Six years. That’s how long it’s been since I lost my wife.
August 2019. A date that is burned into me in a way that nothing else quite is. She had been ill for years — I had been her carer, her companion, her everything — and yet when the moment came, nothing truly prepares you for it. The house that had been full of her presence became something else entirely. Quieter. Heavier. A different place.
I wasn’t sure I’d write about this. I find it easier, sometimes, to write about walking — the paths, the weather, the people I meet along the way. Walking, I’ve discovered, is a very good way of not having to sit still with your thoughts. But the thoughts find you anyway. They always do.
The first years
The first two years after losing her were the hardest of my life. That’s saying something, given that the years before — watching her decline, being her carer, holding everything together while quietly falling apart myself — were not easy either. But grief in those early years was total. It was in every room, every meal, every quiet evening, in the music, the TV shows, the clothing etc.
Then Covid came, and I spent ten days in an isolation ward not knowing if I would come home. In a strange way, that experience shook something loose in me. When I was discharged and began the slow walk back to health, I made myself a promise: I was going to live. Really live. Not just get through the days.
Six years on
What do I say about the past six years? They have been challenging, yet deep down, I felt that she would have wanted me to embrace life and even seek companionship again. We had had conversations about this long before her illness, discussing the difficult topic of “what will you do when I die?” This was a reality we both acknowledged, regardless of who would face it first. To be candid, even with those discussions, I wasn’t truly ready for the heartache that came with her passing. According to Hindu customs, the first fifteen days of mourning seem to go by in a blur, filled with well-wishers that leave little room for personal grief. The true weight of loss hits when that support fades away, leaving an overwhelming sense of emptiness. Honestly, if it weren’t for my work, I fear I would have found it incredibly difficult to manage. Recently, my niece, who is navigating her own journey through grief, asked me how I coped, reminding me of the need for connection and understanding in these trying times.
And truly, taking it one day at a time was how I navigated the pain of my loss and feelings of loneliness. It brings me joy to share that I’ve made significant progress, embracing a new chapter in my life since retirement, where I’ve learned to live for myself and find happiness again.
What she would have made of all this
I know that my wife would have felt immense pride in me. She would have celebrated my accomplishments, particularly the milestone of receiving my first medal for completing a million steps. I find myself yearning for a little self-praise, too. The Ramblers truly transformed my life; I forged new friendships, discovered hidden walking paths, and savored wonderful moments with great company. When I close my eyes and think of my wife, I envision her radiant smile, reflecting the joy that she genuinely embraced.
Carrying on
Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t end. It changes shape. It becomes part of you rather than something that is happening to you. There are days when it is very heavy and days when it sits more quietly. I have learned to be grateful for both — the heavy days remind me how much she mattered, and the quieter ones remind me that I am still here.
And I am still here. Writing, walking, getting on with it. She would have expected nothing less.
— Anil
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