Month: October 2021

18 months a widow

So, there you have it. 18 months of being a widow. I’m not a fan of that label if I’m perfectly honest, but the simple fact is that it is one part of who I am now. My husband died. I’m now a solo parent (I don’t like the term single). Yet, despite this, three months ago it was as though it was new. It was as though I’d been newly bereaved and lost him all over again.

You see three months ago; I held his Memorial Service on his birthday. I went into it feeling that I was doing it for everyone else. I was doing it for our daughter who really needed it. I was doing it for friends and family who hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to him. But I didn’t feel I needed it. I felt I’d had my closure at the funeral. I’d been living without him for 15 months; I knew he was gone. I knew the pain I was in and I’d accepted living with it. The service was just perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be. The tributes, the readings, our daughter singing. All just perfect. The Celebration of Life afterwards was equally as perfect. To see everyone in a room remembering him, celebrating him and being together was perfect. He’d have been so honoured.

It was the first time in 15 months that I’d stopped. That I just relaxed. I didn’t worry about being a widow. I didn’t worry about being a mum. I knew there were enough people there looking out for my daughter. I had a glass of wine. Or two. Or three. I naively did shots. In the cold light of day, I know this was a stupid idea, but at the time it was something I needed to do. I hadn’t been drunk since he fell ill. And just for that day, I felt alive. I relished the hugs from people. I hugged one of my closest friends for the first time. I didn’t want to let her go. It reminded me of what it was like to be a person. To have physical contact with people. To be a 40-year-old woman. Not a widow. Not a mother. But a person.

And then the spectacular crash happened. The day afterwards I felt delicate. But I put that down to the alcohol consumed. The following day I dialled in to my first conference call of the day. And promptly cried when I was asked how I was. I had to give in. I couldn’t do this. I was exhausted. I’d barely slept the night before. I turned the laptop off. I laid on the sofa willing sleep to come. I read and re-read a message from one of my friends who’d checked in on me that morning. I felt broken. I had nothing. He really was gone. This really had happened to us.

But the next day, I logged on to work again. Nobody forced me to. I just didn’t know what else to do. I made it through the day but felt exhausted by the end of it. The following day, I drove to one of our offices to try to make myself feel better. I went for lunch with one of my amazing friends there. But when I got home, I couldn’t remember driving round the M25 to get home. I couldn’t remember any of my meetings from that day. I knew I’d been there, but I couldn’t remember it. I sobbed. I broke on my daughter. I just kept saying “I’m just so tired. I’m so tired.” I spent nearly an hour on the phone to a counsellor via our Employee Helpline. I needed help. I knew that. And it wasn’t help that any family or friends could give.

Yet despite this, the very next morning I logged back on to work. Because I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t realised it, but work had become my security blanket. Around lunchtime, I had what was to be my final meeting for a while. When I was asked how I was, I just cried. I revealed what had happened the day before and was asked why I was working. The classic line was said to me. “If someone was telling you what you’re telling me what would you be saying?” I knew I shouldn’t be working. I knew I needed time out. But the simple fact was I was too scared to take it. Because to take it would mean acknowledging that I needed to stop. That I needed to deal with this. My husband was dead. 15 months later and it felt as fresh as it had on 19 April 2020. But for one of the very few times in my life, I listened to what was being said to me. I will always be so grateful for what was said to me and the care shown. I put the out of office on. I stopped working. And then I sat. I realised it was the first time I’d been in my house since he fell ill that I’d been by myself and not worked. I literally had nothing to do. My daughter was at school. I’d never been in the house during the day without her since he fell ill when I hadn’t been working. That was a real wake up call for me. Had I been looking after me at all for 15 months? Or had I been prioritising her (which I’d do again in a heartbeat)? Had I been hiding behind work? I’m a firm believer that you must look after yourself as you can’t pour from an empty cup but in that moment, I realised I’d not really been looking after me as an individual. I’d not got used to being on my own with nothing to do. I rang our Employee Helpline back. They did an assessment. They referred me back to counselling. I felt I was starting all over again.

Except I wasn’t. Because the difference was that I knew I needed and was able to have help from others. And while I barely told anyone what had happened, I did tell a few people. My amazing friends rallied around me. They fed us. They listened. They met me for lunch. They didn’t balk at my incredibly long WhatsApp messages getting my thoughts out of my brain. They knew they couldn’t understand fully, but they tried. They just let me do what I needed to do. When I was first widowed, I couldn’t get this help in the same way. Lockdown prevented it. Lockdown prevented us seeing others. It prevented physical contact. But now I could have it all. One of my oldest friends told me to embrace the hugs. As hard as I found hugging people, I knew he was right. I needed people to put their arms around me and just let me cling to them.

