Me

It has been suggested by a friend that I should write something about me; about my feelings and experiences over the past two years.

My initial reaction was that I couldn't. Not because it was too much for me; nor because I didn't feel capable of writing. Rather, because I couldn't remember anything in particular to write about. The two years had just melded together into one blur, with no highpoints or lowpoints, with nothing standing out as being particularly special.

Days were of two types: those on which Sandra had to attend hospital, and those on which she didn't. Apart from that, there was nothing to differentiate them.

The days on which she attended hospital were much of a much-ness for me; driving her to and from wherever she had to go, fetching drinks or food for her, collecting prescriptions from the pharmacy. How people with no support manage, I just can't begin to imagine.

On the days on which she didn't attend hospital, Sandra was mostly asleep in bed, lethargic from the medication or just physically or mentally exhausted. I was in effect on my own, tiptoeing around the house, doing the cooking and the shopping, or just watching the TV. With hindsight, that was perhaps a good thing, since it meant I became used to coping for myself before I was by myself.

I really felt that there was nothing for me to write about. Until this evening, that is, when an old friend came round to collect some things Sandra had left him in her will. How I managed to restrain myself, and not throw him out, I do not know. It's not that he hadn't been told, before. He had. It's not that he hadn't promised not to do it again. He had. And there he was, still doing it.

What did he do? My expression for it is "Talking with the graveyard in his voice".

The scenario is simple: someone's in a situation where they think it's expected of them that they be solemn, so solemn they are. They speak slowly, seriously and intently as if holding back tears which they had until then been shedding continuously; as if they would be rending their clothes at the first possible opportunity.

It used to drive Sandra mad. It used to, and still does, drive me mad. Why? Because whatever mood we were in, to have someone speak to us like that was guaranteed to make us feel worse. Maybe we would have been feeling fine before; if so, then afterwards we would be feeling bad. Maybe we would have been feeling bad before; if so, then afterwards we would be feeling terrible. Maybe we would have been feeling terrible before; if so, then afterwards we would be feeling indescribable.

Sandra was known to throw the 'phone down, and shout to me to speak to whomever, after just a few seconds of being spoken to in that way. For my part, I was known to hang up; no fuss, no expletives just the gentle putting-down of the receiver.

Anyway, this evening's riled me to the keyboard. Can't I really remember anything special about the past two years? I'm just going to write this, while the mood's with me, without going back over it and standing the risk of over-editing

I can remember the day the cancer was first detected. A routine three-yearly scan had led to a letter asking her to make another appointment. There was no hint of there being anything amiss; we just thought something had gone wrong with the scan so it needed to be taken again. Sandra went in, leaving me sitting in the waiting area. After a while, someone came out and said that Sandra had asked that I 'phone the Court, where she was due to sit the next day (she was a magistrate), to cancel the sitting. After doing that, I was asked to come through, and I remember seeing Sandra just sitting in the corridor, looking very quiet and withdrawn. I was shown some whatever-they-were, X-rays or mammograms, I don't know. There in her right breast were five blobs of white, one big one and four small ones, They were so obvious; I didn't need medical training to know what they were; nor did Sandra. We weren't explicitly told (it wasn't the job of the people there to give a diagnosis), but it was obvious.

What about when Sandra was undergoing surgery? Surely I can remember that. Well, yes, but not as clearly as you might expect. I can remember going to the hospital shop to buy her some flowers. I can remember seeing her being wheeled back into the ward. But I can't remember how I felt. I suppose I must have felt relief that she seemed OK, but I can't remember that. I suppose it; I know it; but I can't remember it.

What about when we were told the cancer had come back and she had only a few months left? Surely I can remember that? Well, yes, again I can remember the facts. I can remember going to the hospital shop to get us some drinks. I can remember Sandra telling me the registrar had been in and, seeing that I wasn't there, saying he wanted to wait until I was, and me thinking "Oh, oh.". I can remember the consultant, the registrar, the ward sister and the breast-care nurse all traipsing in; something that had never happened before. I can remember grabbing Sandra's hand as we were being told. But I can't remember how I felt.

There is only one day which really stands out in my mind. That was the day in September 2005 (I've just Googled, to make sure) when Sandra was in hospital to have some test which she wasn't looking forward to, and which would take a couple of hours or so. That was the day the victorious Ashes team were being paraded through London, just 10 minutes' walk away. We arranged that I would go to watch, and that Sandra would 'phone me when she was on her way back to the ward. I had a really happy time mingling with the crowds, waving my little flag with the best of them, and managed to find myself a prime position outside St.Paul's, right at the kerbside. I then checked my 'phone and saw that the battery was flat, so eventually -and I left this as long as I could- I had to go back to the ward to be certain that I would be there for Sandra on her return. As I turned the corner, I heard the crowds break into applause behind me. I then arrived at the hospital, only to find there had been some delay so that she didn't get back for another half hour.

Of course, I can remember Sandra dying. I can remember that, just as she was taking her last breath, a friend decided to 'phone to ask after her. Apart from that, my main memory is of how peaceful her death was; basically, the machine that was her body just stopped operating. Without any fuss, it just stopped.

What about since her death? How have I been?

Surprisingly well, actually. In fact, I think I have shocked a number of people by how well I have been coping. What they don't perhaps fully realise is that I did have 5 months to get used to the idea of Sandra dying, so I had to a very large extent got the pain out of the way in advance. Also, I don't feel as lonely as I thought I might. Again, this is due to the fact that, Sandra spending almost the whole of the time asleep in bed, I had been virtually on my own for 5 months or more, so there was no great contrast.

I do have my moments, though. My eyes filled just now, when I was typing the paragraph about her death, for example.

It's the small things that hurt. Not the big things, such as dealing with her estate, or the letters, telephone calls or emails. It's the small things. Making myself a boiled egg for breakfast, and opening the cupboard to see two egg cups. Looking through the larder, to see it full of her favourite foods. I still can't buy any of her favourite foods, even though I might like them as well. I can't even contemplate eating at any restaurant we used to eat at, or staying at any hotel we stayed at.

I certainly feel more insecure now than when she was still with me. For almost 30 years, Sandra and I have been here for one-another. If she was ill, I looked after her. If I was ill then she looked after me. If we were both ill then the one who was least incapable looked after the other. Who would look after me, now, if I were bedridden? How would I manage? If I fell down the stairs then how could I summon help? How would anyone get into the house to help me?

I do try to be positive: I've got the whole wardrobe to myself; I can walk around the house in the middle of the night; I can eat butter again.

My overwhelming feeling, though, is one of deep regret at not understanding her, whilst she was alive, to the extent I now do. Sandra had some annoying habits (don't we all?) and some things that were important to her even though they seemed utterly trivial to me. In going through her papers, some from a long time before I even knew her, I now understand why she was like that. If only I had known whilst she was alive, then I would have been more tolerant towards her, more understanding than I was. It is that regret that I find the most difficult.