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Published: 23:09 GMT, 3 October 2014 | Updated: 12:03 GMT, 4 October 2014Dear Bel,
Toast all that which seems to vanish
Like a rainbow stared at, those bright
Truant things that will not keep.
Dannie Abse (Welsh poet, born 1923, died September 28)
Truly I don’t think there is anything that can be said to ease the heartache — but still I feel pulled into writing to you.
I have suffered much loss in my life: a stillborn daughter in 1987, a brother lost at sea and my first husband dead from a heart attack in 2004. I managed to pick myself up after my husband’s death and tried internet dating, but one disaster resulted in a restraining order.
Then, in 2009, I met the love of my life.
Describing him, I could use every cliche going: he was the other half of me, my soulmate and so much more.
He proposed in 2010 and my life was so complete, although I never took him — or what we had — for granted, knowing how lucky we were to have found each other.
I would sometimes feel sad thinking we would only have maybe 20 or so years together. If only. In 2011, he was diagnosed with cancer.
We did have our wedding day and I knew the joy of being his wife for 347 days before he died in my arms in May this year.
The pain I feel is almost unspeakable and I so wish I could be with him, but I know I could never cause more hurt to my wonderful daughters. I feel so sad for us and what we have lost. People say I should be grateful we met — but am I wrong in wishing it could have been more? That we could have had what others have?
Must I resign myself to a lifetime of being alone, as I clearly am not meant to be happy?
How I am to get through that life without him at my side I just do not know.
GEORGINA
Do well-meaning friends really suggest you should be ‘grateful’? It’s tempting to try to offer words of comfort and I suppose we’re all guilty of doing our best to look on the bright side on behalf of somebody else — but it’s rarely helpful.
‘Be thankful for small mercies’ is no consolation when you are blinded by grief. Understanding why you feel such bewilderment, pain and loss, I realise that no glib words of comfort can make you feel better.
The other day, after the death of his partner Sue (see And Finally), my friend Alan told me sadly, ‘I’d hoped we could have had more quality time before the end.’
That wasn’t to be — but it’s always normal and right to wish that ‘it could have been more’. Now my friend has no option but to summon up what reserves of strength he has left and to face the future. So it is with you.
You mention your ‘wonderful daughters’ and acknowledge that there is no choice but to continue.
Like my friend, you know you have to go on living — and maybe you could perhaps start this next stage by reflecting that we who are alive do go on experiencing that life for the sake of our beloved dead.
Each time you open your eyes to the glory of sunlight on autumn leaves, or enjoy the smile on a daughter’s dear face when she opens your Christmas present, or marvel at the way those first snowdrops slice up through frozen earth . . . each time you are looking for his sake as well as your own.
When you feel lost and panicky, slow down your breaths, close your eyes, and breathe the new deep breaths for your husband, too.
You state you are ‘not meant to be happy’. Certainly you have known much pain in your life. The great American poet Emily Dickinson wrote very succinctly of this when she reflected that: ‘My life closed twice before its close’ — in other words, she had twice experienced that deathly, shut-off sensation of numbness, through grief. That poem ends with these famous words:
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
The meaning of that last line is obvious, but what of the one before? How can the agony of loss teach us about heaven?
Some people say it means that when we die we go to heaven — and so being parted by death is in fact a passage to joy.
But to me the line means that grief is in proportion to love — and so if you have experienced great love you do indeed understand the meaning of heaven, even while losing the love of your life.
To that, I would add that because of that experience of joy, you are indeed ‘meant to be happy’.
T he trouble is, happiness cannot be parcelled out and purchased, in the way we buy time by putting money in a parking meter.
Georgina, you will always feel a sense of sorrow for what was taken away from you.
Some sadness never, ever goes away, but becomes absorbed into the body, becoming a part of who you are.
In that sense, we carry those we have loved and lost within us. Some people might find that thought scant consolation, but (as I said) I am not here to offer easy comfort.
But I do suggest that when we allow ourselves to be changed by great love, and by its opposite side, great sorrow, we are in fact honouring the miracle of the finest feelings known to humankind.
Love is transforming and goes on working its magic long after the loved one has ceased to be physically present.
Perhaps that miracle is what we mean by the soul — and I, for one, believe that the spirit cannot die.
My rude stepson poisons our marriage
Dear Bel,
My 30-year-old stepson is spoiling my marriage, health and sanity. I don’t want to go through another divorce, but I don’t see how we can carry on as things are.
Matters came to a head the other day when he came for a visit. Coming down for breakfast, I said ‘Good morning’ and got a grunt in reply.
The second morning, I was in the dining room, he came in, sat at the table and ignored me. Getting angrier by the second I asked: ‘Do you not believe in saying good morning?’ That started World War III.
He said a lot of nasty things about me and some downright lies. He’s a really twisted individual. I’ve known the guy for 11 long years and in all that time he’s never once asked me about my family.
