Thursday, 30 March 2017

Learning to Remember or Learning to Forget?

Tonight I sat and cried, on and off, for nearly an hour.

I was watching a documentary about Rio Ferdinand and how he is dealing with life after his wife's death and being both mum and dad to his three children.

Rio Ferdinand was devastated by the death of his wife Rebecca in 2015

It made me cry - not just for him and his family, but also for me, as I realised that, even after nearly eleven years I have actually never come to terms with my husband's death and that, although I live a 'normal' existence from day to day, I don't see my life as a 'life' any more, since I lost Richard.  I no longer think in terms of the future, except for the immediate future of the next few days.

Rio, in the documentary, talks to many people who are in similar situations and, although I didn't have young children to deal with, I can see that I have never properly spoken to anyone, not even my own family, about the grief that I felt and still feel. Maybe if I had had young children, I would have had some help in dealing with the emotional devastation, along with them.  Because it IS devastation. When Richard died, my life, my future, died with him.  And now, after all this time, I still feel the same.

Richard didn't have cancer or any other diagnosed illness, he simply collapsed on his way back to the car from having a drink with his friends that evening.  In fact, he didn't drink the drink, because he said he had a bit of indigestion and was going to call in at the hospital down the road to see if he could get a doctor's opinion and something to relieve the symptoms.  Perhaps he knew it was a bit more than indigestion.


The coroner (who, bizarrely enough was one of Richard's customers at his garage) said that Richard's heart had a fatty deposit lining it and a piece of this fat had broken off and blocked his aorta causing his death. Not your average heart attack, but with a fatal result all the same.

Richard was 45 years old.

We had been married for 22 years and, although we had no children of our own, Richard was close to my three children from my previous marriage and the younger two of them had lived with us until they grew up and married themselves.

The 19th April 2017 will be the 11th anniversary of Richard's death and I still can't make a new life for myself, despite, or perhaps because of, having moved to France.

Seeing the programme, and writing this, is not cathartic.  It just makes me cry.  I want my life back.  I want Richard back.

7 comments:

Elizabethd said...

Oh Penny, you made me shed a tear. I didn't see the programme but your story sounds just as heartfelt and saddening. Have you maybe considered talking to a counsellor?

Joy said...

Dear Penny... I'm so sorry for your loss and sorrow. I can tell you loved each other very much. From his photo, Richard looks like a very kind man. Do you sometimes wonder if his death would have been 'easier' if you had had time to say good bye? I've been thinking about such a thing recently, and I think death is a shock under any circumstance, but if you had been given some time you might have been able to talk about it with him and given yourself some time to prepare. Again, I am sorry. Thank you for sharing your hurting heart, perhaps it would help to share it with others who could console you and give you some thoughts on how to cope. I know you will always keep the memories close to your heart. Sending you hugs across the big wide ocean...

Clicky Needles said...

Oh Penny. What a heartbreaking story. I hope you find some peace one day.
CNx

busybusybeejay said...

what a sad story.I think you need to talk to a professional.Would Richard have wanted you to be like this or would he be saying that you have lots of life left in you.What do your children think?Can you talk to them?Have you moved to France to escape?Hugs to you.Barbarax

Babajeza said...

Oh Penny, this is truly sad. I'm sending you good thoughts. Regula

Penny Peberdy said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Penny Peberdy said...

Thank you so much all of you. It is good to know you are thinking of me.