Dean Koontz on Grief

I stumbled on a quotation by American author, Dean Koontz which really moved me.

Since Jenny's departure, much of my grief was centered on how much I could have been a better husband when I had the chance to do so, instead of taking the times we had together so much granted. Koontz's words which I have padded below said it so succinctly and poignantly...

“Grief can destroy you –or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. OR you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn’t allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it’s over and you’re alone, you begin to see that it wasn’t just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can’t get off your knees for a long time, you’re driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life.”
           (Dean Koontz)

It seemed that I have to lose her before I could wake up to realise how special and precious were of the times we had spent together.  Even as most days were uneventfully dull and mundane. 

Jenny and I could sometimes bicker over the slightest of matters, blowing them beyond proportions, out of pricked ego (usually mine) or shortness in temper and patience,  suggesting a sign of early andropause, again on my part. But such apparent aberrations in our relationship reflect a deeper chemistry between us. We could speak out our minds openly and quickly. There is usually little need for tact or subtlety as we hide nothing from each other. 

We have spent so much time together, most times doing ordinary things - weekly shopping for groceries, attending Mass on Sundays, and so on  but looking back, as Koontz has stated, every moment had more meaning than could be recognised at that time and it is scary now for me to realise that I have to lose it all in order to recognise the deeper beauty and sanctity of it all.

Our precious time together is now a thing of the past, spent and gone.

From REM to "Honey"

Sunday morning. I started the day feeling better than usual and after the usual morning routine was in the mood to strum my guitar and warble a few songs. The kids were sleeping in as they do on most weekend mornings. Any noisy activity had to be carried out behind closed doors in the confines of my own bedroom. Needless to say I am now the sole occupant of this room, since my wife’s untimely demise more than 10 weeks ago, so no worries of disturbing anyone as long as the doors stayed shut.

Over the last two weeks, over a few quiet evenings when I had time on my own, I have learnt to play a few new songs. These days with musical chords, lyrics and Youtube guitar tutorials so readily available on the Internet, learning any new song is so much easier than in the past.

I have also recently took a liking to music by REM, an American alternative rock band formed in the '80s.  But playing REM’s numbers would by my very average standards be considered adventurous, so having made some progress on a few of their songs felt hugely satisfying.  One of my favourite, “Oh my heart”, has a sorrowful chorus that resonated closely with how I felt each time I thought of my late wife. Another two that I played, “Man on the Moon” and “Uberlin” are more upbeat in melody but all the same, lyrically enigmatic, as with many REM songs.

Finishing the practice session, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad that Jenny is no more around to listen to me. In the past, especially after I have learnt to play a new song I would often and sometimes to her annoyance, solicit feedback on my performance. “So, Honey how did I play, on a scale of 1-to-10?”, I would cheekily ask, even as I knew that her response is likely to be muted. She knew well enough not to reply, mindful that I was merely teasing for her attention and for some assurance that she was indeed listening.  If she did it would be a flustered “Ai-ya, don’t bother me-lah” or “sing but don’t ask me-lah”. I deserved to be chided for being a nuisance.

So reliving these snippets of our time together as the morning wore on and in the solitude of my bed room, my relaxed and uplifted mood slowly deflated to doleful. Black clouds were slowly but ominously gathering above my head. I was not sure how it started but gradually found myself humming out mournfully in my mind an old Bobby Goldsboro song entitled, “Honey”.  It was years since I last heard this song so I did a quick search using my iPad on the Youtube. Listening to the song again brought back a tidal wave of feelings.  That of longing and loss.

           “See the tree how big it’s grown but friend it hasn’t been too long, it wasn't big...”

“Honey” was a hugely popular ballad in the late 60s, and one of the first few “oldies but goodies” I heard on the rediffusion when I was a kid and helped jump-start my  lifelong love for music.  The lyrics also centre on a man reminiscing about his late wife who had died of illness and he regretted teasing her and her attempts to plant a tree when she was alive, finding her “always young at heart, kinda dumb and kinda smart” and now that she is gone he  “wake up nights and call her name”.

I realised how much  I had missed calling Jenny in the same affectionate way also. She was my “Honey” for as long as I remembered. It was a term of endearment that came very naturally for me and it had stuck on over our years together. 

