When the flowers stop

In August last year, an incredibly lovely person told me her mum had said to her at the beginning of my journey that the hardest time may be some months later “when the flowers stopped coming.” It’s stuck with me ever since. Because it’s absolutely true.

To mark his anniversary, flowers came into our house again. The smell was beautiful, I was so grateful, and it got me thinking back to when Mr C died. We were inundated with flowers. At one point, I had 14 vases around my house. The smell was beautiful. I was so very, very grateful. Until they died. Because they made work for me by dying. I vividly remember standing on my driveway yelling at my mum and stepdad while trying to consolidate vases and get rid of the flowers that had now died on me too. A gust of wind knocked a vase over and it broke. I yelled some more. My husband had died and now I was having to deal with dead flowers and smashed glass, I had enough to do, I didn’t want to deal with this as well.

That moment was the first time I’d really thought about the expectations, actions and support those left behind need when someone very close to them dies. I’ve nearly always sent flowers when people have lost a loved one, you are limited with the support you can show, and flowers are a nice way to do this. But not anymore. When one of my closest friends lost her partner to COVID in January, I didn’t send her flowers. I thought about what had been most useful to me and used that for ideas. One of the most memorable gifts I had was from a friend who said “don’t judge me” when she gave it to me. It was a bottle of gin, a bottle of tonic, a box of tissues, ready meals, bubble bath and hair dye. She thought I’d be stressing about my hair with hairdressers shut. She was right. That morning I’d sent my mum out to buy me hair dye ahead of the funeral.

When he died, we were inundated with messages. I spent almost every evening responding to them. We were inundated with support. We were inundated with people telling us they’d be there for us. Some of them have, some of them haven’t. We were inundated with people telling us to do what we needed to do. There was no expectation put upon us. We were just allowed to be. But as with the flowers stopping, the messages dwindled. It was unsustainable for such frequent contact to continue. I know that, everyone has their own lives to lead, the world didn’t stop because my husband died. But it doesn’t mean I need them any less. It doesn’t mean I need the support any less. Equally the lack of expectation also seemed to stop. Because when it comes to grief, everyone has expectations. Whether they know it or not.

When I returned to work, there was an element of surprise. It was too soon. Shouldn’t I give myself more time? Wasn’t I putting too much pressure on myself? Was I being fair on my daughter? Turns out I wasn’t conforming to the expectation people had. I absolutely know that people said this with the very best of intent and it was lovely to have such care shown towards me, but it started to show what I’d now be navigating as I walked along this new path.

I’ve been exposed to the expectation to move on when you’re widowed young. It was during one of my few visits out that I first came across it. I bumped into someone who knows my mum and was asked, “are you over it yet?” It took me a good few minutes to work out what they were referring to. I wasn’t expecting to be asked if I was over it six months after losing my husband. We chatted for a bit longer and they ended the conversation with “I wouldn’t worry about what’s happened, you’re a good-looking woman, you’ll find someone else. Don’t worry.” I was flabbergasted. Their attempt at comforting me I’m sure. And yes, while I totally acknowledge that I have no idea what my future holds, I do know that it won’t be a case of moving forward and not remembering or worrying. Irrespective of my future, part of me will always, always be Mrs C. Charlesworth. Charlingtonsworth. Or any of the other names that I’ve become accustomed to being called since I got married.

The hardest expectation though is about how I should behave. I’ve been told so often how strong I am, that it’s like there’s an expectation on me to be on my best behaviour and not show when I’m under pressure. That it’s not strong if I do that. I refuse to do this. I won’t put on a mask and pretend I’m ok. I did that once and learnt the hard way that it doesn’t work. But I sometimes wonder if I’m expected to. A perfect example took place in the run up to Christmas. I was openly struggling, life was the hardest it had been for a few months and beyond stressful, we were finding the third lockdown hard and I was dreading Christmas. This culminated in a conversation where I was short with someone. I used a tone. I was blunt. I admit it. I used a tone and was brutally honest in the conversation. I know it. But this resulted in me being told they were “not accustomed to being spoken to in the manner that I adopted.” It was used as a contributing reason for them distancing themselves not just from me, but from my daughter. And this stopped me in my tracks. To be told that hurt. It was a one off during a particularly stressful time. It was the first time over the nine months since losing Mr C that they’d seen me like this. Where was the support? Where was the understanding? Why wasn’t I allowed to have an off day? Why was this held against me? Against my daughter. As time has gone by and I’ve thought about it more, I think it’s because of the expectations and perceptions surrounding grief. When you’re perceived as strong and as time passes, you’re no longer meant to have off days. You’re not meant to need the support in the way you did at the start. The taboo of talking about grief means people don’t understand that off days and the need to be supported will be a way of life for me for an exceptionally long time.

But I’ve equally found myself having expectations. For people to treat us in the way that I’d treat them. I expect them to behave as I would. As Mr C would. He would, and I do, expect more from people for our daughter. Irrespective of what was usual before he died, I firmly believe, and expect, people should show up for her more because life is different now. It’s a new playing field. She was just 10 when her daddy died and the rules have changed. Maybe I’m wrong to feel like this. Maybe I’m wrong to expect things to change. Maybe it’s me that actually has unfair expectations. But when your life has been overwhelmingly changed beyond all recognition, your outlook and expectations change too. It’s inevitable. It’s why Mr C changed after his cancer battle. It’s why I know that if the roles were reversed, he’d feel and be having the same expectations that I do.

I know I’ve changed since he fell ill. I know there are people I’m far closer to now than I was then. There are people in my life now who are only in it because of what’s happened. There are people I’m not as close with. Partly I’m to blame. I know I don’t make as much effort with people as I used to. I don’t organise in the way I used to. I have far less tolerance for seeing other people’s mundane or first world problems. But I’m just so tired. I’m juggling being a solo parent while working full-time and running a household and all that that entails. Oh, and just the small matter of grieving for my partner of 21 years. The father of my child. Sometimes messaging or ringing people is just one more thing that I don’t need to be doing. Or I simply forget to. I suspect there are some who are uncomfortable with my honesty and talking about what’s happened. I suspect there are some who find it difficult to know what to say to me. I suspect for some it is easier to walk away because it’s too hard to walk this path with me. Because I’m a different person now. And there are some living with their own challenges who just don’t need mine on top of them.

But I’ll always be so grateful to those who have been there for me since the flowers stopped. They are the ones without expectation. They are the ones who have become my scaffolding, holding me up on this rollercoaster. They are the people who will help me get through whatever the future brings. I can honestly say I don’t know what it looks like. These people and the expectations on me could all change. As with 2020, I know the flowers will stop again. But the hard times won’t. The challenges won’t. But it’s knowing that there will always, always be people giving me the support I need during the hardest of times which is so invaluable.