How did you get to lose the partner you’ve spent most of your life with?

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

And if the loss of a lifelong companion is one’s ‘strength and abode’, as the Queen so elegantly described her 73-year-old husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, then it marks the point where a life has been irrevocably changed in some way. must carry on without them.

Most of the important paperwork and administration that always accompanies a death has been done. The benefactors and comforters paid tribute and shared memories.

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

As an end-of-life doula, it’s a situation I know all too well. At the end I provide practical and emotional support.

We are sometimes referred to as death doulas, death midwives, end-of-life companions, or soul midwives. It’s a new profession and I work closely with a funeral director, as well as with NHS palliative care.

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

I’m also there to support loved ones, with whom I stay in touch as long as they want – and one of the things I’ve learned about grief is that this raw, universal emotion doesn’t follow a set pattern.

We can mourn the loss of everything we hold dear – a friendship, a job, a pet, or a child finally flying the nest, and this year in particular we’ve all had our fair share of grief.

We have lost freedoms, businesses and livelihoods and our ability to hug and hold.

But the grief we feel over the death of those closest to us is permanent and stays with us for the rest of our days. The queen is not alone in this.

Many have faced the death of a lifelong partner, leaving a huge gap. Many people who have not yet suffered such a loss wonder, “How should I deal with it?” It can be an overwhelming, terrifying thought.

My answer is always the same: There is no one way to grieve, no template for how best to do it.

A respected grief counselor, Dr. Lois Tonkin, believed that grief was not something to get over, but something we had to learn to live with.

While the feelings of loss don’t diminish, our grief becomes more manageable as our life evolves and grows.

Grief can often get stuck in the routines once shared with partners. These are so intertwined with their daily life that they are like muscle memory – so automatic that they are barely aware of it.

Consider a couple I worked with not long ago – Alice and Karl, who had been married for 48 years. After Alice died, Karl told me that every morning he still reached over to her side of the bed to get her – that’s when he forgot she was gone.

He described it to me as “like losing her every morning”.

They changed their sheets together once a week. Karl described it as a dance.

After she left, he asked me, “How can I make our bed myself?” There are no easy answers for anyone in Karl’s position. It’s the little things that make up a life and these we miss the most.

The walls of each room house a thousand stories for the next of kin. Their side of the bed; their favorite mug; the rosemary they planted in the garden; their shoes scattered in the hallway.

Remains of a loved one’s existence permeate every crevice. But while death ends a life, it cannot – 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. Initially it was distraction.

This was his job, a romantic ritual that he had performed every day during their 50th wedding anniversary and he would forget that she was no longer there to drink it. Then it became a ritual, a source of comfort.

Another customer, Iris, told me she is still talking to her husband Frank. She says their one-sided conversations help her feel closer to him.

There is nothing wrong with doing all these things, although it must seem bizarre to an outsider. But since I’ve spent so much time with so many next of kin, I can assure you it’s perfectly normal.

Iris keeps talking to Frank and John keeps making coffee for Alison because when you take away those normal life rituals, what else are you doing?

This isn’t about pretending they’re still alive, but about continuing to do something meaningful – to have a ritual when the world is turned upside down.

There is only one thing that all my clients have ever experienced: a deep, indescribable grief. This can strike at any time and in different ways. Not everyone cries. Some cut themselves off.

Others have trouble remembering the happy times they had with their partner, especially when they became caregivers for them or the end of their lives was particularly tumultuous.

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

When he got a miner’s lung, he stopped dancing. Movement was difficult and he was addicted to oxygen. Years after Malcolm died, Janice was angry and exasperated that she had lost ten years of her life caring for him when she hadn’t danced.

Then one night she went back to dance. She told me she had cried all night, but it was one of the most cathartic of her life, as it rekindled her passion for something she loved and reconnected her with Malcolm.

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

The more we understand that grief lasts a lifetime, the less pressure there is to be okay. But likewise, happiness and laughter are okay too.

I worked with a couple, Peter and Helen, who met at school. When Helen died in her eighties, everyone thought that Peter wouldn’t survive without her, because their lives were so intertwined.

But he lived another ten years. At the time, he often spoke of Helen’s love for him and how she wanted him to live a very good life after her death.

Not a day went by that he didn’t miss her, but it made him realize how important the little things were. Every time he squeezed his grandchildren, he thought it might be the last time.

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

Sometimes you can only grab it with both hands.

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