On bereavement

18 months ago my world turned upside down. I was in the gym and my phone was ringing, signalling the call you never want to receive. My husband had died. 

I am Head of an International School in Thailand. My husband was Indonesian, and had been visiting our home in Bali. We have a son, who was 13 years old at the time. In an adrenaline filled haze of shock, I managed to get me and my son over to Bali as quickly as possible. My husband was Muslim and so would usually be buried within 24 hours of his death. Fortunately his family waited for us to arrive. They waited for us to arrive not only from Thailand, a long enough journey, but then to also travel from Bali to Java where he is from. 

There were no decisions to make, and I was grateful for that.  No decisions on hymns, readings, flowers and caskets that had to be made for my mother several years ago. He was buried with a peaceful, and beautiful, simple ceremony in the graveyard in the village. He is buried between two durian trees. “He’s won,” said my sister-in-law with a broad grin. My in-laws were well aware that I did not welcome this famously smelly fruit into our house, or even the car. Every time I visit him, I see the durian trees and smile. 

My husband is from the Osing community, an indigenous community in East Java. Their beliefs are a mixture of Islam, Animism, and Hinduism. There is a calm acceptance of death with a belief that our dead loved ones come and visit. Graves are tended, with regular watering with petals for the spirit of the deceased. I won't pretend to know or understand any of this, but this peaceful approach to death has definitely helped me and my son.

We were in Indonesia for about a week, and I was off work for about 10 days.The school community that I had been a part of for just over a year, was incredibly supportive. However, this support system was made up of  people I was working with, people who had only known me for a short while. There was a momentary urge to go “home”, to run away from everything and go to England to be with my sisters and close friends. Of course I did not act on it: I have not lived in England since 1998. I suppose this was a fight or flight response. Flight did not win. I stayed where I am settled, where I have a good job in a super school with a supportive community. More importantly I stayed where my  son was enjoying school and had made good friends.

Support came not only from the school community, but also surprisingly from social media. Somehow the algorithms knew I was widowed and I started seeing posts from widow support groups. Incredibly helpful in that they validated how I was feeling and the complexities of grief and widowhood. Those Facebook memories that pop up every now and then were, at first, a little difficult to look at, but soon became something I looked forward to seeing. We usually only post the positive things that happen in our lives, we post the joy. Seeing those older posts somehow helped to keep his memory alive. 

Life, as they say, goes on. I am coming to terms with my new normal as a widow, as a single mum, and as a headteacher. I was not at all prepared for this, none of us are, so I am learning every day. One thing I have learned is how important it is for us (my son and I) to keep talking about his dad. To bring him up in conversation, to keep him in our story. Death is a strange beast and people don't know how to respond. I have learned to understand that, and realise that by bringing my husband up in conversation, I give permission for others to do the same. 

I have learned that grief is exhausting, physically as well as mentally. I have learned that for me it has meant a temporary withdrawal from large social events and public speaking. I have learned to allow myself to withdraw when I need to. Writing this all down is a first step for me to dip a toe in society again. I am looking forward to slowly finding my way back into the world, taking on the things I have stepped back from. 

My husband is forever part of my life, I will not move on from his loss, but am working out who I am now. Eighteen months on, I am not the person I was before that phone call, and that is OK. My son and I are living life, remembering his dad and the joy he brought to everyone. The physical may be gone but his  spirit lives on.