ShoutYourHeadOff

Author: Anil J

  • My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    By April 2007 I had my diagnosis. Hodgkin’s Disease, Stage 2. Ninety-five percent chance of survival — good odds, the doctor said. What nobody tells you is what the treatment feels like from the inside. This is that part of the story.

    On 8th April, the course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    This is Part 3 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • The Lump I Ignored

    The Lump I Ignored

    I was having lunch in the work canteen. I have a habit of passing my hand at the back of my neck — a kind of self-massage, something I’ve always done. That’s when I felt it. A very small lump, on the left side. The right side was smooth, as it always had been. I carried on eating. Carried on chatting with my colleagues. And when lunch was over, I went back to work.

    But I never stopped thinking about it. I kept touching it, wondering. Weeks passed. Then months.

    By the time Christmas came, swallowing had become difficult. Not impossible — just enough to notice. I needed a sip of water to wash down every mouthful of food. In November 2006, I went to my doctor and asked for a referral to an ENT specialist.

    In February 2007, my wife Harsha and I flew to India for a wedding. We didn’t know then that the referral letter had never arrived. The hospital had returned it — misdirected, undelivered, as if it had never been sent. My doctor hadn’t known either.

    When I came back from India, I pushed for an earlier appointment. That’s when I found out. The doctor was not happy. Neither was I — though “not happy” doesn’t quite cover it. He examined my throat again. Felt the left tonsil with his fingers. Said it felt soft. Didn’t think it was serious. But he wrote an urgent letter himself, directly, and this time it worked. On 22nd March 2007, I walked into the ENT clinic at Wexham Park Hospital.

    I had a bad feeling.

    I’ve always been a man who prays. Since before Christmas, I had been asking God to give me the strength to deal with whatever He throws at me. The past few years had been tough. Harsha was not getting any better, and it had started to feel like this was simply the way the rest of our lives was going to be. Now, sitting in that waiting room, I was asking again.

    The wait, though not long, seemed like forever.

    I walked into the room and was welcomed by a pleasant young doctor who introduced himself as Dr Pope. No pun intended. I answered a few questions about my general health. Then he got out a throat instrument, I opened wide, and the first words I heard were: “Oh dear. Do you mind if I get a colleague to look at this?”

    “No of course not,” I said. Mildly.

    He came back a couple of minutes later with another pleasant doctor by the name of Dr Wood. Dr Wood followed the same procedure, then started talking in medical terms with Dr Pope. I asked them politely to explain.

    Dr Pope told me that the tonsil was more of a lump in the throat and needed urgent investigation and then subsequent removal. He arranged for me to have a blood test straight away and asked me to return to the clinic afterwards for more urgent appointments. A nurse by the name of Bally was waiting for me with a sheet of paper — a couple of dates and what to do. An MRI scan in eight days’ time, followed by an appointment at King Edward Hospital, Windsor, on 2nd April.

    So from the 22nd March to the 30th March — a long, anxious wait. And even longer still from then to Monday 2nd April, even though it was only a matter of three days.

    30th March 2007. This is the day. This is the one that will put a stamp on the doctors’ fears and mine too.

    I turned up at Wexham Park for my appointment and once again waited anxiously. I went into the room and for some unknown reason, it felt cold in there. I sat down and could see the doctor had the monitor screen open to my MRI scans. “Hello, Mr Joshi. Take a seat please.”

    As I sat down, I couldn’t help but look at the monitor screen.

    He did not beat about the bush. “I’m sorry to tell you that you have a type of cancer. We don’t know exactly what type and how far it has progressed. We will do some more tests immediately to determine what course to take. It looks like we have caught this early, but the tests will confirm everything. Please do not worry — you are in good hands now.”

    Little did he know that I had been petrified since its first detection. I smiled and lied to him. “I’m very strong, Doctor, so I’m not worried — for me, that is.”

    “Good. That’s half the battle,” he said.

    1st April 2007. The previous day I had a biopsy at King Edward VIII Hospital. The nurse who did my ultrasound on the neck and took the biopsy sample said: “How long have you had this? You should have done it sooner.”

    “Thanks mate. I would have, if I’d known.”

    Things were moving fast now. An appointment had been made for 3rd April for a pre-assessment before the operation to remove my left tonsil on 4th April. It was also Pratibha’s birthday.

    But that is not why I remember 1st April.

    I feel so lonely. Not lonely for company — I had support from family, from Bipin, from people who rallied around me. But lonely in the way that only one person in a room full of people can feel lonely, when nobody in the room is carrying exactly what you are carrying.

