When his wife, Anna, died of cancer in 2016, therapist Con Healy was thrown into the Pit of Grief. It was not a nice place. He endured dark times … and survived. Grief/loss changed him. Now in 2025, Con delved into his archive of to review the start of his transformation.
Where to now?
By Con Healy
You’ve almost made me redundant, Conal. Those were the words of My Female Psychologist. She was suggesting I didn’t really need to come back to therapy. I’d been seeing her for about eight months. And I had responded to therapy. Now, apparently, it was over – I had survived grief.
How does that make me feel? I asked myself after leaving her office. I stood outside in the bright sunshine, blinking. Am I done? Am I fixed? Am I healed?
How do I feel? It is the classic question I was asked on many occasions.
I struggled for days to find words to describe how I actually felt.
It wasn’t like I’ve graduated from a university course. And was now standing here with a certificate and a cheesy smile on my face ready for the photo.
It wasn’t like a giant secret has suddenly been revealed to me. And I am standing here, my hands clutched to my mouth trying to catch my breath.
What’s next?
My Female Psychologist had suggested the word “Clarity”. I have to agree with her.
It was like I’d got a new pair of spectacles and now realised just how fuzzy the old pair had made my view of the world.
The metaphor that came to mind is one of those big jigsaw puzzles.
For 18 months I had worked on this puzzle. At the start, I picked out the edge pieces and build a frame.
And gradually, over time, I had been filling in the pieces. Some parts were hard, others easy.
And people would wander in and spend a few hours helping me with the puzzle.
But a lot of the time I was working alone, crunched over a large table, in an empty room, with an overhead light for company. Armed with a glass of wine and slices of pizza.
Last month it felt like vital pieces had dropped into place and my perception changed.
You realise you have to step back and see – literally and figuratively – the big picture.
And I scratched my head and wondered: “Is that it? Is this the sum total of the past 18 months? Is the pain and suffering really gone? Is it behind me?”
What was I expecting? The roof of the Sistine Chapel? Or a giant blue foaming wave?
Maybe it was hard because the pieces were upside down, and back to front? Or maybe it was easy because it was really only a 200-piece puzzle and not the 20000 piece that was I were expecting.
The obvious suggestion is that this particular puzzle is almost complete and it is time to move on.
Not quite just yet, there are a few pieces missing. They must have fallen on the floor?
The image of the jigsaw puzzle is facile. It suggests that all the pieces were already there, they just needed to be assembled.
It wasn’t like that.
Hello to the husk
Back in July 2016 I was the husk of a man. After six months of being Anna’s carer her death left me with a huge hole in my being. I was emotionally and physically drained. A wreck.
Mentally I had shrunk – the man whose clothes no longer fitted him.
I knew Anna didn’t have long after the two brain tumors were discovered (in February 2016). I knew the stats. “Twelve months is being optimistic” the palliative care doctor told me. Six months was more realistic.
It would have been easy to have been depressed and maudlin – knowing the person you were making breakfast for would be dead in a few months. It wasn’t like that. Anna fought and never gave into the idea of dying.
There was good news – the original tumors disappeared. Then bad news – new tumor had been discovered. We never gave up hope. No matter how misguided that hope was.
Right to the very end I believed if anybody could have beaten this cancer – it was Anna. It was not to be.
The farewell kiss
By the end of June I was getting a Funeral Haircut. I had touched Anna’s cold body, and kissed her farewell.
My life almost came to a grinding halt. For months before I had been nurse, cook, carer, friend, counsellor, taxi driver and a dozen other roles to Anna.
Now that was gone.
One morning I stood in a tidy house a few weeks after Anna’s death. All the day’s chores were done. And it was only 9.30am.
I remember thinking: What do I do now? How do I fill my life.
I was dumbstruck. It was as though I could hear the wind blowing through what was left of my mind.
The bubble of grief
Now, 18 months later, I am asking myself the same question: What do I do now?
And being honest, no matter what My Female Psychologist says, I know there is still a bubble of grief deep in my soul – all I have to do is find the courage to go look for it and to deal with it.
And I don’t think I ready for that, just yet.
Who is in control?
In truth, I am not the same person I was 18 months ago. And I am even different from the March 2017 version of me.
Yes, grief changed me. I was left a husk, as I said before. My battle with Grief Monster has been curious – there were times when it almost consumed me. There were times when I poked its sleeping form – just to see how I (and it) would respond.
There were times I was frighteningly incandescent with raw emotions.
There were the days went I’d come home from work, crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.
My relationship with grief was interesting, to say the least.
Some of the time it controlled me.
