Well, it’s now December, the month I dread the most. One week from today, December 8, those memories from 2015 will once again haunt me. The day my life changed. No warning, no chance to say goodbye, no reason within my wildest imagination to believe it would end so suddenly. Even now, three years down the track I still find it hard to rationalise what happened, albeit I’ve accepted it.
I will relive the fear. I will relive driving around the streets looking for him and finding nothing. I will relive phoning the police and being told someone had been taken to hospital from my suburb. They had no name; I mean who carries identification when they go off for their morning run. Which is something I do now. I will relive the feeling I had calling the hospital and being asked to describe the love of my life and the internal panic I felt on being told to come at once, it was very serious. I declined the offer of being picked up by the police needing to be in control of me. I remember the 15 minute drive and the woman waiting for me in reception to escort me to the emergency department. I remember fighting the screaming message in my head telling me he had died.
Once I reached the door, there was no longer any doubt; the Chaplin, police, doctors and nurses standing there waiting. So many questions and the “we are so sorry” utterances and all you want to do is let out a scream and tell everyone to go away. I found out later that Richard was dead within about 10-seconds of falling to the ground. He suffered a Hemorrhagic stroke; a massive ruptured blood vessel causing bleeding inside the brain. He was about a kilometre from home. If there was one solace, it was that he wouldn’t have suffered. But the thought of him dying alone on the street will haunt me to my dying day. It’s the last image I see every night and I suspect it always will be.
I remember standing by the bed holding Richard’s hand and telling the Chaplin that Richard would have been mortified to have died in his running gear. He was always so particular about how he looked. I stayed with him as long as was I allowed. Walking away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.
It’s hard to describe the shock and the numbness that follows. Only those who have been through the same understand. That’s something I have learnt on this journey. I thought I understood how others had felt in similar circumstances, how wrong I was.
I said at the time I’d never get over losing Richard. There was only the two of us. Everything we did we did together or for our future together. To find myself on my own after so long together was hard to come to grips with. Eight days after Richard died we should have been celebrating another wedding anniversary. Two days after that we said our final goodbyes. We had a wonderful life together and my memory box is full. It is that memory box that sustains me now.
During the last 36-months I’ve walked many paths; from despair to hope. But in all of this I’ve learnt a lot about myself. I’ve spent my fair share of time in black tunnels and I’ve faced many demons. As someone who has always had a positive outlook to suddenly start thinking I’ve nothing to live for and perhaps I should end my life was a stark realisation of just how debilitating grief is. Thankfully I understood the drivers of this and I did something positive to correct it. For my own well-being I’ve had to make some tough decisions about people, family included and that’s meant cutting some of them out of my life. But, for once I had to put myself first and it took a death to make me realise I was merely a convenience to them.
I’ve had my good days and my bad days. As a control freak learning to ride out the bad ones and accept they are part of the healing journey was tough. I fought against that often. Always displaying the ‘stiff upper lip’ and playing the role many expected of me; emotionally tough, in control and capable of dealing with anything. I learnt I’m not so tough and guess what? That’s not a problem. Now I let my emotions guide me understanding there is a reason why you can’t control everything. I’m now more open about my feelings and my emotions and there is a sense of relief in that.
I would give anything to go back to December 7, 2015, the day before Richard died, but I can’t. No amount of hoping and praying will change that. So now three years on I reflect on where I was to where I am now. I think about everything I have achieved over the past three year. Sadly, I didn’t get to share this with the most important person in my life. But then I remind myself perhaps I’m wrong, and he hasn’t missed anything. I sense he is still around keeping an eye on everything. Despite what I thought immediately following Richard’s death I have found peace again. My dear little cat Aslan has been a big part of that. Animals really do help you heal. Sharing my experiences and talking openly about my journey has helped others going through similar and that brings solace; something good has come from something so bad.
I don’t think I will ever completely get over, missing Richard. Anniversaries will always be tough times but my life goes on and I must continue to live my life because that’s what Richard would want. And as long as I breathe, I’ll keep his memory alive. I’ll never let anyone forget him.
Life is a journey, we don't always know why things happen but we if can use our life experiences to help others and in doing so become better people ourselves that's worthwhile. So, I now embark on year four. I’ve no idea what lies ahead but whatever it is, it will be what I make of it. That gives me a sense of empowerment and freedom. The week ahead will be tough but I will make it through and in a weird way I’m looking forward to 2019. I sense it’s a year of big change.
