Thank you to all of you who came today. And open heartedly carried me through the life and death of my husband.
Thank you, to all of you, who read this blog and have accompanied me step by step of the way. You make more difference than you will ever know. Even though I may not know you.
These are the words I wrote and read for Robin at the Crematorium. He would have loved every minute of all the tributes to him, the poems, and the singing for him and the way he made you laugh with his own words. And he wouldn't have believed it was all for him. But we know it was.
I thought it would be my last blog for him. But it's not. Like my father, he would have wanted me to carry on. So I will....into the unknown territory of widowhood. Alone but never unloved.
8th November 2016
The Hugging Man
For the last 6 years I’ve been writing a blog about Robin and our lives in the awful slow burning fire of Semantic dementia and Motor Neurone Disease. He read it for as long as he could still press the start button on the computer. And even when he couldn’t understand it, he still looked at it.
This is my last blog for him.
Yesterday, I met your allotment neighbour in town
very close to the burnt out wound in the heart of our city.
When I told him you had died,
he said, Oh sorry, you’ve lost a lovely man.
He said the last time he saw you,
you had given him a big hug.
And he is probably not really a hugging man,
but it’s what he remembers about you,
the warmth of your embrace.
You hugged me from the beginning,
even when I didn’t know you very well.
When I arrived and when I left, those early mornings
at the Actors Institute in London where we met.
Big enveloping bear hugs.
You were so much taller than me
your scratchy jumper, which could have done with a wash,
tickled my nose.
I started to look forward to your hugs,
more than the creative goal setting exercises we had to do.
You aways said that you knew the first time you saw me ,
in that crowded room
that you would marry me.
Later we could never agree who said it - on that late night dance floor -
Your place or mine?
You never stopped hugging me in our 33 years.
Till finally you couldn’t raise your arms to me,
you could only tip your head close to mine
from the wheel chair,
so we could still touch cheeks and lips.
When we married you gave me a future to live into,
moulded by your passions and your longings.
I’m sorry we never had the solar panels on our house that you wanted.
I’m sorry you had to always remind me to turn the lights off.
I’m sorry I didn’t have your intuition and certainty about money.
You said money was energy that it didn’t exist.
You said I can’t guarantee you an income.
But you did. You took care of me and gave me a security
that I never dream of having.
Thank you for all those wonderful foreign holidays in the sun.
Thank you for paying off the mortgage,
for leaving me protected.
I’m sorry we didn’t have children.
You longed for them. Like I did.
To flower us into a family.
You worked for that, gave the whole of yourself
for me and our future family.
When it got later and later, I could see how it was hurting you.
I said ‘You must go’. “Have babies with someone else.”
‘Impossible’ you said.
But we did have family. Many families.
Mine and yours. You loved them all to distraction.
The young ones, who grew up around us,
tender vines, enfolding us,
who carried us out of our long tunnel of grief.
And although families are tricky things,
they are the places where we learn and change the most,
and although you didn’t know it,
because you always thought you didn’t have many friends,
you always thought you were on the edge, on the outside,
still, you created families
from all the different circles where you worked and played, and hugged.
And they are all here today. For you.
And you brought them to me - all these families
whoever touched your life made mine bigger and wider and richer.
You wrote a novel, not quite finished, about a psychic detective,
called The Howling Man..... a disguised autobiography.
I would write one now about you, called The Hugging Man, because that is what you always were.
And one called The Shining Man because that is what you became.
In the end when there was nothing left for you to do -
when you couldn’t read or hold a pen,
or walk more than a few wobbly steps
or drink my strawberry smoothies,
or clean your teeth,
and only speak a tiny bit and very softly,
I brought another kind of family to you.
A wonderful web of willingness and kindness,
woven from our own families, our friends, your supporters and carers
and your amazing medical team.
You hugged them with your heart when your arms couldn’t hold them.
All you wanted was
to see our faces, to be in our company,
and let us drive you out into our beautiful Devon.
Where you could drink in the trees and clouds
and church spires and pylons
and especially the great sails of wind turbines
which you loved.
In all the places where you experienced God.
It was the last thing I could give you.
And you blessed us again again with your gratitude,
and the delight on your face when you saw us,
and the pylons.
When you stopped living with me in our home,
every day I came to visit you at Lucerne House.
When your lovely carers were still getting you dressed,
I sat on the bed while they pulled your jumper over your head
and put your glasses on your nose
and your watch
which kept slipping down your thin wrist.
And you looked up from the wheelchair
and with your big crooked grin
said, Thank you. I love you.
And they laughed, pleased.
Then you looked up at me and said
But I love you more. I love you the most.
Thank you for hugging me into my own life
and for giving me the gift of yours.
Thank you for letting go in the way you did,
even without warning me,
so I didn’t have to watch you dissolve
in front of my eyes
any more.
Thank you for trusting me - that I will be taken care of.
Thank you for taking the Lightening Path.
And pointing the way
for me to take my own Lightening Path.
I love you. Thank you. For my wonderful life.
