Well now, here we are, in a section of the forum I've not been to before, I don't think. Would have been like tempting fate. Only fate didn't need tempting, did it? Because my poor William's fate was sealed the day I realised he had dementia. And here we are, After dementia - dealing with loss. Like it or not. Last evening, I went to a small "do" in my brothers. His daughters were off to a Debs Ball, and my brother & his wife threw a - not exactly a party, but just had some food & drinks before the girls & their escorts left for the Ball. So we could all Oooh & Aaah over the dresses etc! And well worth the ooohing and aaahing they were too! Stunning girls, both of them, around 5' 10" tall! Anyway, there was everyone laughing, eating, drinking and I trying to join in. But feeling like I just wanted to go away by myself. Now, I've never been a party person. I don't "do" crowds. I'd rather sit in a corner and observe. But now? With William less than three weeks dead? Anyway, after an hour or so, a guest arrived who had heard the news - and came and said "So sorry to hear about your husband. How are you?" cue other guests looking shocked, and going "What? What? Oh my Gawd! I never heard! I'm so sorry! Are you ok? When did that happen?" etc. etc. and I had to make polite noises, then make my excuses and leave. Someone said to me the other day that years ago, a new widow wore solid black for a year, and while in some ways there were too many restrictions in those days - she felt that that particular custom did have some merit. She said that it told people the position, without the widow being put in the position of having to explain, it stopped awkward situations, and it also meant that the widow was given the time and space to grieve because people had that visual reminder that she was grieving. In many ways, I think she is right. William is only three weeks dead on Monday - and already I feel people expect me to be "over it" and getting on with life. Particularly because I was so very much younger than he, there seems to be an assumption that it must be a relief to me. I'm sure his death is a relief to him, because his illness was a terrible burden to him, and the final frailty of not being able to walk - I think that just was too much for him to bear. But a relief to me? No. I've lost the only person in the whole world who's face would light up when he spotted me coming, from the far side of the Day Room in the Nursing Home. There are other people who love me - but there is no-one else to whom I mean so very much.