Bereavement in a time of Covid

The Meuse in flood, 2000

When Eamonn was in his final weeks of life,  the stairs at home became his Colmar. Cancer had broken his body down, bit by bit, to a place where five steps amounted to the Meuse in flood; the obstacle that prevented us achieving our target of cruising to Colmar, Alsace, in our narrowboat. 

Our once full and adventurous life, exploring Europe in our floating home, was reduced to a house and garden,  and then, when the stairs became too much despite the Stannah, a room.

Summer 2019

As his cancer became advanced, and then terminal, we lived in a private lockdown. Bound to the house by his withered muscles and failing lungs, we ventured out only for medical appointments and treatment, I did my best to turn the house and garden into a peaceful haven. 

Arbour seat April 2020

After Eamonn died, I set to work preparing for life without him. Before I could set sail, the house and garden needed some attention. It had to be as easy for one to maintain as it had been for two. My physical health and mental state were at rock bottom. Despite this, I worked hard to put many aids in place.

The garden was cleared of its tangles and I set about creating areas that would aid mental recovery. I installed an arbour seat, an area for a physic garden, and planted wildflowers, perennials, and bulbs for a colourful garden next year.

Lunch in the Garden Room

I finished arranging the ground floor so that I could live alone easily, and comfortably,  when my health deteriorated. I installed a video doorbell that allows me to monitor callers. I invested in a personal alarm, in case of accidents; that was upgraded to a smart watch with GPS that did the same job as the household alarm. I had essential repairs carried out in the house ; the conservatory floor needed replacing, it needed turning into a room I could use all the year around, and the central heating system needed servicing plus the addition of thermostat valves on all radiators. This allowed me to close all the upstairs rooms, which resulted in a reduction of energy bills. I also created a mini-flatlet upstairs, for guests who needed their own private space during visits.

Plums from the Community Garden

All this activity at home gave me a focus, from which I expected to emerge better equipped for life alone. As Christmas 2019 approached, I began to attend my social groups again - knitting, ukulele group, and walking with the dog. These would be the things that would make everything else a little more bearable. In the new year, I also joined a new group, at the local Community Garden

Anxiety is such a huge part of grief, and those of us who are grieving right now are having to process loss in the most anxious of times. Prior to lockdown, I had worked hard on my regime for survival, ticking all the boxes grief-therapists and books had taught me to follow. I found some comfort in the world turning around me, in reliable daily rituals, like walking Alf, knitting, playing ukulele and singing, and relaxing in the newly renovated garden.

Community, family, exercise; kept me busy, busy, busy.  I’m sure in other times these activities and goals would have made a relevant coping strategy. But these are the strangest of times. We have to find different ways to grieve. I was, at first, angry, and then saddened, when Eamonn's sisters stopped answering my e-mails.  It made things even harder to lose the support of Eamonn's side of the family, for whom he had done his duty - and more - during five decades of marriage to me. Daily communications, via email and Facetime stopped after the funeral and never started again. 

Coronavirus felt like an assault on my recovery. After cancer had wiped out the future I believed I would have with Eamonn, I felt entitled to start my solo adventures. I should have known better. Feeling entitled only leads to great disappointment. We live in a culture that perpetuates the idea  that life is best led by making plans, and better still by making goals. It’s hard to grasp that the best-laid plans can fall through, that loss can follow loss. Even harder to grasp – and what we’re all learning now – is that your world, and the actual world, can change unimaginably in an instant. Life can truly be out of your control. For a control-freak, this is terrifyingly unbearable.

Like others who have lost loved ones, I was in the process of beginning to explore new things; to start my next chapter. It’s one of the positive changes grief literature talks about.  I’ve read  that, during the pandemic,  others are also reliving their worst days in cancer wards and waiting rooms, too. Whilst my home was alive with good memories, the constant roll of new cases, deaths, and the strain on hospitals on news reports bought back visions of Eamonn’s suffering. But, I had no intention of moving home. What I needed was a way of finding a new, solo way of living - one in which I could escape from the house when I needed a break.

After a few days of lockdown, I slipped back to how I felt into the early days after Eamonn's funeral. My mind provided visions of families hunkering down blissfully together, playing board games, exercising the dog together, and watching TV in bed. It became painful to ask friends and family for help. I was alone, unable to care for myself when ill or after a fall. The thought of a future with nowhere to go when I needed a break and a place to stay; the loss of contact with my close family who lived at a distance, and with whom I was not allowed to socialise; drove me close to the edge.

What would Eamonn advise? I remember him telling me, more than once, as he became housebound and then bedbound, that I was stronger than he ever imagined I could be. This reminded me of the AA Milne quote of which we were both fond.

Something else Eamonn used to say when I had an idea that solved a problem he was mulling over; he would quip, "go the the head of the scholarship class". This memory was something that put me back on the road to recovery. What ideas could this scholarship girl come up with? Could I find something that would replace our  boat as a method of exploring the world? 

Some years ago, a friend of mine was planning to attend a voice camp during the summer vacation. She felt that she was too advanced in years to spend the time under canvas, so she bought a Romahome. I started searching for one of my own. The day before the anniversary of Eamonn's 1st birthday after he died, I drove Levant II home from  Kidderminster. 

Four days later, I drove her to Southwold and learned the potential of my own solo-home-on-wheels in which to embark on more adventures. Unfortunately, at its annual Habitation Check, the local workshop found lots of damp and some leaking gas pipes. It will take a considerable amount to put things right, but I've been given orders (and advice) to spend more, so all will be put right.

Is the current lockdown going to be harder for me because I haven't been able to grieve properly due to Covid-19's restrictions? Time is standing still for everyone. We may have lost a loved one,  our jobs, our freedom, our morning coffee with our favourite people; if we’re very unlucky, we may have lost it all. For those of us grieving a pre-Covid loss, now is the time to reflect and find a way through – not by planning something big and poetic, but in having the time to heal, through not doing much at all. But I'm not very good at doing nothing.

Winter is never a good time for me, but there are things I can do about it. I have my SAD  daylight lamp for winter sunshine, a warm comfortable home in which to read, craft, watch TV, and listen to audio books. I have Facetime for speaking to family and friends. I have winter plants to tend, and, for sunny but cold weather, Levant II in which to go travelling, wearing my new duffle coat. I might even knit a scarf to match. 

I have known a long time ago that it is no use waiting for things to be handed to you on a plate. It takes hard work  making  things happen yourself, that gets results. Most of all, it takes something of which Eamonn made me aware and helped me nurture, and which my GP reinforced that I possess, when discussing my medication review - determination - aka bloody mindedness.

So I go on, accepting what I cannot change, modifying what I can.