Category : Stories
Sub Category : Romance
Love .... how deep does it really run? Is there a certain measurement to measure the depth? How long does it really last? Is there a certain condition to determine a certain timeline? If tomorrow never comes, would you look back with regret, thinking "I should have...." or, would you look back in joy, knowing you had given it your all?
A few days ago, my mom received a letter from her friend, Shirley Hayes who lives in UK. Shirley and mom have been friends for a very long time and they communicate often via snail mail. In this letter of hers, she enclosed a copy of a letter she wrote after the death of someone who was very dear to her. She was grieving at the time she wrote that letter and writing it was her way of coping with her loss. Mom showed me the letter and from what I read, I did not see a woman who was struggling with pain and loss. I saw a woman with strength, love and gratitude. Shirley inspired me with the letter she wrote as she opened my eyes to see love through her eyes. The way she celebrates life and love inspires me. Because of that I am sharing the letter she wrote in hopes that it will inspire others too like it did me.
..............
Dear Allan,
I'm sitting here with my foot up, following an ankle operation. I've not been short of visitors.
But you know what cheers me up the most? Looking at the bracelet you bought me. It's too precious for me to wear, but just seeing it, bright gold and so beautiful, makes me smile as the memories rush back.
Remember the day we met? I was seating in a corner seat in Bolands Bar, Wakefield, when you came over and said hello.
"Would you like to dance?" you asked. I said yes and we danced. It was as though we had been partners all our lives.
"Where did you learn to dance?" you asked, impressed.
"I was 15 when I first tried ballroom," I smiled, and we continued to dance.
But I had only recently rediscovered my love of dancing. For the previous three years, I had been swamped by grief following the death of my husband, Dennis. After almost 45 years together, I was lost without him. Not wanting to see happy couples holding hands, I could barely bring myself to leave the house.
"Dad wouldn't want you to give up," my four children told me.
My best friend Margaret, agreed. "Let's arrange to do something in the afternoons," she suggested. So we started going out - one day we would listen to local karaoke singers, the next we would hop on a bus and go for a dance. After a few months, I came out of my shell.
That's when I met you, Allan, in May 2000. Our rapport was as natural as our dancing. Aged 70, you were five years older than me, a widower with two grown-up children. Your wife, Sheila, had died in 1993.
"I'm not looking for a replacement," you told me. "Just a bit of company."
"Me too," I said.
I never expected to find such a gentle, considerate man, or to be so happy. At least not at my age. We always held hands and people commented on how your eyes lit up when I walked into the room.
"Why have you chosen me?" you had asked.
"I don't know," I grinned. "But I'm very glad I did."
Just four months after we first said hello, you moved into my house in Wetherby, West Yorkshire. It was quick, but soon it felt as though you had always been there.
Two months later, in November 2000, I was on a holiday I had previously booked to Benidorm with a friend. Four days into my 10-day break, I was waiting at the hotel lift when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Spinning around, I saw you standing there.
"I wanted to be with you," you said simply. It was such a wonderful surprise.
Benidorm became special to us, didn't it, Allan? We went back in February 2001 and on Valentine's Day, you gave me a single velvet rose. As you gently parted the petals, I saw an engagement ring nestling inside. You proposed and I accepted.
Remember that evening? We went to a bar and took part in a Mr and Mrs competition. Up against another couple, we won and were treated to a champagne meal in Benidorm Old Town. It was a very special day and I was the happiest woman alive.
During our holiday, we learnt that an English girl was selling her caravan and returning to Britain. Seizing the opportunity to put down roots in the place we loved, we bought the caravan. As a sign of our love, we christened it 'Shiral' - our names; Shirley and Allan entwined together forever.
We went to Benidorm four times a year after that, often staying for several months. For you, holidays meant facing your biggest fear - flying. A whisky would help you to control your nerves, but sometimes simply being on a plane would reduce you to tears. Both in Spain and back home in Nursery Garth, Wetherby, you suffered from panic attacks that kept you awake all night. Sensing you agitated next to me, I would wake and sit with you.
"You'll be alright soon," I'd say soothingly. But the attacks never went away, did they, Allan?