    When Harsha had the epileptic fit, I was alone at home. I had left her there while I went to get the ultrasound and biopsy. I had also just finished calling Bipin to tell him the news about my cancer. I remember I was in tears. He had offered to come down straight away, but I had refused. And then, only a few minutes after I put down the phone, Harsha was being taken by ambulance to hospital. She didn’t know anything yet.

    Mitesh was working. Rakhi was at college — or so I thought. None of them could come to the hospital. I had my pre-assessment in the morning. I had no choice but to let matters take their course.

    Harsha got into hospital at about 4pm. And little did I know that the cancer ward was next door to hers.

    I got home so late. Exhausted — physically and mentally. I can’t remember dropping off to sleep.

    I need to say something here about Rakhi. Every father who has a daughter, who has watched her struggle through her teenage years with things she couldn’t tell him, will understand what I am about to say without me saying very much at all. She was going through a crisis of her own — one that had been building long before my diagnosis, one that had its roots in the kind of company a young woman can fall into when she is not yet sure of herself. I was already being torn apart by Harsha’s illness. Then came my own.

    We were close — as much as a father and daughter can be when there is already a storm inside the family home. But we were also far apart. I did not push. She did not speak. Some things are best laid to rest for now. What I will say is this: she found her way back to me. She wrote me a letter — a letter I will keep until my last day. It is too personal for these pages. But it exists. And that matters more than anything I could write here.

    3rd April. My pre-op appointment was done and dusted. I knew what to expect tomorrow. Harsha was in Ward 9 West. I went to her, and she had no idea about my operation in the morning. After her mini-stroke in 2004, she had never been quite the same. She was in no state to understand or accept what was happening in our lives. I spent all the visiting time in the ward with her. All the time, I had to put on a brave face and not show the stress tearing my insides out.

    4th April. I had a sleepless night and went in for the operation to remove the lump in my throat. It was a day procedure and I was back with Harsha in her ward by 12:30pm. She still had no idea. The “lump” had gone for more tests.

    7th April. I was seeing the oncologist and specialist nurse for an update and a course of treatment. As I sat down, my heart was in my throat. The worried look on my face must have been so obvious.

    Dr Moule, my oncologist, explained that what I had was called Hodgkin’s Disease and it was at Stage 2. That was good news. The type of cancer I had was treatable, with a 95% chance of survival. Treatment to start in ten days, on 17th April. A course of six chemotherapy sessions, followed by radiotherapy.

    8th April. The course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Now, sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    It took about a year and a half from diagnosis to sitting opposite Dr Moule for what I hoped would be the last time. He turned the monitor towards me to show me what had happened to the cancer.

    The news was good. Very optimistic. Not completely out of the woods — I would return for tests every three months, then every six months, then yearly, until five years had passed and I could be told I was in remission. But the cancer that had started as a small lump in the back of my neck, noticed one lunchtime in a work canteen and then quietly, determinedly ignored, had been caught and treated and beaten back.

    There was no one to hold my hand. There was no fanfare. No happy screams. Just a subdued atmosphere. Dr Moule was the one to wake me from my deep thoughts and solemn look — he tried to cheer me up. The nurses smiled and silently clapped.

    That was it.

    I was done.

    This piece is the first in a series about my cancer diagnosis in 2007. The full story — the years that followed, caring for Harsha, and what happened next — continues on the My Cancer Story page.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • A Note from Anil — Closing the Series

    A Note from Anil — Closing the Series

    When I first imagined this series, I didn’t expect family members to step forward the way they did. Grief is personal. It sits in places we don’t always let others see. And yet, one by one, five people from our family wrote honestly about the hardest things they have ever carried — with Bipin finding the courage to write not once but twice, about his own grief and then about our sister Sumi. In doing so, they showed me that we still look after each other. That, more than anything, is what this series became.

    The piece that stopped me was Pragna’s. I was there in those days after we lost Sumi, turning up after shifts, doing what I could within the restrictions Covid forced on all of us. When I read what she wrote, she hit me somewhere I wasn’t expecting. She put words to something I had felt but couldn’t say.

    To everyone who has read this series — thank you for staying the course. I know it isn’t easy. Reading about grief when you have lived it yourself opens wounds that never fully close. That you kept reading means more than I can say.

    We wrote these pieces because we loved the people we lost. I hope that comes through on every page.

    — Anil J

  • What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    During her illness, before she became bedbound, she had a chair she always sat in. I had mine too — to her right, just within her line of vision. If I moved to another seat, she would complain. Not dramatically. Just enough to let me know.

    She needed to see me. After forty years, I suppose I needed to be seen.

    That chair is still there. I don’t sit in it.

    I used to think grief was something you went through when you lost someone very dear to you. But grief is more than that. So much more.

