Month: December 2021

Goodbye 2021

If 2020 was the year of shock, numbness and surrealness, then 2021 was the year of reality. The year of trying to adjust to our “new now” (I don’t like the phrase “new normal” as who is to say what is normal anyway?) I should have been writing this blog in New York. Our first overseas trip just the two of us, the prospect was both terrifying and exciting. But just over three weeks ago I made the decision to cancel, the reality was that everything about it was adding additional stress and worry, rising case numbers, change in testing regulations, closure of activities in New York. Need I go on? Because this is reality. I am still trying to adjust to widowhood and solo parenting while living in a pandemic. COVID-19 hasn’t gone away.

But what is different about the end of 2021 compared to the end of 2020 is that I consciously made a decision to avoid stress. I just don’t need it. I don’t need to be putting myself through it. I think back to this time last year. I crashed on 27 December, it was all I could do to get up each morning and when I did, I pretty much just laid on the sofa. Mr C’s Memorial Bench was installed on 29 December and I had to summon the energy to get off the sofa to see it. Because I’d run and run and run to get to Christmas. I’d done so much. I’d tried to do very personal keepsake gifts for his immediate family. I’d tried to make everything perfect for our daughter. I’d tried to honour him in every way I could. But do you know what? It didn’t make him come back. I didn’t get to Christmas Day, get a pat on the back and get told “well done, he can come home now.” Reality hit. I’d got to Christmas, put myself under so much pressure and for what? I was quite simply mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t go back to work. I had nothing left to give.

This was how I went into January 2021. Exhausted. And then reality give me a real slap in the face. One of my most loyal, closest friends who had done so much for me after Mr C died lost her partner to COVID-19 on 2 January. Two days into the New Year. I felt helpless. I couldn’t bear to see her. Because to see her would make this real. To see her would be to see the tears in her eyes and know that there was absolutely nothing I could do to take her pain away. This wasn’t meant to happen. Nobody else I loved was meant to go through this pain. I had to tell my daughter that once again the pandemic had taken someone from our lives. Someone who had made such a difference to my friend’s life. Who had put the sparkle back in her eyes.

And then reality and the unthinkable happened again a couple of weeks later. I received a text asking me to give my colleague a call. It was a little odd as I’d only spoken to her that morning and wasn’t working, but I still did it. She had to break the news to me that one of my colleagues had been killed in a road accident. He was just 29. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with him after I returned to work following Mr C’s death and the compassion and kindness he had shown me. How on earth could he have died in such a senseless way? His partner is in my immediate team at work. She is one of the most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. Simply lovely. Again. I felt helpless. I remember walking into my lounge after the call and my daughter asking me why I was crying again. I wanted to make something up. I couldn’t bear to tell her the reality that yet again somebody else I knew had died young. All you want to do as a mother is protect your child from hurt and pain, and here I was again telling her just how unfathomable life can be at times. How reality really can suck at times. But we had the conversation. Because this is what reality is. I can’t shield her from it. I can’t shield her from pain.

It’s why we have such an honest relationship. Because I’ve worked out that she deserves honesty. For a child of 11, she has been exposed to so very much. It breaks my heart. And while I don’t tell her everything, we do talk about so much. Because our reality has meant we’ve had to, we can’t shy away from pain, hurt and suffering. We talk about the fact I have counselling. Because over the past 21 months, I’ve spent 11 of them in counselling. It’s made me look at myself. It’s made me question a lot. And it’s also given me answers and helped me begin to come to terms with my reality. But nearly a year in therapy? I’d never have expected this. Even though I know how beneficial it is, the reality is that it’s still hard to come to terms with needing it in the way I have. To help me survive and be able to live a daily life. And despite the dialogue on mental health changing, it can at times be slightly taboo to talk about it and be open about being in counselling. To the point the fact I was having it was used against me at the start of the year.

I don’t hold it against the person who said it to me, because the reality I’ve come to accept in 2021 is that there is still a lot that society doesn’t understand about grief, mental health and life in general. I had a conversation at work recently about how society as a whole tends to focus on the negative, what you haven’t done, what you could do better etc… You hear the phrase “can I give you some feedback?” and instantly bristle because you assume it’ll be bad. To say “I’m having counselling” can, in some instances, cause judgement. The perception is you’re not right. You’re not good enough.  

But do you know what? 2021 has seen me become ok with that. I’ve come to accept that I will never be good enough for everyone. I’ve come to accept that there will be things I do that people can’t understand. Because that’s reality. But equally, I judge and do it to myself. I will automatically talk about everything that I’ve not been able to do since Mr C died. Because isn’t that what we’ve been taught to do? Focus on the negative? I’ll tell you I’m not as efficient as I once was. My brain doesn’t work in the same way. I’ll walk away rather than fight for what I believe in because I can’t handle stress. I don’t have as much patience or tolerance. I forget things. I buy presents for birthdays and Christmas and worry that they’re not good enough, but the truth is I’ve simply run out of energy at trying to get everything right. I have mum guilt like never before. I haven’t achieved as much at work as I’d have liked. I don’t call or message people enough. I haven’t been as good a friend as I might have been before because I don’t put as much effort in.