I’m not going to lie. Listening to my body, accepting when I’ve done too much and resting when I need to has been so hard for me. Yesterday was a prime example of me not doing this. Today is different. Asking for help and accepting I can’t do this alone has been so hard for me. But I’ve realised that I have to. It is simply not possible for me to do this alone. I can’t. And I’m one of the luckiest people in the world, because I don’t have to. All those people who have been there for me have shown me that. Yes, my husband died, and you might think that would leave me feeling unlucky. In a way, it does. But I refuse to feel hard done by. I won’t let this define mine or my daughter’s future. You either sink or swim when something like this happens to you. And I refuse to sink. I won’t let my daughter see me sink. Yes, she’ll see me struggle. She’ll see me cry. But not sink. I have to set an example to her. Because who knows what else she will go through in life. She needs to know that you keep going. You don’t let life beat you.

While last week took its toll and is one I suspect I’ll reflect on as being pivotal in months or years to come, it was also the perfect example of the amazing people I have around me. My friends let me drop my daughter off early so I could make it to the office slightly earlier. They let my daughter go round after school and fed her because I was in the office late. They then had us round for a Sunday roast because I’d had a heck of a week. The grandad of one of my daughter’s friends took her to her dance class for me. My long-standing colleague and friend let me wobble on him, waffle and share random thoughts til the early hours when my brain was overthinking. My mum and stepdad did the school run and had my daughter for two nights so I could do a late-night event and then an impromptu trip to Leeds to see Jason Donovan. A fabulous Twitter friend I’ve made offered me those Jason tickets because she felt I deserved them. My friend who said yes when she got a random message saying fancy a trip to Leeds? The people I’ve never met but have connected with because of what’s happened to me and got in touch because of the report into the pandemic that was issued. The Widowed and Young team for telling my viewpoints so beautifully in interviews. The team at ITU who let me go in and see the ward because I’d never been and felt that I needed to see where Mr C spent his final days. To see the machines that would have helped him to fight. The doctors and nurses who remembered him. Who were able to talk to me about him.

That’s when it hit me. Stuart Charlesworth made an impact on everyone he met. He left a legacy. And this is another reason that we have such amazing support. Because as much as people are doing it out of love for me and my daughter, they’re also doing it out of love and respect for him. They’re doing it because they know how I would treat them if they needed me. They’re doing it because they know it’s what he would have done for them. They’re doing it because they know he’d want his wife and daughter to be supported. To not be riding this rollercoaster alone.

18 months ago today, I felt the most alone I’d ever felt. I didn’t know how I was going to cope on my own. Three months ago, I felt broken. I didn’t know how long it would take me to piece myself back together again. I still haven’t. But I’m doing it, slowly but surely. In the words of John Mayer, “I’m in repair. I’m not together, but I’m getting there.” My husband still died. That will never change. I’m still a widow. I’m still a mother. But I’ve started to realise I’m also a person. A person who is so unbelievably proud of herself and all she has achieved over the past 18 months. A person who will live to fight another day. A person who will honour her late husband’s legacy. A person with the most supportive family and friends anyone could ask for. A person who knows she has so many people to call upon whenever she needs help. A person who has realised that asking for help doesn’t make her a burden. A person who has so much love to give. A person who can start to think about her future. A person who knows all of this is exactly what her late husband would want her to know.

He would never, ever have wanted his death to be the thing that destroyed me. And it won’t. It will be a part of me always. But I’ve learnt so much about myself, my daughter, and the people around me. I still love my husband. I always will. I still miss him every single day. But 18 months on, I’m starting to acknowledge that I can’t hide behind being his widow and a mother forever. I have to become my own person and keep living for me. Because I’m now so acutely aware of the legacy he left. And I’ve come to realise that as well as my own attitude and determination, this is what will see me through. Always.

I am 1 in 4

Eight years ago today, I became a statistic. In the month that Baby Loss Awareness Week takes place, I become a statistic. Funny really how the most painful experiences in my life are linked to statistics. But this is one that shouldn’t be a taboo and more people should feel comfortable talking about, because it will happen to 1 in 4 pregnancies. 1 in 4 will result in a miscarriage. Eight years ago, I became one of those 1 in 4 when I experienced a missed miscarriage.

For anyone who has never heard that term before (I hadn’t until I had one), put simply it’s where the body doesn’t recognise the baby has died. So, you don’t tend to have any bleeding or signs that something is wrong and you carry on unaware that the pregnancy isn’t successful. I say unaware, but I can vividly remember saying to Mr C shortly before we found out that I didn’t feel pregnant anymore. At the time, he told me not to worry, that I’d not really suffered when I’d been pregnant with Miss C and he put it down to me approaching 12 weeks.

So, I carried on following the guidance for pregnancy despite the fact that something was niggling me. On the day of my 12-week scan, I left the office early, Mr C picked me up from the station and en route to the hospital we went to a camping shop as we had a small amount of time to kill. We wandered for a bit and I picked up four clips to put on a table to hold your glass in. But as we went to pay, I put one back because something told me I wasn’t going to need four, after all, there were only three of us in Family Charlesworth. I didn’t make a fuss and I doubt Mr C even realised but I remember doing it. A few years later we were in the same shop. I stood in front of those clips and cried because of the memory they evoked. When we finally got to the hospital and the receptionist asked me if I wanted to pay for my photos ahead of the scan appointment, I almost retorted that there was no point because we wouldn’t need any. But I figured Mr C would just tell me off for being negative, so I kept quiet and made that payment.