    It’s not just losing loved ones. Grief wears many faces.

    For the first two years after losing my wife, I was consumed by guilt. Guilt from being alive. Guilt from the feeling that I hadn’t done enough. Guilt from that niggling voice asking whether I could have pursued different avenues of treatment. I still feel it — to a lesser extent now — but when it resurfaces, the pain is intense. After a great deal of hard self-searching, I’ve learned to ride whatever storm comes. But it took time. It took work.

    Dealing with negative thoughts, with difficult feelings, and with the grief that surrounds us in everyday life — that is no small thing.

    Over the years I have lost both parents, my in-laws, and a very dear sister, who passed away soon after my wife. The recovery time from one loss to the next was very short. Other losses — work colleagues, friends, neighbours — I got through in their own separate ways. The pain varied. Some grief was short-lived; some lasted months. Why that was, I will never fully know.

    So when I lost my wife, I thought it would be the same. I would deal with it. I always had.

    The knot in my throat told me otherwise.

    What surprised me most was this: the losses of people I had loved deeply — my parents, my sister — hadn’t broken me the way losing her did. And I don’t know why. Is it the nature of that particular love? Is it the length of a life built together? Or is grief simply too complex to be measured or compared?

    I may never know. But I’ve stopped expecting it to make sense.

    Those first days and weeks brought a sadness I had never experienced — one that engulfed me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Especially when the mourners had gone home. When my son and daughter had returned to their lives. When I came back to a house so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

    Forty years of memories filled that silence. The laughter — always the laughter. The food choices, the clothing, the smells around the house, the TV programmes we watched together. Small things. Enormous things. The list is endless.

    Just like grief.

    Some days I walk past her chair and barely notice it. Other days it stops me completely. I have never moved it. I don’t think I ever will.

    She needed to see me. I’m still here.

    –Anil J

  • A Walk That Changed My Day

    A Walk That Changed My Day

    There are walks you do to exercise, and walks that do something to you. Runnymede was the second kind.

    A Promise to Myself

    After I was discharged from hospital following my Covid illness in early 2021, I made myself a promise: I was going to get my life back. That promise started with walking. Not dramatic, long-distance walking — just putting one foot in front of the other and seeing where it took me.

    I took on a challenge to complete 31 days of walking ten thousand steps a day, and along the way I started discovering what the National Trust has quietly looked after for all of us — beautiful places tucked away in the English countryside, waiting to be found. I had no idea how many there were on my doorstep.

    Runnymede and Ankerwyke was one of them.

    Where History Meets the River

    Runnymede is a meadow on the banks of the River Thames, between Windsor and Staines in Surrey. It is where the Magna Carta was sealed on 15th June 1215 — and if you’re not sure what that means, don’t worry, I had to remind myself too. The Magna Carta was the document that established, for the first time, that even a king had to obey the law. It was the beginning of the rights and freedoms we take for granted today. That it happened here, on this quiet stretch of English meadow, is something I find remarkable every time I think about it.

    Standing on that ground puts your own troubles into perspective. At least it did for me.

    The Walk Itself

    The National Trust has done a really good job here. The paths are solid, the signage is clear, and everything is accessible — which mattered to me at that point, still getting my breath back after months of illness.

    One of the routes follows the River Thames, and it is genuinely lovely. Houseboats moored along the bank, small yachts going about their business, the occasional larger vessel passing through. And always the sound of the water — constant, unhurried, completely indifferent to whatever is going on in your life. I found that oddly comforting.

    The River Thames at Runnymede
    The River Thames at Runnymede — constant, unhurried, and oddly comforting

    Further along, the hard paths give way to grass and natural trails through the park itself. Wide open skies, big old trees, birds making a proper noise all around you. There’s a café too, and washrooms, and a large car park which makes the whole thing very accessible. But I’m getting ahead of myself — that’s not what I remember about this walk.

    The Moment That Stayed With Me

    What I remember is sitting down on a bench at the river’s edge. Close enough to the water that I could have trailed a hand in it.

    The birds carried on above me. A pair of swans went past and couldn’t have cared less that I was there. The river kept moving. And for the first time in a long time — after Covid, after losing my wife, after months of just trying to get through each day — I felt something close to peace.

    Nothing was fixed that day. I wasn’t suddenly better. But I didn’t need to be. I just had to sit there, by the water, and breathe.

    What It Has Given Me Since

    I’ve been back to Runnymede several times now. Each visit gives me something slightly different — sometimes it’s a clearer head, sometimes it’s just the pleasure of being outside and moving. What I’ve come to understand is that walking does something for the mind that it’s hard to get any other way. The rhythm of it, the fresh air, the simple fact of going somewhere — it breaks up the worry and the grief that can otherwise fill every quiet moment.

