It’s now six months since he died and long enough for me to have largely come to terms with losing him – except that I haven’t. I still wake up crying some mornings and I still walk around the house in conversation with him. Although I have dutifully joined groups I am nowhere close to building that promised New Life.
I constantly have to remind myself that I am not in a
unique situation and that half of humankind experiences this emptiness and
sorrow at some stage in their lives. It
doesn’t help much though and there are times when the separation feels
limitless and the silence is intolerable.
I frequently think back to the days before he became
ill, those I call the Good Old Days, the time we thought would last for
ever. The problem with those days is
that it’s impossible to appreciate their worth whilst you are living them. I have
begun to try to determine which of the forty-eight years we spent together were
really the best ones. Was it when the
children were still small, in our bush paradise in Kohimarama when Patrick was a
junior school boy and the younger two pre-schoolers. Or was it when they were all slightly older
and making plans for the future.
It was impossible not to develop a huge respect for Hank
Harris. He was a staunch and loving
father yet he steadfastly refrained from interfering in his children’s lives
and allowed them to do the things they most desired to do and carve their own
paths. He was an exceptional husband. He believed in me and loved me unreservedly
and never having experienced such unconditional devotion before in my life it
was intoxicating. And he loved Patrick,
already four years old when they met, and he accepted his eccentricities. Having been firmly rejected by his own father
Patrick was ecstatic to be blessed with a replacement and returned his love
with an enthusiasm that failed to wane with the passing years.
Hank was an extraordinarily good and decent human
being who saw the best in everyone and marrying him was the single best
decision of my life. The years we had
together were good years, the marriage was a happy one. Naturally enough there were times when we
fought, sometimes bitterly but we were able always to forgive and to forget
with astonishing ease. Gordie was
completely aware that words hurled around in anger did not carry much meaning
and he seemed simply unable to bear grudges and carry grievances around with
him.
Those terrible months when he was so ill were eased
for him by his positive attitude to life and his dogged belief in modern
medicine. For me the increasing and
insidious horror of that time was alleviated by the ongoing help of Sinead and
Patrick who together went above and beyond filial obligation to give the kind
of unwavering support that comes out of love and not duty.
And on good days we were together able to do some of
those things that he enjoyed most and that made his spirits soar. We
dressed up in our finery and lunched out expensively at Cibo, just a short walk
away. We went together down to The
Paddington for celebratory drinks and sometimes availed ourselves of their
Sunday Roast! And we sat in the midweek
cathedral-like splendour of the Saatchi & Saatchi building for morning
coffee. Then those good days were suffused with hope
and became firmly etched in memory and are now referred back to again and
again. They are perhaps almost in
danger of becoming a part of the Good Old Days!
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