Yet this is where the counselling has helped and the Emma at the end of 2021 compared to the Emma at the end of 2020 tells herself to wind her neck in. Because I need to acknowledge that I’ve achieved a hell of a lot this year. I deserve to feel proud of myself. Whatever anyone else thinks or says. That is the reality. I have launched my own blog that has not only helped me but has also helped others. I organised my late husband’s Memorial Service which gave so many people the chance to say goodbye to him. I’ve learnt how to show my vulnerability. I’ve continued to work. I’ve kept a roof over our heads. I’ve organised home improvements. I’ve pretty much done everything we used to do as part of a partnership single-handedly. I can now go into supermarkets again. I’ve become an ambassador for Widowed and Young. I’ve taken my daughter away, to friends, to festivals, to theatres. I’ve given her new memories. But more than that. I’ve somehow got out of bed on days when I don’t want to. I’ve still put one foot in front of the other. Every single day. My daughter has not gone without love. There has not been a single day she hasn’t felt my love even when I’m in the pit of despair. This is my reality that I need to focus on more. What I have done. There will always be people who are quick enough to tell me what I haven’t done or should have done differently. But I need to have more faith and belief in myself. To remember what I have done. What I have achieved.

I’ve been reminded so much of this throughout this month. In the run up to Christmas, my daughter said “I just don’t understand why this Christmas is so much harder than last year.” We spoke about how last year we were in shock and survival mode. Whereas now we’ve spent the whole year coming to terms with the reality that her daddy really is gone. He’s never coming home. We will never spend another Christmas with him again. And that’s why it’s so much harder. Because it’s real. As each day passes, our reality and life without him crystallises. I listened to her repeatedly tell me she was over Christmas. I watched her sit on the sofa and refuse to move. I’ve just had to cuddle her because there was nothing else I could do to help her. But Christmas Day came and the punt of an idea I had for her present changed everything. She smiled again. She laughed. She sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Yes, Christmas Day resulted in me being absolutely exhausted again because of the energy I’d needed to put into helping my little girl, but seeing her happy made everything worthwhile. I achieved that. I helped her get through it. And this just reinforced the reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in 2021. The ability to accept the rough with the smooth.

I can’t lie. I have very mixed emotions saying goodbye to 2021. The first year since 1974 that Stuart Charlesworth hasn’t been alive for any of it. Since 1996 that he’s not physically been a part of my life. A year which has caused so much new heartache and pain. A year which has seen relationships break down. A year which has seen me fall apart repeatedly. Yet it’s also been a year which has seen me smile, laugh, dance and hug more. It’s been a year that has seen me start to think about my future and my new reality. For the first time in such a long time, I can answer “I’m ok” and mean it when people ask me how I am. That’s not to say I’m of the view that life has become all cupcakes and rainbows. It hasn’t. I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to. Because I’m going to make sure I remember one thing in 2022…

I am good enough.

I’m so sorry

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to say this to you. Countless people have said to you “I’m sorry for the loss of your husband” but I know that you’ve needed to hear more than this. I know that you’ve needed a greater acknowledgement of what has happened to you as an individual since he died. I’m going to do my best to give you what you need and say the words you’ve needed to hear for so long. But you’ll need to forgive me if I don’t say it all. It’s just so huge that I don’t know if it’s possible for me do so.

I’m so sorry for all the suffering and hurt I’ve caused. I’m so sorry that having me as a constant companion has added to the load you have to bear. I know that it was hard enough juggling being a wife, a mother and working full time before your world turned completely upside down. But now you must juggle being a widow, a mother and working full time while also getting used to having me in your life. I’m well aware that you didn’t ask for me to be a part of it. I know that you don’t want me here. I know that you want nothing more than your life to go back to how it was in the autumn of 2019. To a time when you felt safe and secure. To a time when you felt you were living in the calm before the storm.

I’m so sorry that storm did come. I’m so sad and so sorry that having me as part of your life has meant that rather than waiting for the storm to pass, you’re having to learn how to dance in the rain. I love that you’ve had this saying up in your kitchen for years. Because it’s true. I’m sorry for how I make you feel daily. For all the times you feel completely exhausted. All the times you feel that you’ve literally got nothing else to give. All the times you feel that you just want to hide away from the world because living with me is just so hard. All the times that your family, friends and colleagues have borne the brunt of how difficult it is for you. All the times when your patience has worn thin. All the times when you’ve snapped at them. All the times you’ve yelled at them. All the times you’ve read a message and forgotten to reply. All the times you’ve had every intention to ring or message someone but actually then just sit. All the times you’ve walked away because you simply don’t have the energy to try to make people understand any more. I know how regularly you beat yourself up over all of this. How you worry about forgetting things, not contacting people, making plans, organising, or trying to help people in the way you once did. Please stop doing this. People understand why this is. People appreciate the additional strain you are under. But you need to remember this. I put you under extraordinary strain. I know that but I’m not sure you do.

