Tim and I went to The Ark, an animal rescue and homing centre in Ashbourne, to go to their open day. Him to poke through the second-hand books for his antiquarian bookshop, and me to look at the animals. Just look. And then we met RubyCat. A little five-month-old scrap of tortoiseshell kittenhood. And obviously we fell in love. We weren’t living together at this point, but I was due to go away to the US for work, and so Tim moved in for a couple of weeks to settle her in while I was away. And from that point on, they were inseparable. I always said that the shortest amount of recorded time was between Tim sitting down and Ruby leaping onto his lap Ruby triumphantly outlived the two resident cats, sleek black-and-white Dizzy and black housepanther Satchmo, and strutted around the house proclaiming her couch, her food bowl, her humans After Tim’s sudden death, Ruby was my comfort and my sidekick. She’d never been allowed into the bedroom at night before, but now when I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep she was curled up on me or at my back, and her purring soothed me. When Dee and her cat and dogs moved in, Ruby lived in my upstairs office during the day, sitting on my desk supervising, and tapping my hand when I didn’t pay her enough attention, and continued to sleep on me at night. Over the last few months she started to lose weight, become wobbly, and sleep even more, but she still ate and purred and jumped onto the bed. When she couldn’t jump onto my lap any more and started to fall over, and when the purr started to dim, I knew I had to be brave for both of us. I took her to the vet for the last time. I stroked her as she slipped away, and Dee held onto me. We will plant a ruby-coloured rose in the garden that Ruby looked out on from the high point of my office windowsill.
RubyCat’s loss is doubly hard, because it feels like I’m losing one of the last living links to Tim. I’m not sure that I believe in an afterlife, but if I do, I know that she will be leaping onto his lap the moment he sits down. Sleep well, little cat.
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“Losing a partner in a same-gender relationship is every bit as devastating as losing a husband or wife: you may experience all the same feelings as the surviving partner of a marriage or other heterosexual partnership… but can you count on the same support if you are lesbian or gay?” Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project leaflet (September 1988). Source: Wellcome Collectio In April 2024. I spent three amazing days looking through some of the the Switchboard LGBT+ archives from a few years in the 1980s, and found some incredible and heartbreaking stories. This is where I discovered the Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project, created by Dudley Cave. Cave, one of the original committee members of the London Gay Switchboard (now Switchboard LGBT+) and a regular telephone volunteer, spoke with LGBTQ+ people who had lost their partners grieving without support and being excluded from funerals, losing inheritances and facing eviction from joint homes. He created the Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project. The project was the first of its kind to be established in the UK, and the first organisation with ‘gay’ in the title to gain charitable status in the UK (despite pushback from the Charity Commissioners to change the name). The aim of the project was to give “support at a time when it might seem that all friends had deserted”, helping people right from the first few hours and days of a bereavement. This included practical help: finding a minister of religion or a secular officiant to look after the funeral (“someone who will understand and approve the love felt for the dead partner”), as well as registering the death and talking to funeral directors, (sourced from the Hendon Edgeware Independent, 2 February 1984). The snapshots of stories from the Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project and from the pages of the Switchboard logbooks talk about LGBTQ+ widowhood and anticipatory grief. Some are of their time, and tell of the homophobia and the legal challenges that were more common before civil partnership and same sex marriage. Because of this, Cave would recommend to all LGBTQ+ people that they should make wills and keep them up to date, name their partner as next of kin going into hospital, however short the stay or minor the procedure. Others are stories of heartbreak that mirror those of bereaved LGBTQ+ people today. The snapshots that follow are rewritten and anonymised. “My girlfriend and I were together for six years. When I arrived at her funeral her mother shouted at me, telling me that I had no right to be there. At the inquest of her suicide, they asked me if we had made love that day, and whether we had any ‘normal’ friends. My family told me that they were glad my partner was dead, and that perhaps I might now marry a good man and have his children. My mother even turned up at the door with a man, to fix me up on a date. At least work treated me well – I'm a teacher – they said I could take as long