How do you manage to lose the partner with whom you have spent most of your life?

Few moments in life are as deeply lonely as the day after the funeral of a loved one.

And if the loss is of a lifelong companion: “strength and permanence,” as the Queen so elegantly described her 73-year-old husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, then marks the point where somehow it must lead a life, irrevocably changed. without them.

The important documentation and administrator that always accompanies a death is largely done. Beloved ones and comforters have paid their tributes and shared memories.

But when the door finally closes and Elizabeth is left alone without her Philip, the man who dedicated his life to being by her side, what happens?

As a doula at the end of life, it’s a situation I know all too well. In the end, I offer practical and emotional support.

We are sometimes called doulas of death, midwives of death, companions at the end of life or midwives of the soul. It is a new profession and I work closely with a funeral director, but also with NHS palliative care services.

We fear death, so we don’t like to talk about it. One of my jobs is to start this conversation with families, so that people can live well to their last breath.

I am also there to support loved ones, with whom I am in touch as long as they want, and one of the things I have learned about pain is that this raw, universal emotion does not follow any established pattern.

We can mourn the loss of anything we love: a friendship, a job, a pet, or a child who finally flies the nest, and this year in particular, we’ve all had our share of grief.

We have lost freedoms, business and livelihoods and our ability to embrace and hold on.

But the pain we feel in relation to the death of those closest to us is permanent and remains with us the rest of our days. In this, the queen is not alone.

Many have faced the death of a lifelong companion, leaving a huge hole. Many people who have not yet suffered this loss wonder, “How would I cope?” It can be an overwhelming and terrifying thought.

My answer is always the same: there is no single way to regret it, nor is there a template for how to do it better.

A respected mourning counselor, Dr. Lois Tonkin, believed that pain was not something to “overcome,” but something we must learn to live with.

While feelings of loss do not diminish, our pain becomes more manageable as our lives evolve and grow.

Grief can often be tied to routines once shared with partners. These are so intertwined with their daily lives that they are like muscle memory, automatically so that they are barely aware of it.

Take a couple I worked with recently: Alice and Karl, who had been married for 48 years. After Alice’s death, Karl told me that every morning he would still lie by her side of the bed to look for her, forgetting, at that moment, that he was gone.

He described me as “how to lose her again, every morning.”

Once a week, they changed the sheets together. Karl described it as a dance.

After she left, she asked me, “How can I make the bed on my own?” For anyone in Karl’s position, there are no easy answers. They are the little things that make up a life together and are the ones we miss the most.

The walls of each room contain a thousand stories for the desolate. His side of the bed; your favorite cup; the rosemary they planted in the garden; shoes splashed absently in the hallway.

The remnants of the existence of a loved one permeate all the cracks. But even though death puts an end to life, it cannot end a relationship.

John, another customer, wakes up every morning and makes two cups of coffee: one for him, one for his wife, Alison, who died five years ago. At first, it was absenteeism.

This was her job, a romantic ritual she had performed every day during her 50 years of marriage and she would forget she was no longer there to drink it. It then became a ritual, a source of comfort.

Another client, Iris, told me she still talks to her husband Frank. He says his one-sided chats help him feel closer to him.

There is nothing wrong with doing any of these things, although to a stranger it must seem strange. But after spending so much time with so many grieving families, I can assure you it is completely normal.

Iris keeps talking to Frank and John keeps making coffee for Alison, because when you take these normal rituals out of life, what else do you do?

It’s not about pretending to stay alive, it’s about continuing to do something meaningful: having a ritual when the world has turned upside down.

There is only one thing that all my clients have experienced at some stage: a deep and indescribable sadness. This can work at any time and in different ways. Not everyone cries. Some are cut.

Others struggle to remember the happy moments they shared with their partner, especially if they became a caregiver for them or the end of their life was particularly tumultuous.

One client, Janice, had always loved dancing with her husband Malcolm, who was a miner.

When he developed the miner’s lung, he stopped dancing. The movement was difficult and was connected to oxygen. For years after Malcolm’s death, Janice was angry and bitter because she had lost ten years of her life caring for him when she had not danced.

Then one night he danced again. She told me that she had spent the whole night crying, but that it was one of the most cathartic moments of her life, as she rekindled her passion for what she loved and also reconnected her with Malcolm.

It is often said that time is a great healer. I don’t necessarily think that’s true, but, as Janice demonstrated, it’s a catalyst for change.

The more we understand that pain lasts a lifetime, the less pressure there will be to be well. But in the same way, happiness and laughter are also good.

I worked with a couple, Peter and Helen, who had met at school. When Helen died, at the age of 80, everyone believed that Peter would not survive without her, as their lives were so intertwined.

But he lived another ten years. During this time she often spoke of Helen’s love for him, and how she had wanted him to live a good life after she died.

Not a day went by that I didn’t miss him, but it made him realize the importance of the little things. Every time he squeezed his grandchildren, he did so thinking it might be the last time.

You may miss someone a lot, but you can also enjoy what you have. Losing someone puts a magnifying glass on what really matters.

Sometimes all you can do is grab it with both hands.

• We All Know How It Ends, by Anna Lyons and Louise Winter, is published by Bloomsbury Green Tree, for £ 14.99. lifedeathwhatever.com