Irreplaceable – That’s What You Are

Every one of us is unique, and yet, through some miracle of fate or chance, connection or chemistry, if we are very lucky, we find that complementary soul who makes us feel loved simply by their presence. The best way I can describe it is like the moment Dorothy wakes up in Oz after black and white Kansas and steps out into a technicolour world for the first time. It’s as if you didn’t even know that this world existed when suddenly your eyes are dazzled by its beauty and you’re amazed simply to be there. 

The shock of losing that one person who always had your back, craved your hugs and wanted to hear every mundane detail of your day can make you feel like you’ve been blown back into black and white Kansas. Even the beauty of the world can seem like a cruel taunt at the beginning. The day my husband left this earth was a sunny, spring morning. I remember thinking “How on earth can the sun be shining and the birds be singing on a day like this?”

The love between two people who have lived their lives entwined, gazed at each other over thousands of tables and walked together through everything life has thrown them is like a deep well of memory filled with every moment you have shared. It’s the glance between you when it’s time to leave a party. It’s the first half of a joke that’s finished only by a smile because you both recall the punch line. It’s that Valentine’s Day that still makes you blush. It’s that night you spent in Emergency when the baby’s temperature was 105 and you both burst into tears when the doctor finally said she’d be OK. 

While you walk this earth together, you are both the “bearers of memory,” each of you holding half of the life you’ve known in precious, unspoken keeping. Once your darling has died, it’s as if you are full to overflowing, carrying it all on your own. The fullness of what you’ve shared (and lost) is impossible to convey, to even begin to comprehend, let alone replace with the company of others, however well-meaning. Because even though someone you love has left this earth, the bond between you remains unbroken, even though the memories are now yours alone to treasure.   

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that after Peter died, I often found everyone who wasn’t him incredibly irritating; their voices, their stories, their sympathetic looks or little pats on the arm. I didn’t want the hugs of family or friends, as much as they kindly offered to give them. I wanted the perfect melding of the body I had loved for 20 years into mine, the silent companionship of being in tandem doing work that we loved, the inexpressible comfort of being understood utterly by him alone.  I felt kind of guilty about it, but there it was. 

So no, it’s not rude to have to leave in the middle of a party because you just can’t be there any more. It’s not strange to find the casual conversation of others so jarring it makes you want to scream. It’s not weird to prefer time alone with your memories to the well-meaning intrusion of a neighbour or friend. 

I never said a thing about the way “everyone not being Peter” distressed me so, particularly at the beginning. It seems wrong to resent your friends for not being your Love; they are trying their best to assuage an unassuageable grief. But the simple truth is that each of us is irreplaceable, we are not interchangeable and no-one is the person you just lost. 

In the days, weeks, months and now years since Peter died, I have been asked many times in many different ways how am I doing. Am I lonely? Am I feeling better? Am I finding it hard  on my own? How am I doing as a single parent? Do I want to start dating? Will I ever marry again?

The answer to all these questions is simply “No, I just miss Peter.” My wonderful, utterly irreplaceable husband. I know now that will never change. It’s not that I’m lonely, I’m lonely for him. It’s not that I need a companion, it’s that I miss his companionship. It’s not that it’s hard being on my own, it’s hard being without him. There’s a big difference. 

As usual, the poets say it best so I leave you with one of the best, May Sarton.

Did someone say that there would be an end,
an end, Oh, an end to love and mourning?
What has been once so interwoven cannot be raveled,
not the gift ungiven.

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing.
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited–
only the strands grow richer with each loss
and memory makes kings and queens of us.

Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flow to some real haven,
we who find shelter in the warmth within,
listen and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
as the lost human voices speak through us and blend our complex love,
our mourning without end. 

May Sarton