It mattered not that in her final weeks in the hospital, emaciated from her long battle with cancer, with her cheeks sunken and her scalp, saved for a few remaining strands, was pitifully bare, I had found her as attractive as on the first day we met.  She was still very much my “honey”. The nurses tending to her might have felt awkward overhearing my outward expressions of affection for her, but I did not care.

So by noon time, I found myself in that same old familiar feeling. My eyes were wet with tears.

Despite this Sunday morning downturn of emotions, I must admit that over most of the past week I had held up pretty well. Work had kept me quite busy. But just as my musical mood had switched channels quite abruptly, from REM to Bobby Goldsboro, so did my state of mind swing from high to low. I have known that my emotional state would be very much determined by the ebb and flow of grief as memories of Jenny still occupies centre-stage in my life.  Many things will pop up unknowingly to trigger a recall of our time together. It could be an old song as what had happened today, places we have visited or an old keepsake and so on. I will need to deal with them as they come.

 

Can I let go?

I visited my elder sister last week. As I would expect, she quickly saw the sadness etched on my face and expressed concern about my general state of mind. She urged me to find a way to wean myself from the past and stop wallowing in grief. I have to learn to let go, she told me in her best meaning way.

I nodded slowly in agreement. But I could not convince myself that I could do it. Not for now or for some time to come, honestly speaking.

Why will it be so hard to let go?   

I love my wife with all my heart and probably every fibre of my body.  She is kind and gentle, not one who needed or wanted to be fussed over, nor pretentious and always she's honest and loyal. She is not naturally expressive or articulate, preferring to speak softly, giving praise sparingly and likewise complaining even less, unless the wrong-doing or mischief was caused by me, whom she would be then less hesitant in rebuking.  As a total package, I could almost say that she was made for me and I like to think that she had thought the same about me too. Our feelings, hopes and aspirations were so entwined with each other’s, after sharing some 30 years of our lives together, so letting go will really be hard to do.

I know that with time, memories of her - how she speaks, laugh, gripe and frown, the pitch and tone of her voice and her unique mannerisms and the time we have spent together will slowly fade and recede, like my thinning hairline. At some point, I might even say I have turned a corner and learn to be happy again. But for now it is hard to imagine this situation.  Jenny would surely not want me to dwell in sadness. Certainly not my children and at some point it will hurt them very much to see Dad wallowing away in yet another round of misery, my dear sister had so advised me.

And of course she was right. So I need to work on my new life, that was forced upon me by rather cruel circumstances beyond my control and learn to function as a singleton again. Being alone, without being able to return home from work each day to feel the warmth of her company is one aspect of the change that I have to deal with. Having had a life partner for so long, and one whom I could put complete trust in has provided me with so much comfort and assured feeling of security.  We often share our problems at work with each other and while we may not be able to offer real solutions, a problem shared is always a problem halved.  And then there is the decision-making. With Jen and me, day-to-day decisions, big or trivial, whether about household, the kids, the garden or our pet cat are rarely made by ourselves alone. But adapting to these changes, now that she is not here anymore will be something I believe I will eventually get used to. After all life has to go on.

But unfortunately our emotional bind goes beyond every day behavioural patterns, verbal exchanges and even physical love.  For now, the notion of letting go just does not sit well in my head.  The logical mind tells me that it is the right thing to do but the heart out-rightly rejects the idea. At the end, it seems even repulsive to think of overwriting images of her with some other being.

It will be hard to close the door and let go of a person whose life and mine are so closely entwined for so long.  This is not the time and I also cannot foretell when that can really happen.

 

A jog in the park

It is Saturday today.

In the past, before Jenny's got cancer-stricken and sadly, eventually passing on, this day of the week would have been much looked forward to over the rest of the week. But with her now missing in my life, the day began like it did for the last 63 days since her passing on, with the usual empty sunken feeling.  I ran through in my mind what is in store for the day – a few little chores to be completed, a visit to a student event in the evening and perhaps time in the afternoon to catch up on my reading.

But an ominous dark cloud hangs heavily overhead to dampen any kind of enthusiasm I can possibly summon to greet the day.

