Emma Charlesworth

A mother’s love…

Recently, someone shared a video in the Widowed and Young group on Facebook of an interview which Martin Lewis had done a few years ago. In it, he spoke about the death of his mother and how that had affected his life. There was one phrase that really hit me “that was the end of my childhood.” I was sat in the car park of our local Dunelm at the time of watching and it just made me sob. And made me think about my own child. It made me realise something that I’d not really thought about before. I’m the mother of a child whose childhood ended at the age of 10.

Because it really did. Yes, I’ve done my very best to keep things as “normal” for her as possible. Yes, I’ve managed to make it possible for her to keep doing a number of things she did before the death of her father. But the simple fact is, she has been exposed to the harshest of realities. She grew up, essentially, overnight. She lost a parent. One half of the team that had been keeping her safe and protecting her for 10 years disappeared. The person who had got her up every day. Her hero. She lost him. In the most surreal of times.

Of all the people who are grieving the loss of my late husband, it is my child that my heart breaks for the most. Even more so than for my own loss. Because as I look at it, I was fortunate enough to have known him since I was 15 years old. I’d been in a relationship with him since I was 18. He’d been in my life for over 20 years. I have so many memories of him. I had so many experiences with him. We’d done so much together. All that potential has been stolen from our daughter. She no longer has a future with her father. Studies have been done as to what age children start having memories from, and the general consensus is that it’s around seven years old. That means she has just three years of memories with her dad. And they’re meant to last her a lifetime. Except they won’t. Because it’s only natural that other things will come into her brain and start to replace them. Yes, she’ll remember things (I’m not saying she won’t) but if I was to sit here now and talk to you about my life between the ages of seven and 10, how much can I really remember? Not a huge amount.

I listen to her say that when she’s 20, her dad will have been dead half her lifetime. I watched her sleep in my bed for 18 months after he was rushed to ITU because she was so terrified that something was going to go happen to me too. I watched her completely struggle with Christmas last year, because the magic of it had gone (her first year of not believing) and the reality of her dad not being here at Christmas was too much for her. These little things remind me that she is actually still a child. A child in pain. But when I think back to that Martin Lewis interview, there is so much of her that I’ve seen that feels as though her childhood is over.

When she’s been sent messages that, in my opinion, should never have been sent to a child, she was the one who wanted to write the responses. She didn’t want me step in and deal with them for her. And respond she did, in the most eloquent and articulate of ways. I was so, so proud of her. But at the same time, my heart broke that tiny bit more, because I knew I hadn’t been able to stop the hurt she was feeling because of it. I knew I couldn’t make it better for her. My role as her mother is, and always will be, to protect her and try to stop heartbreak. I spoke in my blog on Mothering Sunday last year about how much of a fierce Mama Bear I’ve become. But over the last year, I’ve had to make sure I don’t unleash the Mama Bear too often, because my daughter has become more ready to take on the next battle herself. Partly this is due to her age, and the transition to secondary school, but also when your heart has been broken in the way hers has, you’re not really afraid to take on the world. You’re not really afraid of anymore hurt because, to a certain extent, it feels inconsequential compared to what you’ve gone through.

She’s also become so very much more adult like in her interactions with me. I still have to remind her on a regular basis that she is a child, and needs to do as she’s asked, but the crux of the matter is that she has had to step up these last two years. She was the only person in the house with me for such a long time after my late husband died. She has had to physically help me get up off the floor. She has watched her mother fall apart and break on more than one occasion. She has been the one to frequently see my tears and ask “why are you crying mummy, what can I do to help?” She is the one who has given me pep talks and reality checks when the going has got really tough. She has, to a certain extent, become a carer for me. Not out of choice, but because she is the only one living with me 24/7 and seeing the pain I’ve been living with. She is the one who has stepped up to do chores to get pocket money and sell her decoupage items so that she can save money to buy me presents for Mothering Sunday, Christmas and my birthday. This was pretty much dealt with for the first year, but she now feels it’s not fair on my sister or my mother to buy presents on her behalf anymore. She feels a responsibility. A responsibility to not only look after her mother, but to provide for her when needed too. All this at the age of 12. It’s no wonder that I feel that I’m a mother to a child whose childhood has ended.

