There was little time left. With a bit of luck 3 months.
My beloved: 55 years old, a pragmatic thinker, a mathematician, a statistician. 3 months. Way too long, when one thing is certain: You’re going to die. He no longer needed to see the roses blooming.
The 3 months became 6 weeks. Sufficient time to tell his daughters about his youth with photos, to arrange the financials, to listen to CDs to be used during the cremation services, to say goodbye to loved ones. To tell them there would be no new beginning anymore. And beyond that… lying in bed with his face to the wall. Waiting for death. I wasn’t allowed to look at him anymore. Grief shouldn’t be shown. We wouldn’t die. He didn’t show his grief too.
After his death. So much sadness, we finally could cry. The tears were running low. I always wondered what our marriage actually had meant, especially when both of us had just lived our own live during these last days. He said at the end that it had been so nice that I always dragged him to something or drew out from something. With this I could do a lot.
But still… shouldn’t I have said him we ought to have lived the last days of our live in a different way? But I wanted to give him his freedom to do it his own way. Why didn’t he let me in? What did I do wrong, what had I done wrong?
It took a long time, a long time before I realized that it was the only way, even though it deserved no beauty price.
And what about all those wonderful television documentaries, how beautiful it all could be? I just didn’t watch these any longer.
Our marriage was not the usual marriage. I had always given him the freedom to lead his own life. With this I was just good at it. He could not look at me anymore because it caused him pain, he didn’t want to leave me behind, and he knew we were very important to each other.
He was so loyal. In his own way so caring.