off as I wanted.” “My boyfriend – he was my teacher – died. I have no support as not everyone knows that I am gay. I feel really guilty about the age difference, and my friends and family aren’t giving me any support.” “My best friend has AIDS. I’ve already lost four friends in two years. I can’t cope. I don’t know whether I want to go on if everyone I love is dying.” “My partner has cancer of the bones. This is probably her last weekend. She just wants to talk but I am terrified – I can’t even stay in the same room as her. My Catholic parents say that her cancer is a punishment for us being lesbians, and that we will burn in hell.” “We didn’t make wills and I’m not allowed to attend the funeral.” “I didn’t do enough.” “I’m sorry – I’m crying – it’s so embarrassing.” “It’s 13 months on and I feel I should be doing better by now.” “It was a very good funeral – we had a gay vicar.” “We’ve been together since we were 17.” “The family took over the funeral.” “I’m not eating.” “The Church of Christ found out that I was gay, and now they want to get me out of the accommodation.” “I’m a Spiritualist, but I don’t want him to come to me.” “They left his coffin alone in the chapel – it felt like they were abandoning him.” “I met him on holiday. He was killed in an accident on the way to the airport to come to see me. I have lost our future.” “We lived in his house, but when he died, I had to give the keys back. We’d had a row and he changed his will, leaving it all to charity. I only have my disability pension now.” “He died of AIDS in hospital. When I took him there he felt that I was sending him away but I just couldn’t manage on my own any more. He didn’t want to die – it wasn’t a blessed release.” “My girlfriend died of breast cancer. I can’t speak of my loss to anyone.” “He died by suicide. When he came out to his parents, his mother was fine but his homosexuality concerned his father. She’s managing all right with her grief but she can’t cope with his father’s unwillingness to talk about their son. He finally allowed her to put up a picture in the hall, but she’s not allowed to put one up in the living room. I think she’s dreading Christmas.” “We had no wills and the relatives are threatening to come and take everything. I’ve hidden our valuables.” “He was killed in a car crash. I’m angry – he was a stupid driver and his car went under a lorry.” “He died of AIDS. He supported me when I lost my job. I as asked not to go to the funeral, even though we lived together for five years. I’m numb, and I think I’m going to lose my home.” “He was a heroin addict. I feel I’m to blame for his death.” “There was no will. It all went to his nephew.” “The dog keeps looking up at the corner of the room. I’m not religious, but…” “We’ve been together for 40 years since we left the forces. I can’t go on.” The Switchboard LGBT+ and Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project archives, along with archives from the Terrence Higgins Trust and others, are held at the Bishopsgate Institute, a beautiful Victorian building in the City of London. The institute is home to one of the most extensive collections on LGBTQIA+ history, politics and culture in the UK. The building flies the progress Pride flag, and the archives room is lined with a huge variety of LGBTQ+ flags.
Dudley Cave: Born London 19 February 1921; died London 19 May 1999 Dudley Cave was born in London in 1921, and worked for Odeon Cinemas when he was young. He was conscripted into the Army in 1941 and served in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps as a driver. Until 1999, there was an official ban on lesbians and gay men serving in the Armed Forces. Despite this, and despite the homophobia back in the UK, according to Cave, homosexual officers were more or less accepted. Even when ‘caught in the act’, they may get a reprimand, be transferred to a new unit, or be given hard labour to turn them into ‘real men’ "People were put in the army regardless of whether they were gay or not", said Cave. "It didn't seem to bother the military authorities. There was none of the later homophobic uproar about gays undermining military discipline and effectiveness. With Britain seriously threatened by the Nazis, the forces weren't fussy about who they accepted... They used us when it suited them, and then victimised us when the country was no longer in danger. I am glad I served but I am angry that military homophobia was allowed to wreck so many lives for over 50 years after we gave our all for a freedom that gay people were denied." Taken from a piece by Peter Tatchell Cave was taken prisoner by the Japanese in 1942, and was assigned to the construction of the Thai-Burma railway, not far from the renowned bridge over the River Kwai. He was then sent to Changi Prison in Singapore after a serious bout of malaria, where he stayed until the end of the war. He lost four stone – one third of his body weight – and was close to death from malnutrition. In Changi, an army medical officer gave him a copy of Sexual Inversion by Havelock Ellis, and this helped him to accept his sexuality. Cave was repatriated after the end of the war, in 1945.