I look back at my own childhood. To a certain degree, I wonder if this is what my mother felt after the breakdown of her marriage. Because I know that I had to step up then too. I helped look after my sister, so my mother was able to do things. Not least of which was doing three jobs. I don’t know the full financial implications and arrangements following my parent’s divorce, I didn’t need to at the time, I was a child after all, but I do know that my mother did three jobs so that she was able to continue to treat us. She wanted us to be able to go on holiday or to concerts (she possibly regrets that now though given my Jason Donovan and my sister’s Boyzone obsessions!!) I will always be beyond grateful to my mother for everything she sacrificed and did for us when we were growing up.

I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like for her when she had to watch her eldest child tell her child that her father was going to die. Heartbroken and helpless is all I can assume. Because I don’t think there ever really comes a time when your child is not your baby. I say to my own daughter that she’s my baby and she responds with “I’m not a baby.” No. She isn’t. But she is my baby. And she always will be. My mother would probably tell you that I’m her baby. Over the past two years, I’ve watched her try to do more and more for me. Despite me saying “I’m nearly 40 / I’m in my 40s / I can do it myself.” She felt helpless for so long because of the restrictions in place, that I suspect there’s an element that now she can help, it helps her to help me. She gets cross when I don’t wash my car, so takes it off my drive and does it for me. She’ll turn up with my stepdad when he mows the lawn to do some gardening for me. When my washing machine broke earlier this year and the repair took longer than anticipated, she did all our washing. And would regularly bring it back ironed. She’ll cook us dinner if I’ve got a particularly hectic schedule. She helps out with my daughter and our puppy so that I’m able to go to the office or have nights out. Put simply. I would not have been able to achieve or do half as much as I have without her since I became a solo parent.

And this is against a backdrop of some fractious times. It hasn’t always been plain sailing between my mother and me. There may well be other challenges in the future. But it comes back to a mother’s love and what being a mother means to you no matter what the circumstances are surrounding the relationship. My late husband hadn’t spoken to his mother for many years before he died, and neither had I, but I will still acknowledge the pain she must feel. It’s why I’ve made sure I’ve sent her copies of photos, newspaper and magazine articles, in the same way I have for his father and his sisters, because, at the end of the day, she is a mother who has lost her child. She in return has written to tell me how proud she is of her son and to thank me for all I have done to keep his memory alive and to honour him. She will always be his mother. His death won’t that change that.

I can’t begin to comprehend and don’t claim to know what it must feel like to lose your child. I realised recently that my own daughter is now the age my cousin was when she died, and I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Because I simply can’t imagine how I’d feel if my daughter’s life ended now. It goes against the natural order of things. When you become a mother, it isn’t something that you ever contemplate. I know from my own experience that I hadn’t expected to feel the unconditional love I do for my daughter, but I also know that I hadn’t expected the constant fear and worry that goes with being a mother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do in order to protect my daughter. From anyone and anything. And the knowledge that I can’t actually protect her from everything is heartbreaking.

But I also know that because of everything she’s gone, and continues to go through, she’s growing up with a very realistic outlook on the world. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. I recently came across the Facebook post my late husband posted on Mothering Sunday 2019. It came after a particularly trying weekend. He said:

“You are a fantastic mother, so, if nothing else, take from today that achieving that accolade is not purely down to making your child happy. It is about teaching, guiding, encouraging and sometimes pushing your child to understand what it is to show compassion, kindness, respect and love, even if it, at times, feels like it is at the sacrifice of those things for yourself. This is why you are a great mother and why one day, you will reap the benefit of the seeds you sowed.”

