Learning to live with the unimaginable…

Last Tuesday, I took my daughter to see Hamilton in the West End. It was her birthday present from me, it was going to be the first theatre trip we’d done just the two of us since Mr C died. But for a variety of reasons, it ended up being the third one! And as I sat there watching it, I was struck with the overwhelming realisation of how much life has changed since 2020. The same date two years ago, I was told to prepare for my husband to never come home. I spent a week praying and hoping that the hospital was wrong. My life at that point seemed unimaginable if he was to die. The day he died my entire life and my future seemed unimaginable. But as the cast sang “It’s Quiet Uptown” and I watched them sing the lyrics “learn to live with the unimaginable,” my tears started. My daughter’s tears started. It felt too close to the mark. Because that is absolutely what we’re doing. Learning to live with the unimaginable.

When I wrote a year ago about the day my late husband died and the immediate aftermath, I actually think I was still in shock. I don’t think I appreciated it at the time, but looking back now, I think I was still in shock. I was still learning to live with and process what had happened to my family. The immediate aftermath of our entire world imploding. The country was still living under restrictions. I still hadn’t hugged so many of my friends and family. My daughter and I were, to a certain extent, still living in a protective bubble, trying to just survive. We hadn’t really had to return to our old life and adjust to life without him. This second year, we’ve had to do it. This second year has therefore been much harder.

I’ll openly admit I’ve struggled more. I look at photos of him on our wall. I watch videos of him singing. I still struggle to comprehend how someone who was so full of life just isn’t physically here anymore. And never will be. I’ve had moments where I’ve forgotten myself. Where I’ve gone to ring him. Where I’ve expected him to walk through our front door. These are the real reality check moments. That this is forever. And that he will never, ever be here again. It’s utter madness. I don’t think it will ever make any sense to me. I’ve watched my daughter transition to secondary school without him by my side. I’ve done my first parent’s evening without him. The whole time I was doing it, I was hopeful that all her teachers knew what had happened to him. I didn’t want them judging him that he wasn’t there for parent’s evening. Because without question, he would never have missed it if he had been alive. All the time, thoughts of him are ever present. I know how much it would have broken his heart if he’d have known that our daughter was going to grow up without him. I know how remarkably proud he’d be of her for how well she’s survived these last two years.

I’ve been back to the crematorium where his funeral was held for the first time. I went for his Nan’s funeral. It was without question one of the hardest things I’ve had to do over the last couple of years. To stand there and watch the same funeral director talk to the family. To watch our daughter break down during the eulogy where the loss of him was mentioned. To be around everyone who should have been at his funeral. But I did it for him. It’s still such a huge part of my life. Making sure that I do things for him. I knew he’d have wanted me to go. To represent him. To pay respects. To show support to his family. It was the right thing to do. He always believed in doing the right thing no matter how hard it might be.

I’ve spent so much of this last year making renovations to our house. I hope he approves and likes what I’ve done to it. I have no doubt that he’d be rolling his eyes at my choice of flooring for the kitchen and the conservatory, and my decision to put Jason pictures up, but let’s face it. I have to rebel a little bit! I hope more than anything I’m making him proud. I hope I’m honouring his legacy in a way he’d approve of. But the last few months have also showed me that I’m getting to a point where I need to look after me a bit more though. Where I need to stop keeping busy and just learn to sit. If he was here now, he’d tell you that I’ve never really been any good at just sitting, but I think now he’d want me to put some energy into me. Not “Charlie’s widow,” but Emma. I know I need to do that really, but in all honesty, I’m scared to. Because I don’t know if I’m really ready to stop doing things for him. It’ll make it just that bit more real that he’s really gone if I do. But in a bizarre way, stopping would also be honouring his legacy, it’s something he’d want for me. To slow down a bit.

And I’ve tried to think if there’s been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about him or spoken his name. I don’t think there has been. Because I still need to. I still want to. It’s all part of me learning to live with the unimaginable. The only way I can even begin to process what has happened is to still talk about him. To still think about him. I can’t just wipe his existence from my life. I don’t want to. Yet, the periods between the gut-wrenching sobbing are longer. I don’t sob every day anymore. In fact, I don’t even cry every day anymore. But I still cry incredibly more frequently than I used to. The first time I went to see Jason Donovan and realised that Mr C would never again roll his eyes at me or wind me up about the obsession. When my sister and I went to see Ronan Keating and he sang “If Tomorrow Never Comes.” In the theatre. When a random song comes on a playlist (music is absolutely my kryptonite). When I watch my daughter do the washing up and inspect the dirty items as he used to. When friends send me pictures or videos of him that I might not have seen before. When a text message comes at a time I need it the most. I could go on. Because all these things and many, many more make me cry. I strongly suspect they always will. I’m a heck of a lot more vulnerable than I was before this happened to me.

But as time goes on, I still refuse to see myself as a victim. I still refuse to see my daughter as a victim. I don’t want to let the pain win. I don’t want to stop living. Believe me, it would be very easy to curl up in a ball and do this. It would be the easier option, because learning to live with the unimaginable is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There are no two ways about it. Even the small things hurt. I can no longer have a family organiser calendar up in my house, because the missing column is just too painful. So, when I did my calendar for 2022, I filled it with photos from 2021 to remind us that we had had good times during that year. To remind us that we survived. But in selecting these photos, there was also an element of guilt. There was an element of sadness. That we had had good times. That we had smiled. That we had laughed. That we were still able to live our lives despite what had happened to us. That he is missing out on so, so much. I can’t help but wonder if the tinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the good times will ever fully dissipate.

Yet I think I know what he would say to me if he could. I think I know what he would have said if he’d been able to speak and say goodbye when he was in hospital. I think it would have been something along the lines of “It’s my time Em, but it’s not yours. You need to keep living. Enjoy your life. Make the most of every day. Live for the moment. Stop overthinking. Make memories with our little girl. Bring her up in the way we always wanted to. Don’t let this destroy her. Don’t let this destroy you.”

That little voice that is always at the back of mind is what has kept me going this past year. That little voice has spurred me on every single day. Yes, without question this second year has been more challenging for me. Because I’ve had to face a reality that I really didn’t want to. Because I’ve had to begin to learn how to live my life without him. Because I’ve had to acknowledge the trauma that I went through. Because I’ve had to spend so much time working on me. The cast of Hamilton sang these lines last Tuesday:

These lines are why I found that song so hard to watch. Because I’ve not been able to push away the pain. I haven’t been able to push away what I can’t really understand. I haven’t been able to push away the unimaginable. I have had to confront it head-on. My life became unimaginable two years ago. It’s why it’s been so incredibly hard for me. Because I wasn’t given a choice as to whether I learnt to live with the unimaginable. I haven’t always got it “right.” I know that. But show me anyone in my position that has. Quite simply, we all do what we have to do to survive. Because until you feel in a position to choose life and start living again, that’s what you do. Survive. One minute, one hour or one day at a time.

And that’s why as I reflect on the second anniversary of his death, I know that the next year will bring new challenges. It’s the way my life will be forever now. I am the mother of a child who lost her father aged 10. I am a young widow. I will always be both of these things. That means that whatever my future holds, I will face challenges and uncertainties that most people my age wouldn’t even have to think about. But I also know that I’ll survive them. I’ll embrace them. It’s all part of learning to live with the unimaginable. And it’s exactly what my late husband would have done if the roles had been reversed. If he had been the one left behind. It’s why we made such a good team. Because we both understood the value in living.

So, today I’ll no doubt shed some tears. And tonight I’ll raise a glass to Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. Two years gone. But never, ever forgotten. Because I will always tell his story. That I promise.