Ramblings of a Reluctant Widow

 I've been feeling a little unsettled. Adrift. Unanchored? A planner without a plan....well, I have a loose one.  This week I left work in the NHS after 15 years, 14 of them at the same trust.  The same amount of time I was married.  As I removed my name plate from my clinic room door for the last time, I sat and looked at it for a while thinking about the fact that I don't identify as Mrs Townend any more.  I will never again say the words "Hello I'm Sarah Townend, one of the lead optometrists here"....and I feel relief about that, because that isn't who I am.  But who am I then? I don't feel I belong with the Townends. I don't feel a part of that family now. When we visit them I don't feel relaxed like I'm with family, I feel reserved and closed off,  I'm wearing a mask for them.  I don't feel like a Mrs, because I'm not a wife.   That may surprise some, I know a lot of widows still consider themselves married to their late spouse

I'm still at a low ebb. Heading into week five of this current dip. It started with the inquest advanced disclosure arriving in my inbox and just hasn't lifted yet. I thought it would have by now. I'm not even sure it's just the inquest any more.  I've done enough depression score questionnaires over the years to recognise that if I did one now I would probably score in the range of moderate depression and slight anxiety. I'm functioning, but not really enjoying life too much.  I'm wanting to avoid people for the most part;  Today I considered eating my lunch in the heat of my car because I wasn't sure I could deal with a staff room full of colleagues.  I'm struggling to concentrate on anything at work. It took me much longer than usual to work through a list of reviews this morning (fortunately just reviewing diagnostics so nobody was kept waiting). This afternoon I sent a child home after I'd finished with her forgetting she was supposed to see

'It is my conclusion that he wanted to end his life' That's what she said, the coroner. A kind way of putting it, avoiding the word- suicide.  But also a brutal way of putting it. I nodded. Yes, he did, didn't he? Afterwards I barely saw or heard the volunteer offering a room to sit in.... No thanks.  I just needed air before I passed out. It was only half an hour. 30minutes to read out the evidence that indicated and summarised my husband's intention to die. I knew what the documents said, I knew what the conclusion would be. The evidence was unequivocal. And yet. Somehow it was still shocking. This is case closed, but there is no closure. What happened to him? Why? Why? Why? 

The water running down his gravestone matches the tears running down my face as i wonder, did he think about me at all? Did he imagine me kneeling at his grave as he had watched me do countless times for Bertie? Did he not think of what his choice would do to me, to his son? Ive had the evidence pack through for the inquest. This includes the post mortem in all its gory glory.  Guess what? Turns out he was perfectly healthy, apart from being dead. What a waste. Of his life, of our future. Someone once asked me if I thought suicide was ever forgivable. No, i dont think i can forgive him. Tell me he was mentally ill, he died of mental illness, however you want to phrase it. No. He chose not to get help. He chose to hide his demons. He chose to leave us. I can't forgive him. 

So I knew this wasn't going to be a linear process, that there would forward steps, backward steps and loop the loops in-between.   I'm troubled by the unpredictability of the roller coaster, it's like I've lost control of myself. As a self confessed control-freak that is not good.  Tuesday I went to work as normal, and was fine, did clinics all day and coped.  Yesterday, I woke with a sense of foreboding and the anxiety was rising even as I stepped in the shower.  By the time I was setting up my clinic room my heart was racing and I was having to do breathing exercises. Looking at my first patient's records I could barely concentrate on what I was reading, which made the panic worse as now I was worried about making a mistake.   I managed to see two patients and had the rest sent home, where I quickly headed also at 10.30am.  90 minutes I managed, out of an eight hour day.  Walking back to my car in tears I told Mark how much I hated what he had done to me.  Becaus

Today I read a post on my widowed group from a guy who's wife died by suicide a couple of months ago.  He was saying that he's going to stop the arguing in his head, she is gone and it's a waste of energy. Today is a new day and he's going to live it!  2 months in. Now I'm not suggesting that he is wrong, or its too soon, or that I in any way know him better than he knows himself. We all grieve differently and we all process differently, of course.   What struck me was the comments on the post. Every single one congratulated him on the "big step forward" or the "positive post" or "sounds like you're healing and moving forwards" ie, the same mix of comments he could expect from wider society.  And it makes me wonder, why do we as a society so highly value the "moving on" and "moving forward" and "carving a new life" and "being positive" ....the sooner the better?  What about the value in lament