. I found that so hard.
And he aged so fast at the end. We were virtually the same age but towards the end of his life people would offer to help me with 'your father'. This was a man who had been a regular runner, super-fit, slim and trim. It was a terrible thing to see him go downhill so fast.
Four months before his death he insisted on going on holiday to Australia. It is about 22 hours from the UK to Australia. We discussed what would happen if he died while we were away. He shrugged and said that I'd just have to bury him there. As it turned out he didn't die there. Mind you, his insistence on driving the hire car while under the influence of strong pain killers (and I'm talking really strong) was one of the more terrifying experiences I have ever had. I reasoned however, that the worst that could happen was that he would kill us both and I wouldn't know anything about it. We were. of course, completely without any insurance for him - well, except for lost luggage and delays!
And then he died. And I was left feeling numb. When people asked how I was I would tell them I was fine, in the kind of tone that invited them to challenge my statement at their peril. After about a year I felt less numb, and very guilty. Guilty that I was alive and he dead. As the months wore on there were some days when I did not think of him the moment I woke up. And when I realised that I had not, I felt even more guilty.
The next year I decided I must reclaim my life. I declared it to be 'The Year of the Selfish Cow' (me) and travelled a lot, did lots of theatre going, and tried hard not to think of others. And in some ways it worked. Of course you never cease caring about your family. I went on enjoying them, in particular my granddaughter, but I was less amenable to people expecting me to jump up and rush toward them when they asked for help. That was progress indeed.
Then my mother, who had been ill with senile dementia for years, finally died. She was 96 (or 97 -we were not sure and she often lied). I was left with some money I had not earned and I spent some of it on seeing a hypno-therapist, to help me to lose weight. It worked, and, what is more, I learned things about myself that have really liberated me.
This year I have finally started my novel, am working on making money on the Internet, and am planning to travel to the sea near Japan this coming July to see the total eclipse of the sun. It is a rather expensive cruise which I refuse to feel guilty about. I am directing two amateur shows this year and another at the beginning of next year - Stephen Sondheim's 'Follies'. I am writing all the time, and just loving it. I plan to publish a guide to running an amateur dramatic group, and, when my novel is finished, I shall work really hard to get that published too.
It has taken me all this time to begin to realise my own worth. I now have a new goal, to go with all the others mentioned above. I am going to live, healthy and strong, until I am at least 120. And then some more.
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