Letter to the Dead

In Val McDermid's book 'Killing the Shadows', her protagonist is Professor Fiona Cameron, an academic psychologist. It emerges that Fiona had a sister who was murdered years before. In the last chapter is a letter that Fiona writes to her dead sister after the case is closed. Books on grief often suggest the technique of writing a letter to the person who has gone, but I found this fictional version to be powerfully emotional. So this year I've made an intermittent attempt to write Jen such a letter.

My earlier blog on 'conversations with the dead' concerned itself with the things I say to Jen every day, that I would say now if she were here. The letter contains instead the deeper reflections, perspectives that are harder to see from inside a relationship. Mostly that is thanks - I wouldn't at all say that I took Jen for granted, but it's only now she's gone that I appreciate how much she gave to our lives. Sometimes it's easier in marriage to say 'I love you' than 'thank you'. Some of the letter is to express my regrets and confess my mistakes both then and now, and even to vent my frustrations.

Is the letter anything more than a psychological trick? It certainly helps to deal with the thoughts that echo inside my head by giving them concrete expression. I'm sure it would be useful in some cases with someone who is estranged from the writer but still alive. Yet since I believe Jen's ultimate existence is not over, there is still a conversation ahead of us, and the letter for me looks forward to that day.

This blog is one that I've long hesitated to write, because I couldn't decide whether to include anything of the letter itself. In the end I've cut out sections for reasons of privacy (admittedly some quite large sections), but retained the rest.

Dear Jen,

You always wanted more letters from me - in fact I have a box that you left that contained all of them. In my defence of course, the reason I wrote infrequently was that we were never apart for very long. Now it's been more than two years, and I've only just found the necessary words, but here's one more letter for the collection. It's a bit of an odd one, because you're dead and can't appreciate the prose, but I do think we'll talk about it one day.

Speaking of letters, I do sometimes wish you'd written me a farewell letter to keep, but your final decline was so rapid that it made a mockery of our plans. It was heart-breaking enough watching you write a last birthday card for Secundus as you were fading in and out. I know you didn't get to read 'The Time Traveller's Wife', but I found Henry's last letter to Clara very moving, especially in the way that he wants her to be free to keep living. Instead I can only project what you might have wanted for me, knowing your love. In the end it's all theoretical, and I must go on choosing (as carefully as I can) what seems best for myself and the boys, sticking to our principles but accepting the need for compromise. I can't know if you'd approve but I hope you'd understand.

I think you wanted to know that we'd miss you, and we have every day. Sometimes I'll admit it's just the stark and pragmatic reality of our lives and the loss of what you did for us, but I keep missing the simple intimacies -- a hug when I get home, or an evening with books in the lounge room, when we'd sometimes stop to read out striking passages to the other. The three of us miss you deeply in our own way -- Secundus is more heartbreakingly explicit in his grief, as you'd expect. I can only comfort him and tell him that I miss you too, that grief is about love (and so it's OK to be sad), and that you're in good hands now. He knows we may meet again, but for him the stretch of years seems inconceivably long to wait. Even for me it could be almost as long as I've lived already.

If we've missed you, you too have missed a lot now. When I see Secundus playing tennis with that fierce determination of his (you didn't see that set in the semi-final when they came back and won from 5-1 down), or Primus practising for hours on the electric guitar, when I celebrate their achievements and victories, or try to encourage them in the moments of disappointment or defeat, I remember you again and wish you could share it. Primo Levi wrote in 'The Truce' (his memoir of his journey home from Auschwitz) of how hard it was to experience uncontaminated happiness, and I know that it's rarely possible for me to find it.

None of that is your fault. If you'd found the primary tumour earlier, we might have had more time, but I don't put any faith in that. We went over it many times together - you didn't do anything wrong, you went for a scan as soon as you noticed. There's no one for me to be angry with, least of all you. I wanted to say, but didn't, that if I'd known at the beginning we'd have just fifteen good years, almost sixteen, and two sons, I would still have married you without a moment's regret. I just would have treasured the days more than I did, more as we did in your last ten months.

So we're living with the huge void of your absence in our lives. I confess I've tried to find ways to fill the void in empty evenings, principally through too much tea and chocolate, too many hours on the telephone and too many books (if that's possible). I suppose there are worse options, but I've made a few mistakes already. I've run more than I should, but it's kept me sane and a bit healthier. Thanks again for your years of support in that domain, and indeed for your unstinting dedication to supporting each of us in what we loved. I've come to see it now as one of your greatest gifts.

I also wanted to say thanks for your last week with us. That probably seems odd, since it was such a difficult time, marred by pain, confusion, tiredness and medication. But I'm so proud of the way that you managed, those moments of grace even as you 'stumbled all the way'. I see now your true colours. On whatever day it is when I'm dying, if I have the privilege of time to face it, I know I'll be remembering your example and your faith.

In the years that are now growing between us, we've been faring erratically, but it could be much worse. Divorce has been rougher on some families than death for been for us. You know the handful of promises I made, and I'm pleased to be able to say that I've kept them. Not of all of them have I kept as perfectly as I'd like -- the dog doesn't get walked as much as she should, but she's impressed whenever it does happen. Beyond that are things that I know you wanted but I couldn't promise. I don't always know if you'd still want the same if you could see us now, so I carry the flame as best I can. But don't worry - we've had help all through, especially the passionate support and love of a few people. You'll immediately know who they are, apart from one or two who are new, but you'd thank them too if you could. I'm sad that you can't meet them. Your family too have been incredible in their continuing dedication to all of us. We're going to be all right - still at times sad and damaged - but good enough, 'cast down but not destroyed'.

When I started this blog almost three years ago, you read each entry before I posted it, and suggested the odd change. As I've gone on writing it without you, I still have a sense of your perspective as I review each entry before clicking on 'publish'. In one way and another, I've been writing to you all the time. Goodbye again,

Love maritus.