Month: March 2021

Widowed and Young

I can still remember the first time I was called a widow. It was 22 April 2020 and I’d just registered my husband’s death. While he was entered as my husband, as the informant I was listed as his widow. I felt indignant at being called that. Why couldn’t I still be called his wife? Widow. I was 39 years old. Aren’t widows supposed to be in their 80s?

But no. I was now officially a widow. When I had to renew my car and home insurance a few months later, I had another slap in the face. For no longer was my marital status “married”, it was “widowed.” There it was, once again in black and white. Widowed. I didn’t want to click that button. I didn’t want to have it being official. Same again with completing the census last week. Always there now.

It’s hard to articulate what it feels like to be widowed young. Everything about my life suddenly changed. Everything. Yes, I’d felt grief before when my grandad died but despite the pain of losing him, my day to day life was still the same. When Mr C died, everything about my life changed. I had to start cooking every single day. I hadn’t cooked in 21 years and it was a running joke that if he was away, we’d either have takeaway or people would take pity on me and feed me and my daughter! But now, every single day I must cook. I don’t eat the same food any more as my daughter doesn’t like spicy food and it feels pointless to cook two meals. I don’t watch the same TV programmes because we used to watch them together and I don’t want to watch them without him. I haven’t been to a supermarket since 20 March 2020 because we always did the shopping together. I don’t want to wander round without him. I don’t want to bump into people that might ask me how I am because I don’t want to run the risk of crying over the fruit and vegetables.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m no longer part of a couple. In the eyes of the law I’m not married so is it possible to still have in-laws? What should I call them? When a friend introduced me as “Charlie’s wife” a few months after he died, I found it odd. It completely took me off guard. Am I his wife? Am I his widow? Who am I? What am I? I just have an overriding sense of being on my own. Because no matter how many times people tell me I’m not alone (which I’m not, I’m incredibly lucky to have a strong support network), the simple truth is, I am on my own. There is no playing good cop, bad cop when it comes to parenting any more. There is no “you empty the dishwasher, I’ll put the bins out” trade off. When I eventually go back to the office, spontaneity will no longer exist. I’ll no longer be able to ring him and say, “I’m just going for a quick drink, are you ok to pick her up?” Everything related to our daughter will have to be planned. I’m the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for her. I’m now the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for us. It’s overwhelming. It’s isolating. And it’s tiring. It’s oh so tiring.

But around the time I was looking for insurance, I remembered Widowed and Young (WAY), a charity someone had mentioned to me on Twitter shortly after Mr C died. When it was first mentioned I didn’t understand what use it would be to me, but I now started to research it. I needed it. Because no matter how supportive my friends, family and colleagues were being, I just didn’t know anyone that actually got it. After spending time on the website and discovering just how many people lose a spouse or partner under the age of 50, I suddenly felt that maybe there might be people out there that understood. I joined a virtual quiz that one of the Kent groups* had organised. I was so nervous as I dialled in (I’m not sure what I was expecting) but everyone was just so normal and friendly. Yes, we’re now all part of a club that no-one wants to be part of, but fundamentally, we’re all normal people. It’s invaluable to have support like this. And more recently, a WAY from COVID group* has been set up for anyone who has lost a partner throughout any of the lockdowns (be it to COVID or another reason). Our first virtual gathering was again just so very comforting. It’s so reassuring to know people have had the same thoughts and emotions that you have.

So, when WAY advertised for ambassadors I applied. I wanted to be able to help others going through this experience to feel less isolated. To know that there are people who understand what this horrendous journey is like. To help people know that support is out there. I feel incredibly proud and privileged to have been successful in this application. A year ago, I didn’t know anything about this charity and never dreamed I’d be in this position. To be honest, I still don’t want to be and wish I didn’t have a need for WAY. But now I am, and I do, I’ll do all I can to share our story and help others to know that they’re not alone.

If you missed my Talk aWAY session with Jess Haslem-Bantoft , you can catch up here.

If you’d like to find out more about Widowed and Young and the support offered, please visit the website.

* To join these groups you must have a current WAY membership.

What it means to me to be a mother

“Is daddy going to be ok?”

“I don’t know. I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you that the doctors and nurses will do everything they can to try to make him ok.” 

This is a conversation that took place at 4:30am shortly after my husband had walked down the stairs to a waiting ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. The severity of that moment will stay with me for the rest of my life. I had a choice with how I responded to her. Lie and pretend everything was going to be ok or admit that I didn’t know what was going to happen. In the split second it took me to make that decision, I opted for honesty. For whatever we were going to face over the coming days, weeks or even months, honesty would get us through.

I won’t lie. There’s been a lot since I became a mother that I’ve not been prepared for. But that conversation was hard. No-one prepared me for that conversation. No-one then gave me a manual to help me prepare for having to tell our beautiful little girl that her daddy was going to die. No-one prepared me for helping her through her grief. No-one prepared me for how much of a fierce mama bear I would become in the weeks and months that followed.   

