14th Sep2011

by Dutchcloggie

I am aware of the fact that regular readers of this blog may think I am depressed most of the time and crying lots. That is not the case. Yes I cry frequently and when I feel down, the blog is where I go. Either to write so I can sort through my emotions, or because I want to write a letter to Jane.

It seems that the only thing that makes me cry is a direct memory of something we did together. I don’t seem to be in a permanent state of sadness but when something reminds me directly of something we did together, I am prone to crying unexpectedly. Don’t get me wrong, I am ALWAYS thinking about Jane. Every single second of the day, she’s on my mind. She is in everything I do. But that does not mean I am always sad or crying when her name is mentioned.

However, for you, dear reader, it can’t be interesting to read about every single time I cry when something reminds me of Jane. So, here is a round up of things that have made me cry.

Thursday: Tears at the car dealer
Whilst chatting about a possible new car (I am considering a smaller, cheaper and older car), a song came on. “You to me are everything” by The Real Thing. Not a special song as such but I used to sing the first line of the chorus to Jane, and she would then answer by singing the violin-riff after (Listen to the chorus on YouTube and you’ll understand) Even when Jane was very confused, we would stand in a cuddle, arms around each other and I would sing in her ear, and she would respond.


Whilst at the car dealer, the song came on the radio and I burst in to tears right away. The man was nice and did not recoil in horror because I had already told him Jane had died. I just asked him if we could continue the chat outside.

Monday: Tears at Doc Martin

I bought the DVD boxset of 4 series of Doc Martin. We had seen most of them years ago and even visited the place in Cornwall where they film it. I went back last month as well. In February, we sat at home, spending our days watching TV. We watched the entire boxset in about 2 weeks. Whenever they showed shots of Port Isaac, we used to smile at eachother and say: We were theeeere! Again, something we shared and loved. Together.
On Monday, the new series started. I was crying before the opening credits had even finished.

Wednesday: Australian tears
When we were in Scotland in January this year, the cottage had a collection of DVDs. One night we watched the film Australia. Jane did not seem to understand most of it but we sat together on the sofa, her legs across my lap and watched it from under a blanket. Together.
This afternoon I was watching TV and Film4 announced They will be screening Australia on Monday. I was instantly back in Scotland on the sofa with Jane.

And I cried. And cried. And cried. Not quite as much as I did in Cornwall but still…for about an hour. I looked at the photos from the Scotland trip. I looked at the Scotland video. Everytime when I closed my eyes and pictured us there together, I cried some more.

So as you can see, it is set off by very specific memories of things we did together. And usually only when I am reminded of things unexpectedly.

When I am crying, I feel extremely low and desperately bleak about a future without Jane. But as soon as I have stopped crying, somehow the fear of the future goes away. Just as well because it would be pretty rubbish to feel the deep despair all the time.

Interestingly, I seem to be much much more emotional when reminded of things Jane & I did when she was ill. I can think of our ski trips in 2006, 2007 and 2008 without any emotions at all. But recent memories are totally different. So let’s say from after March 2009. I think this is related to the fact that in that time, Jane became very depedant on me and our relationship changed completely, emotionally. It became a lot like having a permanently confused child. She was easy to please, easily happy with the simplest joys. She looked to me to make her feel safe and loved. And that is what I tried to do.

But no matter how much I loved her…it wasn’t enough to save her.

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