In early 2002 our lives seemed too good to be true. Our second daughter, Laura, had been born healthy and bright, our toddler, Ellie, was a delight, and my husband Nick's writing was going well. We were happy.
Then Nick began to feel unwell - he was tired and had pains in his back. Eventually, he was diagnosed as having cancer. His doctors gave him two and a half years at most. Our world was shattered.
Nick responded well to his treatment at first, but as we moved into 2003 it was having less effect, and on Good Friday we were told that there was nothing more the doctors could do. Nick died nine weeks later.
Friends rally round at the beginning; they are grieving too and there's a remarkable closeness as you cry and laugh together, remembering the person who is no longer at the table. But now, four years after Nick died, I inhabit a very different place.
I am not married, yet often I don't feel single; I am a single parent but feel less than half of what I was in a couple. The comfort, support and sustenance I got from being part of a couple has gone. What is left is one person, but a person who is in some ways less than she was; I am too young to look like a widow, people are shocked when I tell them.
I don't think I would still be sane had it not been for the relatives and friends who have supported me week in, week out, through some very difficult times. But there have been times when people haven't known what to say or do and when even the closest of friendships have strained at the seams; when I walked back into work and a silence fell as people looked down at their desks, unaware of how to treat me; when mothers from the nursery dodged into another aisle in Sainsbury's to avoid me; when I realised that friends had stopped calling because listening to my unending pain was just becoming too much.
You can never bring back the person who has died, which is all the bereaved person really wants. But there are dozens of things you can do to lighten the load. And you can keep on doing it, not for a few weeks but for months and years. I hope some of these ideas will help.
When someone you care about loses their partner, an email or text simply isn't enough. It is one of the few times in life when you really have to put pen to paper and write a proper letter.
Why? Because the recipient can choose precisely when they read it. Because they don't have to open it straight away and once they've read it, they can read it again and again. Because they can hold it in their hands - sounds odd, but that can be very comforting. Because you can put things in with the letter, for example photos. Because it can be kept for future generations. And if you don't know what to write, the following suggestions might help (for clarity, I have assumed you are writing to a man on the death of his wife).
· Say you were saddened to hear about his wife's death; use her name. Describe what she meant to you: say what a great friend she was, or how much fun, or how important she was to you or your children. Recount an anecdote of a special time you spent together, if one stands out.
· Enclose a photo, if you have one, that he might not have seen before.
· Don't promise anything you won't deliver. There's no point saying you'll always be there to help if you won't be.
· Say you'll phone in a couple of weeks to see how he's getting on - and do it.
· If you have been impressed by the way he dealt with the illness, or how well he's looking after the kids, tell him. Affirmation you're doing well when you're at your lowest can be comforting.
· Telling him it's what God wanted, or is God's will, is not helpful.
· Make sure you say clearly who you are - it can be hard to decipher signatures, especially unfamiliar ones.
· If you knew the person who died, but not the bereaved person, tell him how you knew his wife and what she meant to you. Letters from strangers can be enormously comforting - they help you realise your partner was treasured by more people than you knew.
· If you know the surviving partner but didn't know his wife, still write. Tell him you were aware of how much he loved his wife, that you know her death will be very hard for him. You can mention that you'd heard people speak highly of her, or that you'd been impressed by what he'd told you of her.
· Don't panic if you don't send a letter on day one - it's nice to get letters when all the others have dried up; writing after the funeral is also fine.
Don't cross the road. Talk
· Talk about their partner. Don't think you'll upset them - they are already more upset than you could imagine.
· Don't say: "I know how you feel" (if you haven't been widowed, you simply don't); "At least she had a good innings" (little consolation); "You're so brave" (he's not, he's just getting on with it); "Call me if you need anything" (he won't be able to); "When my gran got cancer/when I got divorced etc" (it's not the same); "Take it easy, be kind to yourself" (how? When you have a house to run, a living to earn, kids to care for?)
· Do say: "I'd like to do something to help - give me a job"; "I can only imagine how hard it is/how awful you feel"; "I miss him too"; "Spend Sunday with us, we'd love to have you"; "I remember when ... "; "He'd be really proud of you"; "Shall I come round and bring dinner with me?"; "I'm so very sorry."
I remember watching an episode of Cold Feet when Nick was ill. Rachel had died in a car crash and her best friend was in the supermarket. She looked at the Tunnock's caramel wafers on a shelf and burst into tears. It seemed contrived. Surely a packet of biscuits couldn't reduce someone to tears? Yet only months later it was the fish counter that did it for me.