I’ve had to continue to teach my daughter compassion, kindness, respect and love in a way that I know he wouldn’t have anticipated when he made that post in 2019. I’ve sacrificed so very much of myself these last two years since he came down with his temperature on Mothering Sunday 2020. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, because that is my role as a mother. But as I sit here now, I know that I can start to give a little bit of attention back to me because of the amazing person my daughter is becoming. I can’t properly articulate just how proud of her how I am. In the same way, my late husband’s mother is proud of her son. In the same way that my mother is proud of me. I have a child who makes me beyond proud. Every single day.

I know that she won’t let the death of her father beat her. When I watched the Martin Lewis interview and how he credited some of his success to the loss of his mother, I envisage in years to come hearing my daughter say something similar. She tries every single day to better herself. She has the steely determination of her father. She shows so much dedication to music, drama and theatrics, I’d put money on me one day watching her on a West End or Broadway stage. And whatever her future brings, I know that when I watch her achieve, I won’t feel the heartbreak anymore that her childhood ended so young. I’ll just feel enormous pride that the experience and hurt didn’t define her. That she used her experience to help her become the person she wanted to be. And as her mother, I won’t be able to ask for anything more.

Angels on my side

I’ve spoken a lot about the amazing support I’ve had from my friends, family and colleagues. The people who know me. It’s something that I have never, and will never, take for granted. I’m exceptionally lucky. I know that. You’ll often hear me call my friends and family angels. Or tell them in a message that they’re an angel. I’m also confident that my daughter and I have a guardian angel watching over us. But what has really taken me by surprise is the strangers who are angels and have come into my life when I least expected it but really needed them. I should have guessed that I was going to come across a lot of angels when the two women who provided a lifeline to my husband when he was in ITU were called the ‘Skype Angels’. But their impact and story deserves much more than a paragraph in this blog, one day I’ll tell it. But for now, I want to talk about what I’ve learnt about the impact that it’s possible for anyone to have on your life when you need it the most.

Oddly enough, the way I feel about this is nicely summed up by the lyrics of a Rick Astley song. And for those of you who have read previous blogs or follow me on social media, you’ll know I’m just a teeny bit of a Jason Donovan fan. So, it almost feels unfaithful to Jason to be featuring Rick Astley in a blog! But still, his song “Angels on my side” feels beyond pertinent for many reasons. If you don’t know it, it opens with the lines:

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like waking up

Wanna stay inside my dreams

Sometimes I feel like I am breaking up

Do you know just how that feels.”

I’ve felt this way. Not wanting to wake up and face the reality of my situation. Not wanting to get out of bed. I’ve felt that I’ve been breaking up. I’ve felt that no-one knows how that feels. On more than one occasion. It’s one of the reasons I joined the charity Widowed and Young (WAY). I feed off and get my strength from having people around me, so I knew that to help me survive the madness of widowhood, I was going to need to connect with people who would understand some of the emotions and feelings I was having. Who could empathise with me. Who could reassure me that I wasn’t going mad. And it’s thanks to WAY, that a very important angel came into my life as I headed to Carfest last August. Ironically enough, a festival that saw Rick Astley headline on the Saturday night.

As a family, we’d been to Carfest twice while Mr C was alive. We really enjoyed it, there is something just so freeing about dancing in a field of strangers without a care in the world. My daughter loves it and so, in 2021, I booked to go again with some exceptionally good friends of ours. I was really looking forward to it, and while I knew that it would be difficult, it was something that I felt we needed to do. Until the day before. Then the magnitude of what I was about to do hit me. It felt utterly impossible. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go back and manage this without him. I even messaged my friends to tell them that I thought it was unlikely that we were going to be able to go. I quickly received a phone call from them to talk to me about it and try to convince me it would be ok. But even my wonderful friend couldn’t do it. To the point, he left that phone call convinced that they were going without us. His view was that if he couldn’t talk me round, nobody could (he’d been able to calm me down and talk me round on numerous other occasions over the previous 18 months).

