It’s twelve months today since we lost Irene. Doesn’t seem like it. It’s weird how time goes. In the year since she went David’s illness has resolved (although with recurrences occasionally), he managed to develop labryinthitis which made him move like Brundlefly (much to my amusement), Bernard lost not only his much beloved wife but also a pet (some people may wonder how I can compare the two but animal lovers that Bernard and Irene are and were, a pet was as much a family member as you or I) and of course the wedding of David and myself.
I made a speech at the wedding, remembering Irene, how much fun she would’ve had (although I strongly suspect she may have complained about the loudness of the music), how sadly she was missed and how I knew that I had her approval. I made a lot of people cry with my few unscripted words about this lady.
I’d complain about her to David at times; especially how she spoke to Bernard but David would just tell me that it was just how they were, Bernard loved Irene deeply and it showed as time and illness got the better of her. The time I spent with him at the hospital when Irene was taken in for what would be the last time gave me such insight to their relationship. He adored her. He was patient with her when in her confused state she demanded to know why he wasn’t at work, I saw him cry when she said horrible, nasty things to him, not just snipping at him (caused by lack of oxygen to the brain – hypoxia) and the devastation her death caused him.
A year on, we all still miss her. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her, possibly complaining about something Bernard had said or done, more often than not though when her and Bernard used to come and visit David and me on Tuesday evenings, she was funny, sharp, caring and very loving.
We don’t have a grave or a plot to go to to remember Irene. Well, nowhere close (we scattered her in Somerset on North Hill; her favourite place in the world), so we’re going out for dinner tonight to remember her. Nothing fancy, she wasn’t that kind and neither are we. Just to the pub up the road where we can sit and chat about everything and nothing, and think of her the whole time. I’ll raise a glass; this one’s for you Irene.