Nick was a big fan of fish. One of my favourite photos of him was taken on a Croatian island. Nick is holding a fish bone up by the tail with a grin on his face - sunshine, the sea, and good, fresh fish to eat was his idea of heaven.
So there I was in Sainsbury's, slowing down by the fish counter thinking, "What shall I get for dinner tonight?" when it dawned on me that I didn't really like fish much. Nick was gone, and there was no need to buy fish any more.
For my friend Robin it was Marmite. For Susan it was broccoli.
After Nick died, I lost count of the number of times I gave my children fish fingers. There were many days when I couldn't decide what to eat, so I just didn't eat. Here's how to help:
· Bring food.
· Meet for lunch instead of coffee, and make sure your friend eats something.
· Ring when you're going to the supermarket and ask if there's anything they need - make suggestions.
· Offer to go round and cook dinner. Take the ingredients, cook the meal, serve it and then clear up afterwards.
· Offer to feed the children. Turn up at 4.30pm, cook the kids something, get them to eat, make it fun, then clear up.
· Be aware that though shopping gets easier, eating alone never gets more fun.
Help with the kids (here's how)
Ellie was a week short of her fourth birthday when Nick died. Laura was 17 months old. Even if children don't seem to be grieving, surviving parents feel the weight of what their children have lost. They also know that their partner missed out on the amazing experience of watching their children grow up. As the Way Foundation (a support group for the widowed and young) says: "When someone dies young, the grief of those left behind is twofold: the pain of losing the person they love and the pain of knowing what that person has lost."
People say: "You should have a break, get some rest," but how can you if your children get scared when you go out that you won't come back?
A child's grief is something the parent has to try to soothe, despite their own feelings of helplessness and exhaustion. Younger children may grieve less obviously but their needs are tiring and demanding, while older children may require much more emotional input.
As well as the daily responsibilities, there are the big decisions to be made alone: childcare, schooling and guiding career choices. The term "lone parent" has never seemed so apt.
So what can you, as a friend or relative, realistically do?
· Give your friend as many breaks as possible. Don't turn up just after the kids have gone to bed (or worse, when she's trying to settle them). Go round before tea time and feed the kids. Do it once a week, and keep it up.
· Offer to help teenagers with homework, art projects and research.
· Give small kids a bath - make it fun. It's a great tonic for a parent to hear their kids laughing while someone else is looking after them.
· Ask if you can stay the night on a Friday or Saturday. Get the children up in the morning, give them breakfast and take them outside for an hour so their mum or dad can have a lie-in.
· Take over some of the weekend driving to football, music lessons, etc. And remember your friend will find it difficult to pick up their teenager at night if there are younger children at home.
· Offer to babysit - in the daytime as well as the evening.
· Borrow an idea from a neighbour of mine. Six months after Nick died, she started coming round at 8.30am twice a week so I could take Ellie to school without having to take Laura too. I'd go to school, have a peaceful five-minute walk home, a chat to my neighbour, then get Laura dressed in my (and her) own time. It was half an hour out of the day for my neighbour, but transformed the whole day for me.
· Share the school run.
· Accompany your friend to parents' evening or be at home when they get back. Going to your first parent-teacher meeting on your own is horrendous.
· If you are a godparent, be there when you can for school plays, assemblies and sports events. Be special.
· Avoid saying, "Just let me know if you'd like me to have the kids." It's hard to ask. Do it this way: "I'd like to have them next Sunday. I'll pick them up at 11am, give them lunch, let them play for the afternoon, give them tea and bring them back at 6pm."
· If there are small children, make sure they have a present to give their mum or dad on their birthday, Mother's or Father's Day and at Christmas.
Make holidays fun again
I used to love holidays. But then Nick got sick. Our last trip away together was reduced to one night after another emergency visit to a hospital far from home. I remember sitting in the restaurant of a lovely hotel in Dorset while Nick tried to convince me he was enjoying his dinner when he could barely eat. We discussed his funeral - there was little else on our minds.
On June 18 2003 we headed to Bordeaux. He was extremely tired, a sign that his liver was failing, but he was determined to go to France one more time before he died.
We had a happy couple of days - Nick slept a lot but the girls played around him and he watched them spend happy hours in the pool - before Nick told me we had to go home immediately otherwise he wouldn't make it back. I didn't believe him - or rather couldn't accept what I was hearing - but he insisted. After some difficult calls and rushed packing, we left for the airport and made it to Gatwick that evening. Nick died 36 hours after our plane landed.