I decided to start the day to catch up on my jogging as what I would do on most uneventful Saturdays and after a light breakfast, set off to drive to a nearby park somewhere.  But once I got onto the expressway, I soon realised that I really have not decided on a particular destination in mind.  This lack of direction would have been uncharacteristic of my old self.  But in recent days, galvanising myself into purposeful action has become increasingly difficult. My mind is too clouded up, weighed down by constant reminders of the loss of my dear wife.  

I wondered aloud if I should stay clear of the parks which Jenny and I had frequented often as my mental state appears to be all primed up to tailspin into another painful dive. 

At the end, I told myself that evading the memories will not be possible, nor healthy.  There are also not many parks or places in this rather tiny island, which we call our home country that we have not visited together before.

So I swung over to Bukit Batok Nature Park, where Jenny and I had walked through umpteen times in the past.  After the jog, as usual I settled onto a well-shaded park bench to recuperate.  The half hour route, at my measured and sluggish pace would have covered about 4km, long enough to get myself all dripping wet with sweat.  Exercise as I was told helps the body secrete chemicals called endorphins which can boost the mood and reduce stress and depression.  This much I could vouch for and I finished the jog feeling more at ease than before.

I checked my email and found that my ex-colleague whom I had recently visited at Perth had sent me an excerpt from a lecture given by Mr Ratan Tata about how one should view life and living.

“..Don’t take life seriously. Life is not meant to be taken seriously, as we are really temporary here. We are like a prepaid card with limited validity.  If we are lucky we may live another 50 years. And 50 years is just 2,500 weekends.  Do we really need to get so worked up?...”

I can’t say those words had me awe-struck with an epiphany, but it did make me ponder if I had reacted too seriously to Jenny’s passing on.   

Journeying with her through the months of cancer treatment and hospital stay has been an emotionally trying and intense experience but I need to put that all behind me.  This weekend is one more weekend drifting away and there is probably not many left for me. Yes, life had dealt me a really nasty blow but I should not be taking life so seriously as Mr Tata had said. 

With that I felt lighter, feeling more at ease and could spend the rest of the day to relax, catching up with my reading and in the evening attended the student art show with my kids and finishing with us enjoying late-night supper. 

I am not sure how long I can hang on to this uplifted feeling as the pain of losing her is unlikely to heal so easily. But for now I will just hang onto it as long as I can.

 

 

.

Death and mortality

Do I have a Death Wish?

No, I am not thinking of being that lone vigilante, so  dramatically played out by Charles Bronson in his old classic movie that bore the same title. And let me say too that I am not one who is prone to harbouring suicidal thoughts either.
My marriage life some 30 years back is largely blissful. There have been a lot more happy days and I cannot recall any really sad ones, aside from Jenny's recent passing on, where sad is not even close in description. Jenny and I went through the usual trials and tribulations of bringing up 3 kids in a rat race education system, while chasing our respective careers and we dealt with all the uncertainties of trial-and-error parenthood, without screwing up too badly.  In all, we built a happy family.

But life has now dealt me a really bad hand, to put it mildly.  Seeing my wife succumb to a dreaded disease has slam-dunked me with a whole new take on life and death. I now get up each morning with a lousy hollow feeling, wondering if I am actually waking into a bad dream instead and how I should get through another day.

If I could just get through yet one more day. 

Another day gone would be another day less to endure without her.  Live a day at a time and at some point I would live out my remaining days. This appears to be the new mantra that life has now dealt for me.  In truth it has already been 62 days since she passed on and I now perceive each day’s end as a day less without her.  It is really how I feel in missing her so much.

You see, when my wife passed on, a part of me has also died along with her. We have been a couple for too long, our lives, hopes and aspirations so tightly intertwined, our emotional bonds delicately forged since we first met and tempered over so many years of sharing a life together, such that we could read each other by the most fleeting  of glances, a frown or a simple smile. It was said on the day when we exchanged vows that only by death would we part. But as it has turns out, death has only set me yearning more for her.

So I question if this new reality in what remains as a sad life for me still worth pursuing? Would death not bring more comfort? I do not know what lies on the other side and I cannot claim that I do not fear death.  But I know she is unable to return to the living. I could look and search but there will not be another person who could replace her. Every which way I look, I see her but she is not there.  In death she has left me for sure, but sadly I could not leave her, holding on to my memories to fill up this vacuum that is hollowing me from within.
So if she cannot resurrect from death, then can I get to her if I take that big bold step to also end it all?