Back in the UK, there was still a lot of discrimination against gay people. In 1954, Cave was asked to resign from his job as manager of Majestic Cinema in Wembley, London. When he refused, he was given the sack. Also in 1954, Cave met his partner, Bernard Williams. Williams had married his wife, June, to try to ‘overcome’ his sexuality. June understood, and the three became close friends, living together in Golders Green. Cave and Williams stayed together as lovers and gay rights campaigners until Williams’ death in 1994. In 1971, Cave joined the Unitarian Church, and was key to them ordaining lesbians and gay men, blessing same sex relationships and advocating for LGBTQ+ human rights, even before legal recognition of same sex relationships. He created Intergroup, which brough together LGBTQ+ and straight Unitarians to promote acceptance and foster dialogue, one of the first groups of its type. He campaigned for peace and reconciliation between Japanese soldiers and prisoners of war, and he attended the dedication of a Buddhist temple on the banks of the River Kwai as a symbol of this reconciliation. Cave was one of the original committee members of the London Gay Switchboard (now Switchboard LGBT+) at its launch in 1974, and he remained answering phones until his death. Through the calls he took, he saw LGBTQ+ people who had lost their partners grieving without support and being excluded from funerals, losing inheritances and facing eviction from joint homes. To meet their support needs, he created the Lesbian and Gay Bereavement Project. The project was the first of its kind to be established in the UK, and the first organisation with ‘gay’ in the title to gain charitable status in the UK (despite pushback from the Charity Commissioners to change the name). Another of his campaigns was to get the Royal British Legion, the UK Government and the Armed Forces to acknowledge that LGBTQ+ people served in the Armed Forces and lost their lives. Not long before his death he spoke at OutRage!'s Queer Remembrance Day vigil at the Cenotaph, and laid a pink triangle (the symbol worn by LGBTQ+ prisoners in concentration camps) to honour the lives and deaths of LGBTQ+ people. Sources: The Yorkshire Unitarian Union BBC: A gay soldier’s story Obituary: Dudley Cave (Peter Tatchell) Peter Tatchell on Dudley Cave (video) When I stepped out of the door the morning that Tim died, I couldn’t believe that village life could go on as normal when my life had so suddenly and drastically changed. But it did.
Over the years since 2018, I have rebuilt my life, embracing my sexuality, going back to university, meeting and marrying my wonderful Dee, and making a fresh start in a new location. All of these changes have left me sometimes feeling that I'm living two parallel lives. There's the life that I live now and the other that carried on, where I am still married to Tim. We still live above the bookshop. And he is pricing books downstairs. The life we live without them can leave us feeling guilty and resentful. About the what-ifs, the things we did or didn’t say, simply that we survived. And for going on without them. Going to work. Seeing friends and family. Making changes to the house. Enjoying ourselves. Doing things that they will never do, in places that they will never see, and making decisions that they will never know. There’s nothing I can say that makes this better. As Tim would say, it is what it is. We continue without them, moving forward but not moving on. And as a community, we do it together. So many of us have social media accounts, from Facebook and X/Twitter, through WhatsApp, Instagram and TikTok, to Snapchat, Pinterest and LinkedIn (and so many more). This digital footprint will live long after we do. Some companies will automatically delete accounts after a certain length of time. Others allow you to make decisions, including deletion and deactivation; these options vary between providers. Deactivating can hide the profile until you decide what to do with it.
Keeping accounts open Social media can be a good way to tell people about a death, but it’s important to tell family and friends first. Keeping accounts open also lets you tell people about any arrangements, allows you to access their photos, videos and posts, and means that family and friends can make posts in memory of them and stay together as a community. However, because other people can post on an open account, this can mean that you see things that may upset you. Memorialising accounts Memorialised accounts allow people to have a place to remember someone and to read that person’s old posts. The account will make it clear that the person has died, and will no longer send notifications. Deleting accounts Deleting an account protects you from seeing things on their account that might upset you, but deletion is permanent. Different companies will need different things to close accounts. These are likely to include their full name, their profile name, ID or link, their death certificate, and proof of your relationship with them. Creating a digital will If you have strong feelings about what will happen to your digital footprint after you die, you need to make plans by creating a digital will. This can include IDs and profile names, and requests to delete or memorialise accounts. |
AuthorI was widowed at 50 when Tim, who I expected would be my happy-ever-after following a marriage break-up, died suddenly from heart failure linked to his type 2 diabetes. Though we'd known each other since our early 20s, we'd been married less than ten years. Archives
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