What are you worrying about?

In Primo Levi's account of his time in Auschwitz, "If this is a man", he writes:

For human nature is such that grief and pain - even simultaneously suffered - do not add up as a whole in our consciousness, but hide, the lesser behind the greater, according to a definite law of perspective. It is providential and is our means of surviving in the camp. And this is the reason why so often in free life one hears it said that man is never content. In fact it is not a question of a human incapacity for a state of absolute happiness, but of an ever-insufficient knowledge of the complex nature of the state of unhappiness; so that the single name of the major cause is given to all its causes, which are composite and set out in an order of urgency. And if the most immediate cause of stress comes to an end, you are greviously amazed to see that another one lies behind; and in reality a whole series of others.

So that as soon as the cold, which throughout the winter had seemed our only enemy, had ceased, we became aware of our hunger, and repeating the same error, we now say: "If it was not for the hunger!....'

I look back now to just before Jen was diagnosed, almost three years ago, and reflect on our worries. At the time interest rates were high, and household finances were tight, so we were just about to sell our second car, and worrying about how we'd reorganise to allow this. Then Jen was diagnosed with breast cancer, and financial worries were eclipsed. Soon after that, the global financial crisis began to bite, and interest rates dropped about as rapidly as our estimates of Jen's life expectancy.

Throughout the ten months leading up to Jen's death, our worries revolved around medical decisions, tumour growth, and the prospects of how the boys and I would cope without Jen. In the face of other issues, we would often say to one another "Well it's not life threatening". Some deadlines we'd just let pass - Secundus didn't complete one school project because neither of us had the energy to get him to work on it. Even my job, which could be seen as 'saving the planet' science, receded in importance, though I was extremely grateful for the kindness and flexibility of my boss.

Now after two years without Jen, our worries are closer to normal - finding time to do homework and music practice, remembering to pack sports clothes for special events etc. Below the immediate, I'm still keeping a watch on how we are expressing or not expressing our grief. But I think we all retain a sense of the fragility of life. The evening before I was due to go away overnight, Secundus was worrying about me having an accident. He said "I have to embrace the possibility that bad things can happen".

Jen was a great planner, especially of holidays. Occasionally we'd even talk about something we might do together when I'd retired, or when the boys were grown up - say visit Paris together. Now that seems naive. My sister, who worked for some years in east Africa, commented that people there don't talk very much about what they'll do next year or in five years, because accidents and disease are so prevalent. I know that a simple phone call or a visit to the doctor could turn my life upside down again. The challenge for me is to keep worry in perspective: to be thankful for every day that I'm given, and yet live in hope for the future.