Forget-me-not

About a month after I had been widowed, a friend phoned and asked me how I was getting on. My parents had returned home, the funeral was over, the financial mess was starting to make itself known, my eldest daughter had nearly given up attending school. I was in a terrible state of intense physical and mental anguish, and I was choking back tears that were as corrosive as acid. 'I am not good,' I replied, 'Not good at all'. 'Is it because you have to do everything?' my friend asked. 'No, it's the grief,' I said. Of course, at one level, my friend was correct - to suddenly become a single mother after years of a well-made marriage in which family duties were shared does not make a person feel very good. But at another level, my friend misunderstood the intensity of the grief I was experiencing - an experience for which I had no background knowledge and nobody to guide me. And I was utterly taken up by it - I was in a fire of pain that admitted no other person, acknowledged no other duty, and took all of my attention. Other friends came and rescued me - fed my children and sat with me until my parents returned. I was as incapable as a new born lamb.

As early as the week after my husband died, people would talk about remembering him. I found this incomprehensible. Memories seemed (and still seem) inappropriate when that person's presence is everywhere vivid and vital. It has taken me a while to sort this out, but this is how I understand it - I cannot remember him, but I can never forget him. My whole being is patterned by our shared life and, whilst I am working hard at becoming an individuated person again, I cannot recall memories, but I can remain aware of his influence in my life and those of our children.