It is sad that I should allow such nihilistic thoughts to fester in my mind. Sad and shameful also. Jenny had displayed such remarkable courage when faced with what would be her biggest challenge in life, a challenge that she  did not bargain for and was not prepared to take on.  Late-stage cancer was a losing battle for anyone from the very start.

But she fought the hard fight with nary a tear. She was brave and stoic right through the end.

So how shameful is it for me to think of giving up at this point? If I should live through another 30 years of loneliness and heart-ache, these years would not amount to the pain and difficulties she endured over the 6-7 months of fighting and submitting to the disease.
So how could I be complaining of what I have to deal with?

If I need the will to get through another day, I need only picture my dear brave wife in her last months, fighting to stay alive till the very end.  Death may appear to bring peace and comfort but Jenny has given me good reasons to live, no lesser than for our children’s sake. Memories of her will inevitably sadden me as I am reminded of my loss but they will also harden my resolve to get on with life.  Or what is left for me.
My remaining journey in life will not be walked alone as I will have her in my heart.

 

 

A short trip to Perth

This Wednesday, my two daughters and I flew to Perth for a five day stay.  It would have been a restful break from work and study for us, but in reality my main purpose for visiting Perth was to visit my ex-boss from my first job, who had also hired my late wife as his secretary, so needless to say had unknowingly played a tremendous part in both our lives. We had lost contact of him after we got married but somehow news of Jenny's passing on found its way to him in Perth. I was therefore surprised to receive his text message offering his condolences during the week of Jenny's funeral wake. He later shared too that he had also lost his wife to illness some years back and invited me to visit him in Perth.

Flying out of Singapore for a supposedly leisure trip for the first time without Jenny was, as I had half-expected, turned out to be  disheartening and overall, a morose experience.

Over our 30 years of marriage life together, I have lost count of the number of oversea trips we had taken together. Jenny loves travelling and I discovered this in our early years together, to my initial disconcernment, while we were hatching our wedding plans.  Like most young couples starting out, we were hard-pressed to put together a decent wedding package, with all the standard frills- 8 course chinese dinner, video and photoshoot coverage, etc, which while we had kept simple enough, had still put considerable strain on our limited shoestring budget. With whatever meagre savings left in our bank accounts could we afford the luxury of a far flung and expensive honeymoon? But Jenny was insistent. “You only get married once”, she reminded me. And to which I could not disagree.

Her dream of the perfect wedding would be incomplete without us escaping to some faraway country, like a trip to Europe, where she was hoping to visit her close friend who had settled in Zurich and also to England. The latter suggestion arose from my own doing,  thanks to my frequent sharing of how beautiful and picturesque the English countryside would unfold itself on a self-drive holiday, having experienced this in a previous company trip. So, extravagant as it was, we threw caution to the wind and imprudently splurged our remaining savings on a two-week trip to England, travelling on a rented car and then to Zurich and sightseeing by train through Austria.

From then, you could say that her love for travelling had me hopelessly smitten in similar fashion.  When our kids arrived, the year-end vacation trips would include each and every one of them – none was left behind nor considered too young to travel.  Our oversea adventures, always on self-planned itinerary  on rented cars, were yearly highlights which the entire clan would look forward to. We found ways of flying to several North American destinations – San Francisco, Seattle, Orlando, Colorado, LA, Vancouver and so on for exotic winter holidays on cheap flight tickets, thanks to Jen’s sister who works for an American airline.

So for this instance, travelling out for the first time on a non-working trip without her, feels surreal and incomplete. The transit area at the airport, with all its colourful shopping outlets, bustling with eager travellers did not bring in the same exciting feel as in past vacations. I could still picture her in our midst, lugging her usual haversack which she uses only on trips abroad, looking relaxed and contented and quietly surveying the duty-free shops while keeping an eye on the children to be sure that all would be on time for boarding. But she is not there and I was already feeling weary even before departure.

I suppose looking back, we have enjoyed enough of wonderful holidays together to provide a life-time of memories to cherish. At this point I just have to accept it that such good times, like many other splendours in life cannot always last forever.  My travelling days will from now onwards be few and far in between, not least that with retirement looming, I need to be more prudent with my spending but that now, without that special someone to share the experience with, I will struggle to find the reason to travel. There is a lengthy bucket list of places that Jen and I will want to visit and I suppose before age takes its toll on health and mobility, I could find myself making the trip to get to some of them. I will not be travelling alone as surely she will be right there in my heart everywhere I go.