Sometimes – foolishly – I felt I was controlling it.
Other times it was a demonic whirlwind, a storm exploding inside my very being.
Grief (and a problematic thyroid gland) contributed to my anxiety and depression.
These in turn created a swarm of demons who would serenade me and bombard me with decaying handfuls of scat.
For months the demons were a Greek Chorus – telling me my life was about to turn to shit and there was nothing I could do about it.
For a long time I believed them – I was too old. I was too fat. I was ugly. I was an attention seeking whore. The demons whispered these poisonous lies into my ears.
Eventually I could no longer stand the screeching cacophony. One morning (at 2am) I sat down the demons and wrote down all the fears and dreads that had been their daily serenades. I nodded and took note of everything they said… and I went to bed exhausted.
The next morning I woke up, expecting the usual dawn chorus of despair from my demons … but there was nothing.
I went looking for the demons and found their cages. Most were now empty, a few demons remained but appeared in deep hibernation. I slipped quietly over and slid the bolt on the door of these monsters and walked away.
Most of the demons were gone, my mind was still. And the day seemed brighter.
Weighing into the problem
There is an Irish saying: “He’s lost the run of himself”. The Oxford English Dictionary defines that expression: “to lose one’s self-control; to behave in an unexpected or uncharacteristic manner.”
The German word Kummerspeck translates literally to “grief bacon,” and actually means “the excess weight gained from sorrow.”
For the best part of 12 months I lost the run of myself – I still managed to work, to cook, the keep the house clean and exist. I was eating too much junk food, visiting the bottle shop too many times.
And the kilograms piled on. When I got to Ireland in June (for the Dublin funeral for Anna) I was weighing in a 122kgs.
I came back from Ireland and my doctor decided my mind was fine, now it was time for me to look after my body.
My annual check revealed I was 40kgs overweight. “You’ve got to lose 20kgs soon. Or you are facing long-term health problems.” My GP told me.
The No-Fun Diet started.
My Female Psychologist described my relationship with food as “interesting”.
After a year of eating and drinking what I wanted, when I wanted, now it was time to pay the price, I told My Female Psychologist. And I was happy to pay the price for my Emotional Eating.
By this stage – July 2017 – I was learning to let go of my grief.
We buried half of Anna’s ashes in Dublin in late June, by the end of July we had buried the other half of Anna’s ashes in the cemetery here in Tweed. It was a small gathering – just family.
(Anna’s remains in Tweed are in a sealed plastic container, inside a cardboard box inside a sealed hollowed-out rock. When will Anna dissolve into the earth? In about 30,000 years.)
My Female Psychologist asked me how I felt? I mourned for one-year-and-one-day, several times (for various reasons) I ended up in some very dark places.
There were weeks of almost daily panic attacks, episodes of depression, I learned the difference between being lonely and being alone.
How did I feel now?
Successful, I told the good doctor. She looked puzzled: “Why?”
“I have survived everything thrown at me in the past 18 months. I had a very long To-Do list … and I’ve just ticked off the last items. That is an achievement” I told her. “And I am still alive”.
For months (in 2016) I refused to get a haircut. My beard grew out of control.
It was a Public Display of my Grief, I told myself. (Last week I looked at the selfies from Christmas 2016 and wondered how I thought such behavior was acceptable.)
As I went about my day – work, cook, clean (repeat) – the research about grief was present in my mind.
Following suite?
The serious side of surviving the loss of a loved one is Complicated Grief – where you never let go, or move on.
The real risk with Complicated Grief is suicide. A few people approached me at the time they were concerned that I would “follow Anna into the grave”. I quickly put their minds at rest.
At no point did I ever consider ending my life – that was never an alternative. Once I made that decision – and it wasn’t hard – I started to rebuild myself.
Being taken apart
This was November 2016.
I deconstructed myself – broke down aspects of my being – examined each part, saw how they fitted together with the other elements … gave it a good dusting, maybe a long soak in Napisan, and put them back – ready to be re-assembled.
One of the good things to come out of this exercise was a determination to embrace change.
To explore new tastes and experiences, to let go of the old behaviors and thought patterns, to grow and rebuild.
And not to be shackled to the past. Anna’s death did hurt but it made me appreciate life.
In one sentence, it was simply: “That was then, this is now”.
In November 2016, in the depths of my grief, I decided 2017 would be a year of travel. A time of running away.
I knew I was going to Ireland in June 2017, to bury Anna’s ashes, but I decided I wanted to visit new places – where Anna and I hadn’t been together. To do new things.