I could write a book about all the nasty things he’s said and done to me during that time — but his dad just laughs it off and tells me not to bother about it.
I have stayed because of my husband, and I know his son will be very happy if we part.
We should not have to split up because of his nasty behaviour, but I can’t stand him and I really don’t want him in my life any more.
He acts like a stroppy ten-year-old, not a man of 30.
I’m too old for all this trouble and strife. Should I just call it a day with his dad and opt for a peaceful life for myself?
LYNNE
Sometimes it takes me a long time to edit lengthy letters, but this is one case where more detail is needed. I’ve printed your full email and the first question left hanging is this: how did you and your husband get together?
It’s easy to work out that Stepson was 19 when you wed, but I’d like to know how old he was when his parents’ marriage broke up and if that happened because you had begun a relationship with his father.
Can you see why this is important? His resentment may be deep and (in his mind) justified. If you met later, then he would still have been vulnerable — as adults never stop needing emotional support. The end of a marriage can have devastating long-term effects on young adults, maybe even more than on young children.
It’s also relevant to know about his relationship with his mother and how she handled the separation and divorce. You see, it’s just possible that Stepson is acting like a stroppy child because nobody realised that he needed help in coming to terms with his parents’ split.
If, say, your husband brushed it off (just as he now laughs off his son’s nastiness) and if the mother was angry and bitter and poisoned her son’s mind, all are paying the price today.
I am not condoning Stepson’s attitude when I point out he may have become ‘locked’ into feelings he had at the time. His current age will have no bearing on his behaviour if the past upset has never been acknowledged or dealt with. Of course you shouldn’t ‘just call it a day’! If you don’t love your husband any more, then walk away. But as you yourself ask, why should you give Stepson that triumph?
If you leave your husband because of the son, then in effect you are ‘choosing’ the son. Surely it would be more mature to try to put things right instead of feeling so angry and defeated.
For a start, your husband has absolutely no business to opt out of the conflict as he is doing. To be honest, you sound like a pretty confrontational woman (Oh, I can almost hear that frosty ‘Good morning’) so I ask, have you and he talked about this problem without any accusations?
Raise it with him again, without once beginning a sentence with the word ‘You’. No finger-pointing! Instead ask if he understands that his son is still hurting, but hiding this with anger. Then ask how he thinks this ongoing situation makes you feel. Then ask (no demanding!) what he thinks can be done about it.
I’ve no doubt you have good reason to dislike this young man. Yet you should reflect how your husband would feel were he never to see him again — and not ask him to choose between you and his son.
He must hear you offer a heartfelt plea that he takes thoughtful steps to put right the situation he has allowed (lazily? guiltily?) to go so wrong. Remind him — with loving, wise and firm good cheer — that you and he are a team. And point out that team members who work out an intelligent strategy together have a very good chance of scoring an important victory.
And finally... Cherish pals while you can
It was the Mail that introduced me to my friend Sue Martin. In 2000, I wrote an article about my new Harley-Davidson and determination to become a biker hen.
Days later, my husband and I went to the Theatre Royal Bath and the attractive woman who took our tickets told me she’d loved my piece in the paper. Something in her cheeky smile made me ask if she rode a motorcycle and she beamed assent.
We chatted in the interval and I asked her to scribble down her number. Much later she told me she never expected me to call — but I did and that was it.
Sue was born in the same year as I, and we loved to sing along to old rock ’n’ roll and swap memories of ruched bathing costumes, stiff petticoats and so on. She had a merry, loving spirit.
Bel answers readers’ questions on emotional and relationship problems each week.
Write to: Bel Mooney, Daily Mail, 2 Derry Street, London W8 5TT, or e-mail bel.mooney@dailymail.co.uk.
A pseudonym will be used if you wish.
Bel reads all letters, but regrets that she cannot enter into personal correspondence.
This week, I was honoured to read a poem at Sue’s beautiful, humanist cremation ceremony. Her beloved partner of 29 years (whom I’ve mentioned before as Big-Al-the-Biker) struggled with his emotions — as did we all.
Sue was one of those people who could have done many things with her life but found fulfilment in her vocation as a teaching assistant, working front-of-house at her beloved theatre and being the best of mums and grandmothers.
During the wake at Bath’s football club, while musicians jammed and friends and family began to make that essential transition from shock to acceptance, I went outside to shed tears I’d controlled.
Remembering the fun we’d had, I felt such regret for all the times when I was too busy to go out. There was always an article to write, a book to review, a meeting of a charity etc. Alan occasionally murmured that it’s important to relax, but Sue never did.
And now she has gone and it is too late. So this is my advice to everyone: cherish your friendships. Make the phone call. Meet up. Talk and smile over a glass of wine.
Tell your friends just how much they enhance your life — before the words reach into the darkness.
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