But as I’ve done repeatedly, I put an honest Instagram post out about how I was feeling. And that’s when an angel appeared. Emma, another Widowed and Young Ambassador happened to see that post and tell me she was going to Carfest. The following morning, her and I exchanged some private messages about it. She told me that she’d done it when her husband was alive and had subsequently done it without him. It gave me hope. It made me feel that if someone who had gone through a similar experience and emotions could do it, so could I. To this day, I’m utterly convinced that without these messages, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have felt that I’d have the strength to do it. But she made me feel it was possible, no matter how hard it was going to be. It’s thanks to her that I rang our friends, told them we’d be going but still asked them to completely bear with me. They’re without question angels themselves so they understood. We agreed that I’d literally take it hour by hour. And that’s exactly what I did.

Yet on the third day, the emotions all got a bit much for me. I just felt overwhelmed. And as I stood waiting for my daughter who was in a queue for food, I listened to James Blunt sing “Goodbye My Lover.” Music is like kryptonite to me, and I couldn’t keep the emotion in any longer. I stood there and just broke. I sobbed. In the middle of a field surrounded by strangers, I just stood there sobbing. I couldn’t keep it in. A complete stranger came up to me, touched my arm and said “I don’t want to intrude, but I just felt I needed to come over and check you’re ok.” The kindness she showed humbled me. I explained what had happened and that I was just having a moment. She listened, gave my arm a reassuring squeeze and then went on her way. I’ve no idea who she was, I’ll never see her again but I know I won’t ever forget her and how that kindness made me feel. Another angel. Rick Astley closed that evening and sang “Angels on my side.” He’ll never know just how much that song resonated with me at that moment and felt unbelievably apt. But it really did.

As I look back at Carfest now, I know it was so important for my daughter and I to do it. I’m so proud of us that we did. We needed to do something we’d done as a family as a twosome. We needed to make new memories. But crucially, and despite there being over 20,000 people at Carfest, Emma and I also managed to meet and chat. As soon I started talking to her, I knew she was going to be someone that was going to continue to be in my life. We’ve continued to message and keep in touch since then. Despite only meeting her once, I absolutely consider her a friend. She was the person I turned to and messaged when I was having a wobble at the first wedding I went to after Mr C died. I know she’ll always be at the end of the phone if I need her.

And this weekend, I’ve seen her for the first time since Carfest. It honestly felt like I was meeting an old friend. But it also saw me meet other angels who I know are on my side. Who know just how it feels to be breaking up. Because this weekend, I travelled to Cardiff for the launch of the 25^th Anniversary Year for Widowed and Young. Other than Emma, I’ve never physically met any of the people who were there before. Yes, there’s been Zoom calls but that’s it. I chose to wear my Mutha Hood “Fearless Female” t-shirt, but this was my way of hiding my true emotions. Because I was a little fearful of walking into that room. A friend of mine told me she thought I was exceptionally brave to be going, and while on my way, I did feel a mixture of nervousness and excitement, but I knew I didn’t need to worry really. If it was going to be like the Friday night WAY quiz I join, I knew I’d be walking into a room full of angels.

But I can’t lie. Doing this is something that is completely out of my comfort zone. For the most part of my life, walking into a room of people who are essentially strangers is not something I would ever have done. When I was younger and people would meet me for the first time, they would think I was really rude because I just couldn’t engage in conversation. I suspect I had what might be known as a resting bitch face! But it’s not that I was rude. It was just that I needed to sit and observe people before I felt comfortable enough to talk to them. To get the measure of the situation. And once I’d done this, I’d be able to talk to them. This continued for many, many years. In fact, I didn’t attend the first postnatal group I could have with my daughter because I was too apprehensive. I didn’t want to be judged for being a working mother. I didn’t want to talk to people that the only thing I’d have in common with was the fact we’d had a baby. I’ll always be so grateful for that decision though. Because a few months later I relented and went to another class. I’d started to wonder if it might be an opportunity to meet people that would end up being friends for me and my daughter. I did. I’m still very close with members of that “Baby Group.” Nearly 12 years on, we still regularly catch up. And friends I met there looked after my daughter this weekend so I’d be able to go away. More angels on my side.

