Someone died

Someone died this morning. (November 3).

Thorsen* was a local bloke, good at figures, and a lifelong resident of our town. Subtext: he was passionate about all things local history and was a font of knowledge for many of we younger residents trying to fill in the gaps between gossip and long-forgotten memories.

I saw Thorsen and his wife Hilda* only a couple of days ago. He tooted on his car horn, and his wife waved cheerfully at the passenger window, a happy message, just for me. The warmth of the modest greeting stayed with me for hours.

I won’t be able to tell him how this cheered me up. And, if I tell her, she’ll be overcome by a tidal wave of grief at the loss, and will hardly remember what I say. I know this. I’ve been there.

For her, the one “left behind”, there is now a “before” and an “after”. Before Thorsen died. After Thorsen died. This is how she will start to landmark her life.

And there will be that jolt in the middle. That moment when she found him asleep. Eternally sleeping.

Thorsen’s morning walk to pick up the newspaper, only a half-hour earlier, was normal, part of that comfortable “before”. Neither Thorsen, nor Hilda, knew their final few minutes of normal life were unfolding.

The ambulances, the blank looks, the disbelief, the shock, all become that morass of “after”, of the new normal. Hilda, without inkling or expectation, has joined that unspoken club of widows whose husbands have died without any final words. There are no video cameras, no scripts, no directors to call “cut” as the movie plays out to a terrible ending. There is only the bewilderment, the loss, the grief, the self-blame.

I am still trying to get over my own stumble from the “before” to the “after”. I am still stuck on that horrible jolt in the middle, where the “before” occurred only moments before the “after” started; when my husband collapsed and died in my arms. I am stuck on the guilt of what I might have and should have done at that moment when “before” ended.

Our community is wonderful, and it will surely fold its caring arms around Hilda and her family, that was also Thorsen’s family.

He was a gentle constant to us all. He reminded us, again, and over, how important it was to look after our heritage and our history. We duly recorded information in that lackadaisical way of younger people with time to spare.

But here’s the truth. We have no time to spare. Not many of us choose when our “after” will start.

Thorsen is now in that condition of “At Rest”, or “Eternal Life”, or “At Peace”. He is beyond our knowledge. Hilda is the vulnerable one, as she comes to terms with living in the shadow of Thorsen’s “after”. Thorsen was not no-one; he was someone who will be missed very much.

* not their real names.