Every day I wake up and every day its the same. Louise is still dead.
I can't get my head around the concept. I genuinely find it baffling. There are large chunks of the day when I get by. When I'm feeling a general sadness but I'm not on the verge of tears. I can function. But I know that is because the reality of what has happened, the sheer hugeness of it all, the tragedy of it all, and the permanence of the loss, hasn't remotely sunk in. Every time something pierces that veneer of protection I sit bewildered, and try to come to terms with the reality all over again, struggling to take in the enormity and to understand what it means. It's almost as if the news that Louise has died is broken to me afresh several times a day.
Monday, 23 February 2015
My apologies to anybody who may have come to this site in the hope that it would contain tributes to Sid James, Kenneth Williams or Hattie Jacques. I am afraid that you will be disappointed. Much as I loved the 'Carry On' series as a child the reference to Carry on Breathing in the blog title relates not to a previously undiscovered Ealing Comedy Classic but the best advice I have so far come across for dealing with the immediate aftermath of the suicide of your partner.
Sunday, 22 February 2015
Louise and I met relatively late in life, in June 2010 and were married in September 2011. Louise was an inspirational doctor working in general practice in a socially deprived area of Bermondsey. She cared passionately about people and making their lives better, instinctively supporting the underdog and seeing beauty and goodness where others saw none. She was much loved by her colleagues for her intelligence, commitment, energy, enthusiasm, willingness to help others and sense of fun. She was also hugely popular with her patients, giving unreservedly to provide them with the best possible care, often at the expense of her own wellbeing.