A year of firsts

A couple of weeks before my birthday, a friend of mine said to me “you’ve almost done it now, your year of firsts, only a couple more to go.” In so many ways, he was right. Yes, I’ve done the first Father’s Day, Mr C’s birthday, wedding anniversary, Christmas and Mother’s Day. Yet in so many ways, he was wrong. There are a whole host of other firsts that I would “normally” have done in this year that I’ve not been able to. I, like so many others who have lost a loved one during this pandemic, have had their grief essentially put on hold.

For there is still so much I haven’t done without him. There is still so much as a family we haven’t done without him. A year ago today I was told for the first time to prepare for him to never come home. I made the calls to friends and family to tell them the next 24-48 hours were critical. That night was the first time I’d ever really thought about what my life might look like without him. But I still didn’t try to think about it too much. He could beat this. Whatever it would take for him to beat this and however long it would take for the recuperation, we could do it together. We always did. But of course, this wasn’t to happen. Navigating life without him would shortly begin.

Yet it didn’t begin in a way that is usually associated with grieving a loved one because of COVID restrictions. The standout one being it was nearly three months before I was hugged by someone other than my daughter. The first hug after the loss of my husband came nearly three months after he died. That’s not normal. Whether you’re a hugger or not, physical contact is so important when you’re grieving. I have not hugged my best friends. I have not hugged my mum. It wasn’t until nearly three months after he died that family and friends were allowed into our house for the first time.

Ironically enough, it was the first time we went to friends for afternoon tea that I ended up facing another first. My daughter fell off her scooter and I had to take her to minor injuries. As the nurse went through the questions she had to ask, she came to ask for her father’s details. I responded with “he passed away in April, do I still need to tell you?”. She looked so apologetic, I felt for her. She was just doing her job but for me it was much more than that. We went and sat in the waiting room for an x-ray and I cried. I cried because my daughter might have a broken bone. I cried because I’d just had to tell someone else in an official capacity that my husband was dead. A first that I hadn’t really thought about that would happen, but one that hit me so very hard.

And then I think of all the other firsts that I know I’ll have to do over the coming weeks and months. Just with my daughter there are a number: parents evening, dance shows, starting secondary school, swimming lessons, a theatre trip, a holiday, the ‘baby group’ Christmas Party. And for me, there are several things I’ve not been able to do and will need to do for the first time. Since my husband died, I’ve not been in a room with both my sister in laws and my father in law. I don’t know when or if that will happen for the first time, but I know his presence will be so dreadfully missed. I’ve not been in a room with the wider family. I’ve not been able to get together and reminisce with his Sunday League football team. I’ve not been for a big night out with friends. I’ve not had to deal with a hangover and my daughter by myself! I’ve not been in a large group of people sharing memories and smiling or crying at them. I’ve not hosted an Easter or fireworks party at our house, something we used to do every year. To be perfectly honest, the thought of doing all these things for the first time feels me with fear. Because I’ve become quite adept at being in my house, being with my daughter, only speaking to people via screens. How will I cope when I start to see more people? What will happen when people can hug me? Will I feel comforted? Will I break? Will I want to run away and hide from it all?

It was C.S. Lewis who famously said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” And not only do I feel fear at the future, but I’ve felt it over the past year of grief and firsts. Fear as to what happens to my daughter if something happens to me. I felt it when the UK raised the terror alert last Autumn. How can I possibly go to London for work if the terror threat is raised? What if something happens to me? I can’t have my daughter being an orphan, I need to wrap myself in cotton wool. But again, this isn’t possible. This is something I need to work through. And again, fear was so present when I had to take our puppy to an emergency vet late one evening last week. He’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, and they had to make him be sick to prevent it getting stuck. “There’s a risk of asphyxiation with doing this” the vet told me. My stomach dropped. I felt sick. I felt fearful. I wanted to cry. How could I possibly drive home and tell my daughter that our puppy had died? The main thing is that the puppy is absolutely fine and was far less traumatised by the experience than I was! But as I went and waited in the car for him last week, I realised for the first time how quickly I now jump to the worst-case scenario. If someone tells me the worst that could happen, I immediately assume it will. Because it has. My husband died; he didn’t come home. Other than losing my daughter, I can’t think of anything worse than that.

As I sit here now, a week out from my final first date, I don’t know how I’ll manage all the firsts that will come after this milestone. I don’t know how different year two will be. How different it will feel. I wonder in a bizarre way whether it will actually be harder. Because there is a greater chance with lockdowns easing that I’ll have to start living my life without him. I do know that no matter how fearful I am, that I can’t continue to hide away in my house. I need to be with people who are also grieving the loss of Mr C. Because it’s all part of keeping him part of our lives in the future.