There lurking somewhere in my abdomen is something suspicious. I think it is anxiety trying to settle in for the winter. Anxiety in this moment of terrible transition is a disturbing, although appropriate feeling.

Solemnity descended on me like the holiday spirit descended on most people.

The holidays were a fit of celebration that I neither felt nor wanted. Thankfully, I have close friends who made sure I was with them, a little worried but mostly caring about me.

I did not attend bigger celebrations. I could not meaningfully participate. My mind, my heart were filled with pain, not joy.

Yet, Paul died in August nearly five months ago.

Given I had experienced so much, I did not expect the despair of grief to be as great as it was. I did not expect the holidays to be compounded by intense loneliness that could only be filled by Paul.

I did not expect to fall and feel so old.

Missing the turn

I fell forward onto the carpet. I was coming from the end of the dining table heading for the kitchen area. I am not sure how it happened; I was not paying attention and think my feet got mixed up making the curve.

I was not hurt but I was left with a disturbing sense that I had just been informed that I am in the part of old age in which I am not as agile and have to be more careful.

My sense of renewed caution fits well with grieving.

No other being that could help me up was or is in the house, although, our cat Maggie is doing her best to be useful. She will sit on the edge of the desk within reach of me while I am writing on the computer.

Maggie often taps me on the shoulder to remind me of something. My job is to figure out just what it is. Often, it is a signal to me to put something in her food bowl. Sometimes, she just wants me to know she is next to me.

Maggie is a comforting presence. Jolie, also our cat, is a more reality-oriented cat who seeks out creature comforts like a warm towel and full food bowl. Once her wants are fulfilled, she happily resumes her nap position.

After meeting the cats’ creature needs, I return to my grief reinforced by the loneliness of the drab winter weather we are experiencing.

During my years with Paul, a weather day like this would mean a cozy fire in the stove, us sitting and reading or talking together.

I have spent much time this winter processing memories of scenes that will never be repeated. My task is to keep those memories but to replace the pain with the warm memories of our love and years of happiness.

But I am to be forgiven during the days and months of “firsts” that must occur before cherished memories can replace the pain of loss – the first Christmas, the first anniversary, the first birthdays, and the first of many dinners alone.

The first holiday season will be over by the time others read this column.

Missing the man

I have been reading more about grief in addition to attending “grief groups.” Grief, as we know, is a natural response to separation and loss. The length and intensity of grieving following separation caused by a person’s death is individual depending on culture, relationship, dependency and our individual selves.

Intensity, by which I mean to what degree of involvement, depends upon how much lives were intertwined in each level of life – type and length of union and degrees of emotional, social, and economic dependency.

Paul and I were together 54 years, 52 of which we were married. The difference in our ages – Paul was 16 years older than I – forecast that I would one day be alone.

Frankly, we did not think we would have 45 years together.

We had 54 and I have the joy of having that many years of memories.

However sad I am, which feels enormous at this moment, Paul and I had more time together than most couples.

I am left with both the sadness and strength of the gift of so many years.

And I share the last of the story with you who have followed this part of the Bertha and Paul story that it is in feeling and fact a story of a very long love affair of which the sad and inevitable end is a small part.

We always felt lucky. I still do.

Bertha Cooper, an award-winning featured columnist with the Sequim Gazette spent her career years in health care and is the author of the award-winning “Women, We’re Only Old Once.” Cooper and her husband lived in Sequim for 26 years. Now widowed, Cooper continues to live in the area she has grown to love. Reach her at columnists@sequimgazette.com.