My husband died in our bedroom one grey January day. I found James there, stone cold, hours after he died.

That night, I slept in the spare room as I was unable to face being in our bed. However, I couldn’t continue the practice because friends and relatives were pouring in to stay for the funeral from as far away as Australia and France. I had to get a grip and quickly.

My daughter and son-in-law put the bed linen in the laundry for me and removed his bathrobe. Friends made up the bed. I took a deep breath on day three when all the other beds were taken and walked upstairs to bed for the first time — it still smelled of James.

There was nothing for it but to climb into bed. I did it but hated it.

I struggled and slept badly for over a week until everyone left, when I returned to the spare room. Was I going to be able to stay in my lovely home? Should I sleep forever in a different room? Were the demons here to stay? What to do? The issue loomed large and needed urgent attention.

As always with a major problem, I went for a long walk to figure out what I was going to do about “the bedroom demons.”

After a mile of walking, I had my problem under control, and another mile gave me the answers. I would gut the bedroom and recreate it as a retreat for me.

A few individuals told me that I should keep the room as it was to remember James more readily. No, thank you. I knew myself better than they did. I didn’t want to make our bedroom a shrine to remind me of his death. I wanted to remember my husband alive.

So I threw out all the furniture and repainted the walls. The colours I chose were a pale dove grey with white accents — soothing and peaceful. I changed the artwork for my favourite, subtle water-colours and bought a new bed, mattress, and headboard. Next came gorgeous bed linens in cheerful colours, white furniture, and ultra-modern lamps.

Once done, the bedroom was unrecognizable and definitely mine. The demons were banished, never to return. I slept again.

© Julie H. Ferguson 2017