Clearing out her office

Today I made a trip to Jenny's office, a local offshore company where she had served for more than 30 years.  The HR Manager had arranged for all her personal belongings packed neatly into boxes and helped me load into my MPV to bring home.  It was the first time I had ventured into her office and looking at the vacated cubicle where she sat all these years, my heart felt as heavily weighted as the two trolley loads of stuff that was packed into the car boot.

There is so much follow-up work to do following her departure - getting a grant of probate to execute her will, writing to cancel her credit cards, writing to the SLA to lodge the notice of death, insurance claims, etc, etc. It is really tough to summon the energy and focussing to work on all these procedures which are meant to bring closure to a person's life.

But real closure is a far fetched idea for me right now as it is hard to accept that my Jen is gone.  I will soon be unpacking all her stuff brought back from her office - bits and pieces of keepsake accumulated over the years, each with a little story that only she would best be able to tell.  But at this stage I cannot bring myself to clear away any of her things. At some point I probably would need to and a number of them will probably be given away.

Time heals, as I have been told several times by well meaning friends.

Last breath

Jenny, how did that last breath go?

The one last gasp that you took, with a sigh of resign before you gave all life away?

Did you give it away all too willingly to find peace and comfort at last, after all you had endured nearly 7 long months of suffering?

Or did you hold on to make it last so you can spend a moment longer with us, your most loved ones?

And feel my hand in yours, one last time, as I sat beside you watching your light fade away,

And with your children by your side, the source of your strength and reasons to live.

Was it painful? Or was it relieving that this one will be the last?

The last of countless breaths you had taken from the time you came to being some 56 years ago?

And in the quiet early morning hours in the hospital, where we breathed in tandem in your final few hours, you labouring away with every gasp, and me in meditative silence, tearful in knowing that our final parting may well be near, could you sense too that this would be the last goodbye?

Or were you too exhausted in your very final moment - to hear our pleading for you to hang on and not leave - the voices of your children and your beloved husband, whom you are all too familiar with, crying as the world caved in around us.  Could your enfeebled senses perceive this outpouring of sorrow around you or did they sound like  noisy background chatter?

I really wish I knew how you had felt then.

Your eyes could barely open, too weakened to make sense of whatever light is flickering in.

You lie so still, saved for your heaving and struggle for each laboured gasp for air. You almost appeared to be deep in sleep, which would be my wish for you if sleep could lighten your suffering and spare you the mental anguish of this dreadful experience. Is it not a blessing, when the time comes, for us to also pass on in sleep?

I could see you were still fighting to stay on, summoning every last ounce of your waning strength, every sinew to take in one more breath to keep your body going. For a little longer.

Until that moment came. You surrendered and took your final breath.

That scene will be the single most painful memory in my life - to see you bowing out, exiting this world, much as in spirit you want to stay on. It will be a moment that will stay on in my mind, not because I want to remember you this way. That it wrenches my heart so badly is plainly because of the bond we have built together. Because on that day and that moment when that last breath was taken, I would have lost you. And all I would be left with, is the bond. And timeless memories of the life we have share together

It is just one moment in time.  But it will be relived through many times for the rest of my life.  And each time, Jen I would wish I know, how it went for you.

Each day is a struggle even as my three kids spend enough time at home to ensure that I am not left alone in the house for too long. The warmth of their company brings in some cheer to lighten my heavy heart and help keep an even keel to my otherwise shaky existence.

 But at home, under this very same roof where we raised our family for the last 15 years, every corner and household object reminds me of her presence. I see her strolling around our little garden plot which she had insisted we kept and not tiled up the way most of our neighbors do for practicality. I see her stepping in and out of the kitchen to instruct our helper on how she would like the meals cooked.

Most weekdays, except for some variety  that work in the office could offer, would follow about the same routine.  But for today, which is a Thursday, it could have been different. Some days before, I had registered to join a Meetup invitation by a group of people for a music jamming and open mic singing session that came quite randomly into my email. It appeared to be an opportunity, and a rare one that allows me a chance to perform live to croon and strum on the guitar. There is also the chance to make new friends who share a common liking for music.