When we were called in, I didn’t say anything, I dutifully answered all their questions. And then they started the scan. It was at this point that I knew something wasn’t right. Because they were silent. They weren’t talking to me about our baby. Four years previously when I’d had my first scan with Miss C, they’re been talking to me pretty much from the off. I remember crying as I saw our very much wanted baby wriggling around for the first time. But this time, there was nothing. There was just silence. Until we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…”

The sonographer went to bring someone else in for a second opinion. Again, we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…” There was no heartbeat. It looked like there was fluid on the baby’s brain. The baby had stopped growing approximately three weeks earlier. I’d been walking around for three weeks with a dead baby inside me and until that confirmation at the appointment, had been blissfully unaware of what was to come. I later learnt from the consultant that this was due to the pregnancy hormone reducing, my niggling feeling and not feeling pregnant was because of the hormones reducing. Had we not gone for that 12-week scan and found out, it’s likely my body would have realised anyway, it just took it a while.

We were dealt with very sensitively. Someone went to get me a refund for those photos I’d paid for. Looking back now, I wish with all I have that I’d insisted on still having photos. As macabre as that might sound, I have nothing other than memories to look back on. There’s no proof that this even happened. And since Mr C died, I have no-one to remember it with me. Days like today are just another reminder that the person I shared my life and experiences with is no longer here.

We made the decision that I would have a D&C. I felt that this was the best way to deal with what had happened. It would hopefully mean that there would be minimal impact on Miss C. It would mean that I was in control of what came next (needing to be in control is a very common theme with me). So, two days after our scan we went back to the hospital for the surgery. I sat in the car park and cried, refusing to go in because to go in would make this nightmare real. It would mean that this was really happening. Six and a half years later I’d do pretty much the same thing at the same hospital when I had to go and collect Mr C’s belongings. The hospital where we had our beloved daughter, where I was operated on after losing our second baby was also the hospital where Mr C died. And every single time, they’ve treated me with kindness and respect.

Going home after the D&C was surreal. I wasn’t in any real pain. It really was as though nothing had really happened. I could drink alcohol again. I could eat what I wanted. Overnight, life was returning to the way it was. Except for one thing. Me. It would take me a long time to return to normal after this. Not least because my body physically took a look time to recover and go back to normal. Mentally I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d done something wrong. Yes, I knew that this was just one of those things and it happens to 1 in 4 pregnancies, but it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. It didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d let Mr C and our baby down because I hadn’t been able to have a successful pregnancy. But the strangest thing of all was that despite this, I didn’t really know how to feel. A week after the D&C I couldn’t stop crying. I remember locking myself in the bathroom and ringing Mr C to tell him that I didn’t know how to stop crying. That I didn’t want to cry in front of Miss C because I didn’t know how to tell her what was wrong. She was three years old; how do you explain it? She was confused enough that I wasn’t working and was at home every day. That was enough for her to get her little head round!

I remember telling people not to be nice to me. Not to treat me differently. People would tell me it was ok to grieve, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what I was grieving for. I’d never met this baby. How can you grieve for something you’ve never really had in your life? But I was grieving. I was grieving for a lost future. I was grieving for our future family. Even now I grieve for that. Even now I still wonder who that baby would have been. Would they have been a boy or a girl? Would they have been like Miss C? What would they be into? Would it have made a difference to Miss C to have had a sibling when her father died? While the raw pain has dissipated, the “what if” that I feel even eight years on is just as strong.

And I also wonder “what if” about how I dealt with it at the time. What if I’d been more honest and spoken about it more. I know there will be people I worked with at the time who may read this now having had no idea of what I went through. Because I chose not to talk about it. I chose to pretend nothing had happened. I can’t remember for definite, but I’m fairly sure I only told two people at work. I went back to work after two weeks and the majority of people had no idea why I’d been off. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, it was just I wanted to carry on as normal. To talk about it would have forced me to deal with it. As I write this now, I have no idea why I took this approach. I’d have been given understanding. I’d have been given time. It would have meant that when I bumped into one of my friends at work, she’d have been a bit more prepared for me breaking on her. All she did was just ask me how I was because she hadn’t seen me for a while, and I cried. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. The experiences I’ve gone through since have made me realise that it’s ok to talk about miscarriage, about mental health, about grief. Because they’re all part of what is “normal.” They’re all part of who I am and what has happened on my rollercoaster life.

So today I remember. I think about my favourite and most treasured “what if.” I will always think about what might have been. And I talk about it. Because I am, and it’s ok to be, 1 in 4.