The words of my GP rang in my ears: “Is it loneliness? Or freedom?” If I wanted to go somewhere – I didn’t have to consult anybody, I didn’t have to allow for school holidays, uni exams, malaise or … a dozen other considerations.
It started with small things – I forced myself to go to the movies, alone.
I didn’t mind that. Go to an art gallery by myself. Yep.
Catch up with friends for a long breakfast at the weekend? That became a regular thing.
I started to throw out clothes I knew I’d never wear again.
I’d set myself goals; Could I have a conversation with somebody and NOT mention Anna’s death and her final months.
For a long time – mainly during the year-and-one-day grieving period – I felt the need/desire/want to tell of Anna’s courage, determination and her bloody mindedness. And – of course – there were so many good stories.
Short conversations I could manage, longer conversations were tougher. For the previous three years a large portion of my life revolved around Anna and her Cancer Journey (God, I how hate the word, journey). And I had little else to talk about.
The Non-Talking of Anna was hard – that took until October 2017 to master that.
(My Female Psychologist asked me one session why didn’t I leave Anna when she was sick? I can recall my horror when she asked me that. My reply: “Because you don’t do that. You don’t give up on your best friend. “We married for better and for worst. Anna never gave up – and you’ve got to love, respect and support that kind of spirit. You can’t ask for more than that. You can’t leave somebody when they need you the most.” In essence, I’m not a quitter.)
My Female Psychologist maintained marriage was a partnership where – ideally – the needs of the partner were being met on a 50-50 basis. Sometimes that doesn’t always happens – it be 60-40, 70-30, but it cannot always be one-sided.
My Female Psychologist said Anna and mine marriage ended when Anna gave up meeting my needs and started thinking only of herself. When was that?
“About 10-15 years ago” I replied honestly. That stung.
“When you are continually sacrificing your needs for your partner’s needs it can lead to anxiety issues.” she told me. That stung too.
Re-living the past
Rarely did I feel lonely in the past 16 months (since Anna died). Yes, there were many times I was alone – rarely lonely.
I joined several online grief/depression groups to share and explore my feelings and emotions – but none of them resonated.
Grief is dreadfully idiosyncratic – no two people grieve the same.
In the lead up to Anna’s burial in Ireland I worked on her 300 page scrapbook – I re-lived those final months. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, but I pushed on. And completed it. (I showed My Female Psychologist a copy of the document – she was impressed: “I have never seen anything like this”.)
Looking back
Four months later I got a chance to revisit those dark days, when I had to file my 2016-17 tax return to the Australian Taxation Office. There – in black and white – on the bank statements was a chronological listing of Anna and mine’s coffee mornings, then the funeral expenses, then the visits to the local bottle shop and all the pizzas I ordered. Finally, for 2016, the gap payments for my first psychiatrist, My Male Psychologist.
It’s always fun doing a financial review of the worst year of your life. There were times when I wanted to stop doing the tax return, because it was too painful, and run away to the beach, or open a bottle of wine and watch TV or do anything else … but I didn’t.
I got up, made a cup of tea, and came back to the collection of statements and receipts … and kept going. I did that three or four times, usually with tears in my eyes. (12 months earlier I would have run away – and did, to Brisbane – rather than deal with the problem.)
When I finished the tax return I grabbed a bottle of cold water … and went for a six kilometre walk by the ocean, to clear my head.
The bank statements for 2017 revealed my travelling expenses. In the past 12 months I’ve visited (for many and varying reasons) Sydney twice, Melbourne twice (more on the later), Dublin twice, Brisbane (a few times), Mt Tamborine (a few times) as well as Hitchin, London and Winchester, in England.
I kept a travel diary and – for fun – listed the number of different beds I slept in one year. The list hit 20 just after Christmas. That means that nearly twice a month I was escaping my home.
Wherever I went I took my camera and snapped away. At last count, I took 36,000 photos in 2017.
Maybe I was running away? I tell myself I was creating new memories, new experiences … putting distance between me and Anna’s death. And I was. The last thing I wanted to do was stare at the wall.
So I travelled.
Back in the pit
It started when I woke up in Brisbane on New Year’s Day 2017 – having kicked 2016 out the door the previous night.
To Sydney in February – because of a woman – to experience the hottest weekend (weatherwise) in Sydney’s history – 33d at 3am. The intense online relationship with this woman climaxed that weekend … and ended (by text) two weeks later. One week I was on Cloud Nine, the next week I was deep in the pit of despair.
Matters were compounded by my problematic thyroid gland which decided that should suffer daily panic attacks, heat flushes, heart palpitations, uncontrollable crying … and experience ‘being hormonal’. It certainly gave me a new insight into what women go through on a monthly basis.
