AUGUST 13 — “Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.” – CS Lewis
About three weeks ago, my wife had a stroke and died.
I remember dropping her off at the train station around 7pm that Friday night. Less than three hours later, she had fallen into a coma and I was informed by the doctor she would likely not wake up.
We’d been married 21 years and have two children together.
To say that her (very sudden) passing is a crushing blow to me and my family would be the understatement of the year. I have no words to describe the grief I experienced when it happened.
Even what follows is but a foolish attempt to put some kind of silly shape around my sorrow and to, maybe, help make some sense of it.
When the doctor told me what the CT scan confirmed — that an inoperable part of her brain was bleeding (likely from a stroke) and was about to “collapse” and that there was virtually no chance she would survive — I began to feel the phase of grief which I can only describe as a rock pressing down on my chest, growing heavier and heavier with each passing hour.
My next few days, from my wife’s transfer from one ward to another to the final stage where she was extubated (i.e. where her breathing apparatus was removed) and eventually passed away, have marked themselves as the most emotionally painful few days of my life.
I could barely sleep more than 3-4 hours per night. I took my children for their favourite Korean and Japanese meals but my appetite was non-existent.
I have been reading about 20-30 pages a day for the past 30 years but felt zero joy in even touching a book during that time. I suspect even if an earthquake happened in my apartment area, I’d hardly care beyond a shrug.
That’s grief for us, I suppose. An overwhelming all-encompassing fixation mingled with absolute disbelief over the loss of someone we love.
The CS Lewis quote above poignantly and perfectly sums it up. The world feels different when you know the person has gone.
Whilst everything remains and looks the same, everything has also changed irreversibly.
That restaurant, that mall, that chair, that shop, that corridor. I cannot now see or go near these things and places without thinking of my wife whose memory sticks to them like super-glue.
And it’s this gap between what I feel (that she is/was there) and what I know (that she can no longer be) that hurts so much. You know it yet you can’t believe it.
Almost like drowning where you’re gasping for air before the water hits, grief is like gasping for peace before the next item brings with it a mournful memory.
Unsurprisingly, yet hitting you like a blow from Mike Tyson, is the incongruity of before and after. I mean, when my wife was around she didn’t “feel” special.
Like most less-than-average husbands, I was frequently frustrated with her. Yet, ever since her coma and of course subsequent death, I would give the world to, for just one last time, see and feel her just the way she was.
When our loved ones are with us, we often treat them like boring or annoying pieces of uninteresting furniture. But when they’re gone, they’re transfigured into infinite treasures which escape our access.
If nothing else, I’ve learnt from this episode that today is the day we must love and cherish and be patient and respectful and caring towards the ones we love. Believe me the phrase “Live as if each day is your last” is no longer some cheap cringe shibboleth.
Having said all this, though, I’m very grateful to also learn the value of community when grief rears its head.
The past few weeks I’ve experienced such an outpouring of love, support and encouragement, almost as hard to put into words the sorrow I feel. If at all that rock on my chest loosened its pressure, it’s because of my friends and family who showed in very concrete ways that I’m not alone.
Even now, more than two weeks after the funeral, I still get messages from very dear friends asking how I’m getting along. It’s this continuous flow of caring which, I now know, is so vital to keep those who grief afloat.
I’m now committed to giving my best daily to those I love and care about. This surely means de-prioritising the superficial pursuits that dog us all.
I eagerly hope that focusing 100 per cent on being with and present to my loved ones who are still with me can help me navigate the sadness of losing that very loved one who no longer is.
Grief is hard and even necessary, yet thankfully it needn’t be the last word. I miss my wife terribly but I know her life will inspire me and my children to live on with gratitude and joy.
Her painful absence feels like the sky. But, with time, her loving memory can spread over everything too.
* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.