Holidays used to be when we spent precious time playing and relaxing, discovering new things about one other. Years later, holidays are still a reminder of what's missing and I face them with dread. Planning them alone isn't fun. And when the time comes I have to sort out the house and cat, pack for us all, lock up, manage two kids and luggage at airports or train stations. After a long journey I then have to cope with two excited children who want to run straight into the garden/sea/pool while unpacking the car ... And, yes, there is something you can do:
· Going away with friends can be the best option. Invite your friend to join you for part of your holiday. You still have time with your own family but your friend will feel loved.
· Invite your friend for weekend trips or overnight stays. Having several short trips away rather than one long holiday relieves loneliness.
· Many parents won't want to leave their children straight away, but after a few months they may be more willing. Offer to look after children so your friend can have a break.
· Offer to take children on day trips during school holidays.
· Offer to take your friend to an airport or train station, or to collect them.
· Be there when your friend returns from a trip: help with the luggage, deal with tired children, make a cup of tea. Returning alone from a trip or holiday to an empty house can be traumatic.
The little things in life can be overwhelming for someone who is newly bereaved. They may be faced with tasks they are bewildered by. A broken shower or unexpected car problem has often felt like it could finally push me over the edge. So:
· Sit down with your friend and write a list of all the things that need doing, from mowing the lawn to fixing the bike puncture. Stick the list where visitors will see it. When someone says, "Is there anything I can do?" all they need to do is point and say "Yes, actually. Pick anything you fancy."
· Gardening: Draw up a rota among neighbours for mowing the lawn. Cut your neighbour's hedge or do some pruning. Plant some bulbs so they have something pretty to look at in spring.
· DIY: If you're good at DIY tell them when you have free time. Offer again in six months. If you're visiting and see lightbulbs that aren't working or dripping taps, offer to fix them there and then. Taking control and getting on with a job can be very effective (but do ask before getting out your spanners).
· Cars and driving: if you're good with cars, make this "your" job. Offer to check oil, water, tyres. Offer to pick your friend up and drop them home after a social gathering so that they'll be able to have a drink and relax.
· Don't just pop in, drink tea and leave. Offer to sort some washing while you chat, help put clean clothes away or do some ironing. Stack or empty the dishwasher, get rid of the junk mail.
Be there for the long haul
It's now four years since Nick died, and five since the smiling consultant sat on the edge of the bed and broke my heart.
The first year was hard. Great sweeping waves of emotion that take the breath right out of you. The raging grief slowly settles into a sad acceptance that this awful thing really did happen and that it will never change.
Where year one is the rollercoaster, year two is the trench. You plough through, knee-deep, until you come out the other end. There are fewer highs, and fewer desperate lows, and yet the sad truth is that the second year is often even harder. People drift away, go back to their own lives, get sick, have their own bereavements, have babies, get divorced. Occasionally they phone, but the cards and letters don't come on the special days, and the year drags on. You get more used to your new life, but the distance grows between you and the person you've lost. And then it's year three. I found this even harder.
Four years on, I can now answer my girls' questions about their dad without crying. I can tell people that my husband died and cope with the shock that flits across their faces. I feel more positive about the future. I know the importance of making the most of every single day. I'm amazed at how much I still miss Nick and mourn his loss for me and the children, yet I know that we have come through the worst. Friends, be there for the long haul:
· Be prepared for grief to last a long time. Rather than "getting over" the death, your friend has to learn to absorb it; it will become part of who they are.
· Don't expect friends to behave as you think you would in similar circumstances. Accept the way they grieve.
· Talk about their husband or wife, and continue to do so.
· Your friend may be in shock, angry, scared and hurting. If you ask how they're feeling, make sure you are prepared to hear the answer.
· Keep in regular contact so you know how things really are. If you only phone every few months, you'll end up with a skewed view of how they're doing.
· Continue to acknowledge special days - not necessarily the anniversary of the death, but perhaps a birthday, or wedding anniversary.
· Be positive. Encourage them. Tell them they're doing a good job.
· Understand that it might be hard for your friend to hear about your life, especially if your lives had been running along similar paths. And be careful how you talk about marital problems. It can be hard for someone who's lost a happy marriage to hear friends complain about their own relationship.
· Be aware that milestones and changes will affect your friend for a long time to come - other people becoming ill or dying, moving house, children leaving home or starting a new school, are all likely to stir up feelings of loss and make them feel panicky, even years later.
· Share their grief. If your friend tells you he's missing his wife, try saying, "I miss her too."