Luckily it was discovered my problems lay with the medicine I was taking for my problematic thyroid gland. Once I stopped those meds, my mind and body returned to its usual “Fucked in the Head” normality.
The visit to the Despair Pit made me realise just how brittle my mind was. And how resilient I needed to become.
I knew no matter how much help, love and support I got from family and friends (and there was lots – thanks) … it was up to me to walk that long Recovery Road.
It was hard at the beginning, some days the Despair Pit would send out tendrils which would grab at my legs and haul me back to the dark emotional quagmire. I did struggle free and set about putting my life in order. This was the time of the Screeching Demons.
I learned to appreciate all I had (loving family and friends, a house, a job, good health etc) and not long for what I didn’t have (a sex life, joy, intimacy etc etc ).
What could I do? So began my Low Expectations lifestyle. I would have to be the person to make me happy. So I came up with the idea of Steps to Happiness.
If I woke up in the morning – “Hey, I’m alive” (step one). “Look, I’m in a comfortable bed!” (step two). “I’m warm” (step three). “There are clothes to wear, clean ones too” (step four). By the time I got downstairs, and had that glorious first cuppa of the day … well, I was three-quarters way to Happiness. In fact that first cup of tea usually brought a smile to my face.
(There was a story I heard from an older man: “I know I’m in for a good day when there isn’t somebody standing over me shouting ‘CLEAR!’ ” )
I didn’t expect anything from life – and wasn’t disappointed. The tears were gone, the panic attacks disappeared and my life was spluttering along … in the slow lane. But at least it was moving.
On the mend
Melbourne in March 2017 was fun. A real break from the darkness that had been my life of the previous eight months. I flew south for three nights. I’d never been to Melbourne and quickly fell in love with the city. I rode the trams, visited art galleries, ate out, dropped into a late-night comedy club, drank ales and laughed. And had a thoroughly good time.
After a day of walking my body wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. But my inner voice refused to let me lie down and to be cowed by the fear of a new, and unknown city. So I got up and went out and enjoyed myself.
From my viewpoint of today (January 2018), I can pin-point the day everything started to change, March 24 – I walked 23,110 steps around Melbourne in one day. (The day before it was 22,500 steps). And it felt good. (Usually I’d take 3000 steps a day.)
My heart and mind were still in turmoil, on that fateful day I can remember walking into a graffiti-strewn alley in the Melbourne CBD and made a huge discovery. It was street art.
It was an explosion of colour and movement. Chaos meets art.
And that was when my heart and soul went “Wow” – their turmoil had found form. Had found expression.
As I think I might have mentioned before, I suddenly felt calm, collected and – strangely – at home. It was the start of The Recovery. That rebuilding of my mind continued for eight months and finally coalesced about 12 weeks ago.
Making the changes
October 2017 was a big month for me. I was in Sydney and had my first First Date since 1978. The date went well, we both had a great time. Long story short? No chemistry between us – nothing romantic happened. We are still good friends and still keep in contact.
The weekend in Sydney galvanized me. A series of small, almost unrelated events, sent an electrical jolt through my mind. All the pieces of my psyche that I had deconstructed 12 months earlier … began to come together. And began to click together. It was like a lightning bolt had hit a jumble of seemingly random machine parts and they all molded together … and turned into a new car.
On that Sunday morning in Sydney, I woke in an empty hotel room and knew – really knew – that could handle my future: “I can do this! I can really do this!”
And that was the moment that Dark Conal faded away and Confident Conal stepped forward into the light.
I returned to home in the Tweed a different man, inside. I learned to meditate and took up yoga. And I started doing almost-daily six/seven kilometre walks by the ocean.
I started to watch what I was eating – and lost 10kgs and dropped four pant sizes.
ConCon – as somebody called – got a test run a few weeks later with a return to Melbourne.
When I walked the back alleys of Melbourne in late October 2017 it was with a different mindset to my trip in March.
It is with a quieter mind. A less chaotic view point.
This time I wandered, looking for good street art. And it was different.
My eyes saw the colours and the chaos.
My heart and soul? None of it resonated. It was as though they had got together and said: “Nice, but… We have moved on. That was then. This is now.”
And it is true. I am a different person.
A stronger version of the March Me.
In the time eight months between the two Melbourne visits, I had changed.
I feel I have grown in this new Me. And I am happy.
And yes, I can tackle my future – I am feeling positive about it.
2018 is shaping up to be good year – or at least not as shitty as 2016-17.
That was then, this is now.
As a wise woman told me recently: “Look to the future, not at the past”.
(Written in 2018)