    Runnymede has become one of those places I go when I need to remember that the world is bigger than whatever is troubling me. I didn’t know that on my first visit. I just went for a walk.

    The twelve juror chairs at Runnymede
    The twelve juror chairs at Runnymede — a reminder of the Magna Carta’s enduring legacy

    Go and Find Your Own Place

    If you haven’t been to Runnymede, I’d say go. Take the river path, find a bench, sit for a bit. You don’t need a particular reason. Just a comfortable pair of shoes and a willingness to slow down.

    And if you already have a place like this — somewhere that helps you breathe more easily or think more clearly — I’d love to hear about it in the comments. These places matter more than we sometimes realise. Someone reading this might be looking for exactly what you’ve already found.

    — Anil

  • Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

    Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

    A comment by my daughter made me think.

    During many discussions about life in general, subjects crop up that many people do not want to talk about. One that is common is Death!

    I turned 70 this year.Hurrah! Taking into account all the things that life has thrown at me, making it upto here has been a journey.

    So will I make it to 80? That started a discussion in the kitchen, mug of tea in hand and thoughts of what the future could bring. Well, a war started and that alone has put question marks on where we’ll all be in 10 years.That question alone is a I know where I want to be, what I need to finish doing and the big question of health.

    I see challenges ahead, not insurmountable but never the less, still there. My daughter saw me with a backpack, two trekking sticks , wearing a windbreaker and my favourite woolly hat atop a mountain, no less!

    Did I see that? The picture yes but in reality I was holding a mug of tea.Sitting atop a breakfast chair in the kitchen Maybe, I’ll get the tealeaves read. That will surely predict my future!!

  • Where I Am Now — A Health Update

    Where I Am Now — A Health Update

    Some of you have been with me since the very beginning of this blog. You followed my New Beginnings diary in early 2022, when I set out to reverse my diabetes and lose weight following Dr Mosley’s 8-week blood sugar diet. You cheered me on through the 1 Million Steps Challenge for Diabetes UK. You read about the Covid isolation ward, the breathlessness, the slow walk back to fitness.

    And then I went quiet.

    So I think you deserve an honest update. Here’s where things stand.

    The diabetes

    I have been a diabetic since 1992 — over thirty years now. When I started the New Beginnings diary, my blood sugar levels were not where they needed to be and my weight had crept up to 95kg. I set myself the goal of getting to 85kg and bringing those numbers under control.

    I successfully maintained my weight, achieving a level of 90 kgs that my doctor deems acceptable. While my blood sugar levels initially fluctuated, I established a routine that stabilized them. My HbA1c readings are now within the range that doctors consider to be in acceptable control. I’m pleased with this progress, and I consistently work to keep my glucose levels in check. Adopting a healthy, high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet has been a key factor in my success. I also commit to exercising daily, even if it’s just for thirty minutes. These health challenges certainly keep me proactive and engaged in my well-being.

    The walking

    Walking became my medicine after Covid. What started as circuits around the living room — genuinely, just walking from the lounge to the kitchen and back — became 10,000 steps a day, then a million steps for Diabetes UK, then regular outings with the Windsor and District Ramblers through the most beautiful corners of Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Hampshire.

    I left the Ramblers about two years ago to go on my adventure abroad, but I kept up with my daily walks and soaked in all the nature around me. My favourite walks happen in the gorgeous Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, and I can’t help but feel so happy every time I’m there. Whenever I visit my sister, I make sure to take in those stunning views because Canada is just so beautiful and clean. The walking trails and paths that zigzag through the estates and beyond are like a dream for any nature fan. Recently, I had an awesome time doing a circular walk from Cooper’s Hill in Englefield Green, taking in the amazing Runnymede meadows, the beautiful River Thames, and checking out three incredible memorials: the John F. Kennedy Memorial, the Magna Carta Memorial, and the Air Forces Memorial. When I need some alone time to think, I love wandering around the peaceful Runnymede meadows, where every step makes me feel more relaxed.

    The general health picture

    Overall I am in a better place than I have been for many years. The combination of walking, eating well and staying active has made a real difference. I still manage my diabetes daily — it never fully goes away — but it no longer runs my life the way it once did.

    What’s next

    I’m back to writing regularly — or at least, that’s the intention! I have stories to tell, walks to share, and plenty more to say about the ongoing business of keeping body and mind in reasonable working order as the years tick by.

    If you’ve been here from the start, thank you for sticking around. If you’re new — welcome. Pull up a chair and stay a while.

    — Anil

  • Six Years On — Life After Loss

    Six Years On — Life After Loss

    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