'I take my dead husband to work'
Sunday 10th May 2009
It was just a run-of-the-mill trip to my local Tesco. As I steered the trolley up the tinned fruit aisle, then down past the cereals, I kept up a running commentary for my husband, David. 'Have we run out of washing-up liquid, love?' I asked. Silence. 'Oh look, it's buy one, get one free,' I said, before picking up two and dropping them in the trolley. There wasn't so much as a bored sigh from David.Not that I expected one, mind you. David's dead. Don't worry, his body wasn't stretched out in my trolley as I trotted to the checkout. That would be just weird. But he was still with me in the supermarket. And the cinema, in the car, at the hairdresser, on the bus, or anywhere else I went. I keep his ashes in a little wooden box in my handbag, and have done ever since he died back in October 2006. Why? Because I couldn't do without him. He'd been my husband, my best friend and my soulmate, ever since we'd met six years before on a dating website.
I'd been born with cerebral palsy, which affected my walking, and it usually put men off. So I'd been terrified when, after emailing for two months, David and I had arranged to meet in the bar of The Hermitage Hotel, in Morecambe. What if he does a runner as soon as he sees my Zimmer frame? I'd panicked. Thankfully, I needn't have worried. When he'd turned up, with his blonde hair and big blue eyes, his face had broken out into a kind smile. 'I've got arthritis, so I understand what you go through,' he'd said. We'd spent the evening talking non-stop, and by the time we'd hugged goodbye, I'd felt like I'd known David forever. After that, things moved quickly. We'd moved in together within two months and got married at St Mary's Church, Oadby, Leicestershire, the following year. And we'd quickly realised that we weren't a couple who liked time apart. We worked in separate places, me as a secretarial support assistant and him as a teacher, but we might as well have been joined at the hip on our days off. 'What shall we do?' David would ask when we got up on a Saturday morning. 'Trip to the shops?' I'd reply. 'Yes, and a meal after,' he'd smile. If we weren't out shopping, we'd be snuggling up on the settee watching Coronation Street. The only blot on our happy landscape was David's health.
We'd been married for five years when, in 9 October 2006, I woke up in the early hours to see David clutching his throat, a look of utter terror in his eyes. 'I can't breathe,' he gasped. 'You're going to be fine,' I said, rubbing his back to try to keep him calm as I dialled 999. But when the paramedics arrived, he turned blue and started shaking. 'He's fitting,' one of the paramedics explained. 'No David, please!' I screamed, as they pulled me away from him and took me into the hall. Slumped on the carpet, my stomach churned as I listened to the paramedics shouting over David's rasping breaths. Next thing I knew, one of them was trying to help me up. 'I'm afraid we couldn't save your husband,' he said gently. All I could do was scream. How could my David be dead? He was only 42, for heaven's sake. He'd suffered a heart attack, as a result of complications caused by the arthritis. I couldn't believe it. Even when I sat on our bed talking to his lifeless body for the next two hours, it didn't really sink in. 'I love you, darling,' I said, stroking his cold hand. I couldn't bear to watch when the undertakers took him away.
In the days that followed, I couldn't get my head round the fact he was gone forever. He's just popped to the shops, I'd tell myself. He'll be back in a bit. After the funeral, at Gilrose crematorium, I had an idea. 'I don't want to scatter or bury David's ashes,' I told a woman who worked there. 'I want to bring him home.' 'Lots of people do that,' she nodded. 'You could keep the urn in your living room.' 'I'd like to take him out with me,' I said. 'Of course,' she said, and handed me a small wooden box. 'Put some of the ashes in there and you can take David with you wherever you want.' Back home, I kept most of David's ashes in a wicker urn in the living room and talked to him as I sat watching telly after work. But it was the little box that really kept me going. I'd been having trouble sleeping since David's death so, two weeks after he died, I held the wooden box in my hand as I lay in bed. 'It's like you're here with me again, David,' I whispered. That night, I drifted off in no time. A few days later, I had an important meeting at work. Usually, David would have given me a pep talk over breakfast, but obviously, he couldn't do that now so, instead, I picked up the box of ashes and popped it into my bag. When I walked into the office, I put my hand on my bag and smiled confidently. For the next few days, I took David's box into work with me, but kept him in my bag, too embarrassed to take him out. A week later, though, I felt like I needed a boost to get me through the day, so I whipped him out and put him on my desk. 'What's that?' a workmate asked. 'David,' I said, before launching into an explanation. 'You don't mind do you?' She shook her head. 'Not at all,' she said, forcing a smile. 'Does it creep you out?' I asked. 'Of course not,' she said. 'It's nice for you to have him close.'
Word soon got round the office and before long, people wouldn't just say hello to me in the mornings, they'd talk to David too. 'Morning Alicia,' my colleague Michelle Alexander, 23, said. 'Morning David.' At my next big meeting, I proudly carried David in with me and held him under the table as I talked. It made all the difference and, before long, he went everywhere with me. When I went to Dixons to buy a laptop, I imagined how excited he'd have been, as he'd always loved gadgets, and he helped me through no end of social gatherings. 'You don't mind do you?' I asked my friend Suzanne Wallace, 25, putting David on the table as we sat down for her birthday meal at The Foxhunter Pub, in Enderby, Leicestershire. 'He's very welcome,' she smiled. On David's birthday, a group of us went to The Old Vicarage pub in Leicester to mark the day. David had his own place at the table, next to me. Yes, I felt sad looking at the empty chair, but it was good to know he was there in spirit. I've been carrying my dead husband around with me for nearly two-and-a-half years now, and I don't care if people think I'm crazy. Nothing will ever make up for losing David, so he's staying here, right by my side. I wouldn't want him anywhere else.