I’ve just had an email from a dear, 80-year-old cousin in London. It reads:
“Dear Myra, I am so sad and sorry to tell you my darling George has died. My heart is breaking. It was a struggle in the end, but at least he doesn’t have to suffer any more. Myra, I loved him so much, he was my rock and my only love ever. Will I ever get over it, does the pain ever go away!”
I wrote back:
“Dear Helen, The hurt and pain never goes away, but it changes. You will weep, but you will laugh again, eat with relish again and make your life have a meaning again, I promise. When Ronnie lay ill, Helen, he told me to ‘get on with life’ because I’ve had a wonderful innings.”
The irony to this story is, when she married George, her mother, my aunty Esther, all but had a nervous breakdown. Not only wasn’t he Jewish, he wasn’t even English!