Because since I became a mother I’ve always tried to protect her in whatever way I can. I’ve always tried to stop her feeling hurt and to try to put a smile on her face. Yet since Mr C came down with his temperature on 22 March (Mother’s Day) last year, I’ve seen how broken she can be. Yes, she’s been phenomenal. I am reminded on a daily basis of just how phenomenal she is. I simply wouldn’t still be standing without her by my side.

But she’s also a little girl who has gone through the most excruciating loss. I’ve seen her eyes lose their sparkle. I’ve watched her fall apart. And when you’ve watched your child go through this pain and all she has gone through, you want to do everything in your power to stop them ever feeling hurt again. You’re prepared to take on anyone and anything that causes them disappointment or angst.

I know it will be impossible for me to do that totally. Because I’m acutely aware that she will feel hurt. One day it’s inevitable that someone will break her heart. It’s almost a rite of passage and something she will need to go through in life. All I will be able to do will be to pick up the pieces and hold her until the hurt subsides a little.  

And so today, on Mother’s Day, I’m pausing to reflect on my role as a mother. To reflect on the promises I made to myself the day my husband died. That I would continue doing my best for our daughter. That I would try to protect her as best I could. That I would fight her corner for her whenever needed. That I would teach her self-worth. That I would teach her to never give up.

It’s been my hardest year as a mother since Mother’s Day 2020. It’s been the steepest learning curve of my entire life. But it’s been a year that’s taught me so very, very much about just what it means and what it takes to be one.

COVID-19 and me

This is a post which was written in October 2020, six months after the death of my husband. It was originally shared internally at work and then after a number of people asked if I would share this externally, I published it on LinkedIn. The response was overwhelming and just one of the many reasons I decided to start my own blog.

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7 March

“I really fancy some chocolate”

“Go for it. Pop it in the trolley. If coronavirus doesn’t get us, the asteroid that my colleague told me about will.”

30 March

“999, which service do you require?”

“Ambulance, I need help. I think my husband’s having a panic attack. 111 also suspect he may have COVID-19. But he’s not got a cough. He’s never had a cough.”

Two conversations. Three weeks apart. All it took to turn my entire world upside down.

When I joked with my husband about the chocolate, it’s because it felt impossible that the UK was going to be hit hard. We argued about sending our daughter to school. Even when the announcement came to work from home, it felt surreal.

So, when he started sporting a temperature, I didn’t worry too much. COVID-19 couldn’t be in our house. It was happening on the news. It couldn’t happen to my family. We’d followed all the advice, he must just have a bit a cold.

But as he steadily deteriorated, my fears grew, and we spoke to 111 twice in the week leading up to needing to ring 999. And as the three paramedics got ready to take him to hospital and we watched him walk to the ambulance, I made our daughter tell him she loved him. Two hours later, I learnt he’d been taken to ITU, immediately sedated and put on a ventilator. For three weeks he battled so very hard and our amazing NHS tried everything they possibly could to save him. But late afternoon on 19 April he lost his battle. A new life for my 10-year-old daughter and me had begun.

Because for the first time in my adult life, I was without Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. I used to joke that we only got together because I needed a date for my 18th birthday party and I liked his surname, but for over 20 years we’d been navigating life together. A life that saw Charlie be diagnosed with and beat testicular cancer at the age of 27. It was this that led him to adopt a philosophy that life was too short and to just enjoy it. And I think it’s testament to him and how loved he was, that over £4,000 was raised in his memory for The Oddballs Foundation, a charity which raises awareness of Testicular Cancer. He was pragmatic yet vivacious. He loved Christmas and for the entire month of December would wear a Christmas t-shirt, jumper or shirt! Quite simply Charlie was one of life’s good guys and without a shadow of a doubt, the person you wanted in your squad!

But above all else, he was beyond devoted to our daughter. He was so unbelievably proud of her and all she’s accomplished in her life so far, I simply know that hearing her voice on the Skype calls for the last week he was in ITU would have been the spur for him to keep on fighting. And while it breaks my heart that I can’t fix this situation for her, she continues to amaze me every single day and just like her daddy, I couldn’t be more proud.

At a time that has seen all of us living through challenging situations, adjusting to the new rules and restrictions, getting used to a new physical distancing world (Charlie didn’t like the phrase social distancing), my daughter and I have seen an abundance of kindness and support from so many people since that fateful 999 call. It’s why despite all we’ve gone through, I truly believe that it is kindness that will be my abiding memory from 2020. On my last evening out before lockdown I wore a t-shirt that said “In a world where you can be anything… Be Kind”. It really does cost nothing but it means so very much.

I can’t lie and say this whole experience hasn’t irrevocably changed our lives. It has and it will continue to do so.

But a month after he died, I said I wouldn’t let our experience define us or who we become. I stand by that. If we’ve learnt anything these last six months, it’s to be kinder, stronger and to refocus our priorities. And I know he’d approve of that.