We are pretty good at accepting the first two but will do anything to avoid confronting the third.
Two years ago today, the sun set on my life as a wife and rose the next day on Annie, the widow. Knowing it was going to happen - I'd had a couple of weeks to get my head around the inevitability of it - didn't help and I have to be honest and say that the twenty four months since haven't soothed the pain either. The so called five stages of grief appear to be a handy box to compartmentalise feelings that have no intention of easing into gradual acceptance. When your loved one dies, they take a lot of you with them but the gap is filled with their own image/spirit/essence . Teo is rarely out of my thoughts. When he was alive I'm sure I could go for days without him entering my head. Now I feel as if half of my brain has been diverted and the efficient, reliable manager of pre-July 2016 is now a liability. It is like surviving a terrible car crash that leaves horrendous internal injuries that no one else can see but you feel the wounds every hour of the day and can't concentrate on anything.
I was looking for a nice photo to put on Facebook to mark the second anniversary of Teo's death and scanning through the snaps made me realise that we had lots of different interests and spent plenty of time apart. He was happiest thrashing a ball around a court, I preferred lazing on a yacht with friends. Most of the photographs of us together are taken when we are doing nothing much. Walking the dog, sitting in the garden, tackling the daily crossword and no matter how busy the bereaved keep themselves, the sad reality is that we have no one to do nothing with. (Or should that be ' we have no one with whom to do nothing '- Teo would have known, his grammar was much better than mine)