 But at the end I got cold feet. Some 15 mins before the meetup started I logged into the portal to reverse my RSVP. The thought of meeting a bunch of strangers, having to rise above my gloomy state to make small talk is a prospect best to be avoided. I figured that it was foolish to even consider joining the meetup in the first place. I had earlier toyed with the idea of playing "First Cut is the Deepest", following a rendition by Cat Stevens and I could probably put up a decent enough performance even as I have not been practicing lately. The audience would be polite enough to offer me an applause no matter how badly I sing or play, I figured. It is unlikely I would embarrass myself too much.

But somehow the thought of such social indulgence did not sit well in my mind. I would stay at home in the company of my kids and maintain the same routine that was followed through for most days since that fateful day of her untimely departure.

Have you ever lost a loved one? I know my asking again makes me sound tedious.  But seriously, have you? And aged parents do not quite count. I know this sounds insensitive and off-putting. But honestly, nobody can live forever and for those who lived to a ripe old age, the time will come to pass on. It is an inevitable outcome. Grieve as much as we need to but the pain should ease gradually, as we all accept that every living cell has an expiry date.  And lest you think I lack the empathy,  my father, at 86 had also passed on some years ago.

So have you truly lost a loved one, someone so close to your heart and who is unwavering in her trust and faith in you, who could read you like a book and who would accept you for all your failings, loving you and be loved without pre-conditions and pretences? Some one who really needs you and in turn make you in need of her? Someone whom you have promised to love in sickness or health and in good times and bad and have done so for the last 30 years?

I would never ever wish that on anyone.

It has already been 45 days since she drew her last breath as she succumbed to the cancer and the bacterial infection that overcame her. That last aspiration of air signalled her admission of defeat, with her battered will to keep her fragile heart in pulsation giving way to the debilitating disease. And with the life force draining out, her tiny hand, held in mine, stiffened and turned pale and cold.  It is a feeling that sickened me to this day and will do so for a long time to come.

Needless to say, from then on, life will never be the same again.

Because you would wake up each day with the stark realisation that she is gone. It is a surreality,  a strange new world where someone very close and important to you is missing. It is a crushing feeling to start the day this way. God, if you believe He exists, must be playing a cruel joke.  Your dreams appear to be twisted in reverse order because you would be waking up from your sleep into what seems an imminent nightmare. And this bad dream could well last the rest of the day.

You summon your inner strength to reflect on the things you need to get done for that day, after all life has to go on - there are errands to run, office chores, meetings and so on.  But truly, these appear to be noting but pointless distractions. You try to find meaning in each of them, "connect the dots" so to speak but again it seems too pointless to try. You need to draw deeper from your inner reserves to push yourself into motion and set aside the grief for awhile to keep going. But at some point in the day the pain inevitably returns.  And so the day moves on in stops and start. You take time out now and then and pause to relieve the pain. It is raining somewhere in your heart and you fight to hide the tears from the people around you.

And this is how you will feel if you lose a loved one. Life would appear tainted in darker shades. A bright sunny day brings little joy. 

I used to enjoy a wide range of music genre but now the melodies sound off pitch and at times, even noisy.  For so many years I was a fanatic supporter of the Liverpool Football Club, following their triumphs and defeats with equal passion and misery.  You will never walk alone as the LFC anthem goes. But I find myself walking alone now in the pain that follows my wife's demise. I still watch the weekend live matches when I can but  more so in a trance-like state. Each game appears dull and monotonous and it matters little now whether my favourite team wins or loses.  It is even harder to concentrate on reading a book and it will be awhile before I can recover my reading habit.

So what is the point I am trying to make?

Plainly, it is utterly painful to lose a loved one. No amount of words can truly describe how painful I feel and how badly I miss my beloved wife.  If you had the terrible misfortune of also having recently lost your spouse you would understand perfectly my state of mind.

I could only end with the sober reminder that while you and your spouse/partner are both alive and in good health, treasure the time you have together and set aside petty differences to cherish these moments. Life is unpredictable. Life can be fragile.  The good moments may not last forever nor into the next day, week, month or year. When they are gone, you will realise they are gone too soon...