TRAVELLING WITH GRIEF — A SOLO FLIGHT

Heather Cameron

Here I was, standing in the check-in queue, about to take an overseas trip. For the first time in more than 30 years, I was travelling without a friend, or a partner, or a child. I was alone.

My world had turned upside down two years previously when, two months post diagnosis, my partner died of a rare and virulent cancer. One minute we were happily making plans for our retirement, the next I was a shocked and confused widow.

Making sense of my legal and financial responsibilities highlighted the bigger challenge confronting me: that of life on my own. I had to learn to do solo all those things I had approached as half of a truly loving couple. Fortunately I had many interests and a job I enjoyed. My wonderfully supportive children, friends and colleagues stood by me as I travelled along this painful journey. I don't think I was good at asking for help, but I could always rely on having a good listener. I was, in fact, managing.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross taught us that the phases of grief are shock, denial, anger and acceptance. I recognised shock and acceptance, but could not identify denial or anger. I have asked others in my situation about their grief. They used words such as: being cheated, irritation, confusion, pain, loss and regret. Many of us did our grieving when driving alone in the car: 'It's a great place to cry without being seen, or causing a scene' as one person put it.

I still feel most alone at night (especially on Fridays)—unable to talk or plan or share my feelings with the person to whom I had told everything. I am not alone in this. Those I spoke to talked of the loneliness of the night times and, as one friend said, of 'the need to fill up the traditional family times'. They all talked of their determination to manage and make the best of things, and of being too tired and preoccupied to plan anything further than the day itself. Some spoke of how, for some reason, they felt 'worth less' – less of a person.

At times I experienced an insidious sense of being invisible—a person who could say things and not be heard, be present yet not be noticed. Did those close to me observe this? I had no idea. It was demoralising, and at these times I struggled to make the simplest decisions. I had to make myself do things.

There was a point, however, at which I decided I had had enough of being tired and sleepless with endless thoughts and lists buzzing around in my head. I realised that I had an overwhelming desire to regain control of my life. I needed to make time and space to restore order, be alone, learn how to live with aloneness and even enjoy it.

It was not easy, but a cup of tea, a cryptic crossword and a good book at night were good incentives to relax and sleep. It worked. Less tired, I started to make simple, achievable lists of tasks rather than being constantly overwhelmed by a sense of failure.

As my head cleared, I began to test the world beyond the familiar but anaesthetised one I had been living in. A grief counsellor described this as beginning to regain independence after being in the childlike or shocked state that grief places you into. A friend described the feeling as 'having to move forward'.

So what prompted me to travel? Aside from the plethora of well-meant advice, deep down I knew there was something I wanted to do.

I wanted to give my husband's mother a hug, to cry with her and to tell her that her son loved her. She is in her 90s, frail and blind, with little English. To do this I needed to go to her, to Denmark.

I took the plunge and booked my flights. This decision necessitated some immediate decisions: how much leave to take, where to go and what to do. The first two I managed, the latter was much harder. Grief for me has been like a roller coaster journey of peaks and troughs: energy then uncertainty. Uncertainty, unfortunately, heralds the return of indecision! Suddenly I would be back in an emotional hiatus. My energy would ebb away. My plans would grind to a halt.

Imagine not being excited about a holiday overseas! It never occurred to me that it was not nearly so much fun planning a trip by myself, I just felt a wimp (to quote a friend who had also experienced those unpleasant feelings of worthlessness).

Having the inward resolve but lacking the emotional energy was confusing. I had, after all, got this far and I did have a very particular reason for going. It became a battle of wills within me—to stay in my comfort zone or do what I wanted to do.

Gradually I learnt to recognise the signs and understand that I had to strike and parry! Strike with the energy and parry with the uncertainty.

In the good periods I was busy on the phone and the internet. I studied maps and thought of possibilities. I acknowledged to myself that I did not want to 'do the tourist thing'. I wanted to relax, spread my wings a little (but not too much) and visit a few particular places and people. Slowly, about a month before, a plan began to form.

My first stop was to be Bangkok and friends had organised for me to be picked up from the airport and driven to their apartment. I made contact with my partner's relatives in Denmark, and arranged to meet a close friend in Copenhagen where we would stay with her sister. I even decided to extend my trip and arranged a surprise visit to my own family in the UK.

I would describe myself in this period as being in a state of expectancy, rather than excitement. However, in the end I simply no longer had time to think! The day I left, my overloaded brain was on automatic pilot. (It let me down for when I unpacked I found some quite extraordinary choices and omissions!) Blissfully unaware that I had been given the wrong departure time, I rocked up with my daughter to the airport to discover I was the last person to check in, with less than 45 minutes before takeoff. There was no time for dithering; I was on the plane before I knew it. Fast asleep for 90 per cent of the flight, I flew across the continent in an exhausted heap.

I am so proud I was able to say to my friends in Bangkok that I did not need the bright lights, that a little local sightseeing would be fine. They didn't mind a bit! We added shopping to this list, and had fun in the markets replenishing my rather odd wardrobe. This week was a wonderful oasis where I could begin to pour some nourishment into the empty well of my soul. I understood clearly the expression 'to be restored'.

A traveller's view of Copenhagen.

Next Copenhagen, where I was glad to be met by my close friend. Thanks to her, I was able to reconnect with my mother-in-law, and when my limited Danish failed she was able to fill in the gaps. Handing back to the mother the love of her son gave me the closure I so much desired. It was cathartic, and I felt a peace of mind that had previously eluded me.

I could feel myself gradually turning around, rediscovering that I enjoyed independence. I realised that this was one of the things my partner really liked in me—the fact that I was independent. I remembered that the love and respect I had received from him was a gift that could never be taken away. Accepting that I was no less a person if I could not do everything I set out to do was importan. It was like relearning my adolescence.

Finally I went home to the UK, into the heart of my own family. I had a sensation of being a hibernating animal waking from a stupor. This was the moment when I could check that I was not a diminished being. Just as my family were the people I knew and loved, so was I the person they knew and loved. And dare I say respected?

In retrospect I see that this journey was about my need to reclaim my self.

I am grateful to my friends for sharing so openly their personal journeys and insights. They helped me to reach back into the sanctuary of my soul to discover where else I had been on my journey of the last two years. As one of them said of grief: 'I don't think you ever really get through it, but you become very comfortable with it'.