I have been – still am – dealing with a few things at the moment. Yes, some of this is associated with learning how to navigate my changed circumstances. However, it’s exactly those changed circumstances that also influence the some of things I’m dealing with.
I’m sure that’s as clear as mud. Well, that is how I was experiencing life; like I’m wading through a thick sludge of mud from some of the “stuff” that’s been rained down on me over the last while.
It’s weird: there are some people who seem to think that now that I’m widowed and alone, I have nothing to do, and all the time in the world for them. Whenever they please. Yes, I am generalising, so I must declare that this does not apply to everyone. Weirdly, though, it applies to the people who know me least, and who are, by and large, not part of my inner friendship circle. The inner circle get that my day job, market commitments and the inevitable grind of daily life keep me busy. Some clients do, some don’t – just the same as always.
Solitude has, for a long time, been my friend. As a child, I longed to have my own room. I did not like sharing my space, either at home or at boarding school where dormitory living was the way of life until we were seniors. I learned to create that solitude space for myself – sometimes in what seemed like a maelstrom.
After choosing to share my life with The Husband, it’s really difficult to explain – and for people to understand – solitude is welcome. It’s the loss of my life companion that is not.
Solitude does not mean I am lonely. Do I miss The Husband? Yes. All. The. Time.
I don’t think that will ever end: when something happens, he is still the first person I want to tell, or whose opinion I’d like. The passé remark, "just talk to him, anyway," I’ve come to realise, is well-meaning but comes from place of total incomprehension that death really is final. It defies even the most willing and vivid imagination. Especially with time.
The only thing that time does, is soften the pain. It doesn’t stab quite so often, although it does when you least expect it. One learns to live with the dull ache until you don’t feel it anymore. I think. Perhaps.
Yet, life can be good. I am beginning to allow myself that. Partly because we discussed that neither of us wanted the other to be lonely and miserable. That’s not what loving someone is about. Loving and caring for someone is wishing them happy: whatever that might mean. It’s a conversation I remember, and I must remember. And live by.
Over the last six or so months, I’ve begun re-finding myself. That’s included embracing being alone at home, getting on with, well, sometimes, just nothing, apparently. I continue my daily and weekly chores which means my life has shape and I have commitments. That’s all good. It does mean, though, that people who drop in unannounced or who have no respect for the doorbell - literal or figurative - are not welcome.
Most people get this, but there is one person who hasn’t. He has physical and mental health issues which complicates things. It’s even more complicated because he has chosen a solitary life to the extent that he has very, very hard boundaries about people in his life and space, and which he does not recognise in others. Then, on top of that, he does not take or act on basic medical advice. He does not help himself. He will not.
In the last year or so, he has had several crises, and I’ve done my best to be there. Mistakenly, The Husband and I had not set boundaries, and after The Husband died, I didn’t have the emotional energy to put them in place until the situation became untenable for me. He would arrive before I’d got up in the morning; at meal time when I needed to eat but he would not (because, well, his issues), or when I was in the middle of a job I could not just drop. He never called ahead.
The conversation? Thank you for asking: an assumption – not question – about my life. Then, a one-sided litany of ills, ailments and work updates. From a notebook. I kid you not.
A couple of months ago, I asked for a courtesy – calling ahead - of his dropping in. It wasn’t well received. I had to explain that it was not about him, but about what I needed and that, actually, advance warning, and an agreed time would be a far better experience for both of us. Then, he'd have my undivided attention because I’d not be distracted by what I was supposed to be doing.
It worked until the other day, when he just arrived on my stoep. I was in the middle of something, there was bread in the oven and my Friday kitchen schedule to get through. Even though I made it clear I was unhappy that he hadn’t – called ahead - he brushed it off. He was driving. No, he didn't apologise. Rather, he said he didn't think it would matter because it was Friday and my stoep doors open. He was not sorry.
After he left, and after stewing in my own angry fumes, I sent a message asking for the same courtesy and respect, as I get from everyone else. I thanked him for, over the past while, having warned of his imminent arrival. Again this did not go well, and now, instead of direct guilt-tripping me, he’s ghosting me and manipulating via a third party. Clearly, he is not everyone else, and he can respect other people's boundaries at whim while we may never contravene his.
That, for me, has been the last straw. I can no longer press the rewind button to offer the same advice (the same as his medical team) and support that I have for the last more than ten years. As hard as it is, I have to draw a line in the sand and reclaim my space and my sanity.
This, I know, is what The Husband would have wanted: it’s a conversation about the same individual, that we had more times than I can remember.
It’s been a difficult decision; it’s a hard one, but now it’s done, and with a modicum of distance, I recognise that I cannot take responsibility for someone who doesn’t take responsibility for themselves. Even though the potential consequences do worry me. It’s cold, frustrating comfort that I have done absolutely everything that the professionals and support groups say one must do to support someone under these circumstances.
Until next time
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
I blog here, on Instagram and via WordPress to my own website. I write for love and a living and you'll find out more about that here. Content for the first two, and sometimes the last, cross pollinate
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