While we were in Benidorm in 2006, you got so bad we thought you were having a heart attack. Although the local hospital reassured us you'd be fine, we decided to give up Shiral. Not long afterwards, having decided that you wanted to be nearer your family in Wakefield, you moved into your own flat. That didn't change our relationship. If anything, it made it more exciting. I'd stay with you for a few days, then you'd come over to mine. "It's like being on holiday all the time!" I told you.
When we weren't travelling between each other's homes, we were off on coach trips around Britain. "Shirley, be ready on Monday, we're off!" you'd tell me, having booked another adventure. From Blackpool to Skegness, we went everywhere. We would see the sights during the day and dance in the evenings.
Remember Torquay? It was my birthday and you requested our song, https://youtu.be/S4kzGhDEURA
You wrapped your arms around me and sang in my ear, in a voice rivaling Frank Sinatra.... "If tomorrow never comes, will she know how much I loved her? Did I try in every way? To show her everyday that she's my only one."
I always knew, Allan. Always.
That's what got me through the bad times, when you were ill. You had prostate problems and in 2010, a sore on your face was diagnosed as skin cancer.
"I suppose it's the price you pay for all that Spanish sun," you said, without a hint of self-pity. I was so proud of the way you handled it all, facing an operation to remove the cancer and then skin grafts, with a smile. Your fragile health, however, meant we had to stop our coach expeditions. Dancing became a thing in the past. In February 2011, problems with your pancreas led to a two week stay in Dewsbury and District Hospital.
On 1st October 2011, it was my granddaughter Katie's birthday. You didn't feel up to attending the party, so I made sure you had everything you needed. When I tried calling you later, however, your phone just kept on ringing. I knew straight away there was something wrong. My granddaughter Claire, a nurse, jumped in a cab with me and we sped to your flat.
Opening the door to your flat, I gasped. Your naked body was lying on the floor, blood gushing from your head. "He's fallen over!" I cried. Recovering in the hospital, you said you had confused the phone for the doorbell and stumbled. "It's okay," I told you. "You're alright now."
You spent two weeks in Dewsbury before being transferred to Pindersfields Hospital in Wakefield. I would get a taxi to visit you up to four times a day, bringing a Marks and Spencer's trifle with me. You loved that trifle, didn't you? But you could only manage a mouthful. You could hardly speak too, but you always blew me kisses from your bed when I said goodbye.
With your kidneys failing, you spent another three days at Dewsbury before returning to Pindersfields. I would sit beside you and sing our song. Sometimes, you'd try to sing along.
You had been there for a week when, on 19th November, you mouthed the word 'bracelet'. I knew what you meant. A month earlier you had been worried about what to get me for Christmas. "I've got you earrings, a necklace...." you said.
"A bracelet?" I suggested. You nodded. Back at your bedside, I smiled. "I'll go into town and get one."
In Wakefield Town Centre, I found a gold bracelet with a dangling heart set with stones. I bought it then hurried back to Pindersfields to show you.
"Isn't it beautiful?" I said, making it swing. "Just as beautiful as your heart."
You gave me the biggest smile ever and put both your thumbs up approvingly. Closing your eyes, you looked completely content. That night you passed peacefully away in your sleep, aged 82.
After 12 happy years together, it was very hard for me to go on without you, Allan. My family, though, were there for me then, just as they have been there for me since. Still, I miss you everyday.
A month after your death, I found a thank you card you had written to me, hidden away in your drawer. "With special thanks for everything you have done for me," you wrote, and signed it with, "I love you. Allan xxx"
Always so thoughtful. Thank you, Allan. For that first dance, for all my beautiful memories of Shiral, for my irreplaceable bracelet, and most of all, for giving me a second chance at happiness.
All my love, Shirley xxx
...............
Shirley Hayes is my mom's friend. When mom told her about my writings, she made a copy of the above letter she wrote to Allan after his death and sent it to my mom. In her enclosed letter, she wrote.... "Please tell your daughter to share this letter of mine in her writings. True love never dies, romance is not dead, and true happiness is achievable. This letter of mine is my testament to that."
I guess Shirley wanted me to share her story simply to inspire others. At a time when she thought she had lost it all, an unexpected turn was thrown in her path. She took it, ran with it, and now at 84 years old, she is sharing her story.