I also know that for nearly two years now, you have sacrificed yourself because the only two people you prioritise are your late husband and your daughter. I know how all you really want is to make them both proud. I know that despite me being here all the time your number one aim is to honour his legacy while doing what’s best for your daughter. I know for the most part you don’t even give yourself a second thought. Because you can’t. Because the minute you stop and think about you and what me being here has done to you, it’s too painful. I know that with every tough decision you’ve faced, you’ve asked yourself “what would Charlie do?” Because this is one of the only ways you can survive this. Knowing that he would be supporting you. Knowing that he would do exactly what you have done. I know without question you just want to hear him say “You’ve got this Em. I’m so proud of you. I love you.” I wish I wasn’t here so that could happen. I really do. But I have no doubt he’s watching over you and willing you to know that he’s saying this to you. Every single day.

But I also know that not everyone has made allowances for you and for me being here. That isn’t easy at all for you and I’m so sorry for all the times you’ve been judged. For the decisions you’ve made because of the role I play that have disappointed or angered others. Ultimately you’ve had to make so many decisions that would be hard for people to do with others around them let alone when you’re on your own. I know how hard it is for you when people only see what they want to see. When they see you going out. When they see you living. When they see you achieving. When they think you’ve moved on. When they assume that you’re over me and your loss. People don’t realise that you will never be over what’s happened to you. It’s simply not possible for you to do this.

I’m so sorry for all the additional worry you’re facing. That you really don’t need me tagging along for the ride as you try to come to terms with that. For the deep sense of personal and sole responsibility you now have for your daughter. For your constant worries about her future. For how you alone will provide her with financial security and the love she needs having lost her daddy. But more than that. For the worry that any mother of a child her age has. Watching her growing up. Adjusting to the fact she’s becoming more independent. Adjusting to the fact she needs you in a different way now. This would be hard enough at the best of times let alone with having me front and centre. It’s just another thing for you to have to contend with. I sometimes wonder if people forget that as well as me, you still have all the regular worries and concerns that everyone else must deal with. They didn’t just vanish the day your husband died. If anything, they probably became more exacerbated. Because now you’re dealing with them on your own. And that’s a big responsibility.

It’s why I’m so sorry for all the times you’ve felt so completely alone when I’m by your side. For the times you haven’t wanted to call or message anyone because you don’t want to be a burden. For the times of a weekend, when you’ve not reached out because you don’t want to be a bother and trouble people in case they’re busy or have plans. For all the times you alone have borne the brunt of your daughter also having to live with me. For all the times she’s hit out at you because she doesn’t know how to cope with me being a part of her life. I know you know she doesn’t mean what she says to you and you’re just the closest thing to her, but it doesn’t mean it hurts you any less. It doesn’t mean you don’t sit and sob because her words on top of me being here are just too much to bear. I promise you though. She loves you. Without you, she wouldn’t be where she is today. Together the two of you will get through anything. It’s been a privilege to watch your relationship strengthen despite the toughest of challenges you have faced.

And I feel so privileged to have seen how you have responded despite having me in your life. How privileged I have been to watch you keep going. How privileged I have been to see just how many people want to be there for you and support you. How privileged I have been to see how your truth has helped others. How privileged I have been to watch you become a more robust version of yourself. A more vulnerable version of yourself. How privileged I have been to see you smile. To see you laugh. To see you dance. To see you continue living. These days are sometimes the hardest. Because you know I’m never far from your side. I see the guilt you feel. I see the despair that you just want me gone because you want to be able to go to the theatre and not cry. How over all the constant little triggers you are. How much you want me to stop being a part of your life because it’s just so tough for you having me here.

But I can’t lie to you. I will be a part of your life forever. You will never be rid of me. I really am so sorry about that. I watch as you learn to deal with me by yourself because nobody else will ever truly understand what it’s like for you living with me. They can’t. Because I am unique. I am different with everyone I encounter. I don’t have the same relationship with any other person. Our relationship is ours and ours alone. Yet I hope one day you come to appreciate having me here. I’m only here because of how much love you had. I’m actually a reminder of that love. A reminder of the love that you still have. The love that you will always have. I hope that one day you will come to realise that. That I’m the love you just couldn’t give to your husband in person. And I hope that I start to make you smile. Because I promise you, I’m not just here for the pain.

Your faithful companion.

Grief x