And as Emma and I checked into our hotel yesterday, another WAY Ambassador was also checking in. “Are you here for the WAY event?” she asked. “Yes” was our response, and that was it. An instant connection was formed, we chatted and all walked to the event together stopping off for a chat in the grounds of Cardiff Castle, the location of the very first WAY event 25 years ago. When I walked into the event room, people I’ve seen on Zoom calls or have connected with on Twitter were all there. It felt like I’d known them forever. I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, the angels on my side were going to come through for me. Because as odd as it might sound to someone who hasn’t experienced the power of peer support either in person, virtually or via social media, it is one of the most invaluable forms of support you will ever experience. I have regularly felt comfort, solidarity and love from people I’ve never met (and may never meet) but have connected with because of our shared experiences. I feel incredibly privileged to be able to both benefit from, and, help others. It is not something I would have ever expected when I was first widowed. For anyone who might feel nervous about reaching out or joining WAY, I’d encourage you to do so when the time is right for you. It is without a question, a lifeline for so many.

This was reinforced as I sat listening to all the speeches about how WAY was founded and the impact it has had on so many. It was both inspirational and humbling. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Hearing how many people in the UK are eligible to benefit from the charity is simply heartbreaking. It’s estimated that close to 100,000 people in the UK have been widowed before their 51^st birthday. I still find it hard to comprehend that I’m one of them. I probably always will. But chatting with people who have also gone through this, meeting people who I feel a connection with and know will continue to play a part in my life is beyond comforting. As I travelled home today, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Because despite all the tough days that I know are still ahead of me and the ongoing rollercoaster that I’m on, I know I’m going to be ok. And on those days where I might feel a bit of doubt about this, I just need to remember the chorus of that Rick Astley song:

“’Cause I got angels on my side

I got angels flying high

And everything gonna be alright

‘Cause I got angels on my side.”

Love…

Mr C and I didn’t really bother with Valentine’s Day. He used to think it was just Hallmark’s way of making money. Occasionally we might grab a takeaway or send a card, but other than that there was no fuss. But it didn’t mean that we didn’t love each other. It just meant that we didn’t need a particular day to show it. Yet this year, I’m thinking more about love and all that goes with it. What it means to me. What I’ve learnt about it throughout my grief.

Both my bereavement counsellors have asked me what I miss most about Mr C. Each time, the answer to that has been simple. Him. I just miss him. I can’t single one thing out. But for a while now, I’ve realised that I’m missing something else. For a long time after he died, I felt numb. I felt dead inside. I missed him. I missed everything about him. The person. The man, the myth, the legend. Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. But as I’ve started to emerge from this numbness, I’m realising that I’m missing something else too.

I first started emerging from my numbness a few months back. I know exactly when it was, although at the time, I didn’t realise quite what was happening. It was when a friend was doing me a favour. It was one of those weeks when you just can’t make diaries match and the only time we could get together was one evening. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen him in the daytime over the past couple of years, but never of an evening. And as we firmed up plans, I suddenly realised that this was the first time since Mr C died that I’d be having male company of an evening. Yes, I’d had evenings with friends in couples (or groups when permitted) and friends or family had been round of an evening while my daughter was still up, but in just over 18 months I hadn’t had a one-on-one evening with a man.

I can’t begin to explain how nice it was to just sit for a bit and chat over a cuppa. But as he got ready to leave, I started to feel scared. I couldn’t really comprehend why. But this feeling of knowing he was going to go home and leave me on my own just hit me. I didn’t want to be on my own. I just didn’t want to be on my own. I wanted to sit and talk to someone all night. I wanted adult company. In that split second, I realised just how much I’d missed adult company of an evening. How much I’d missed male company. Now of course, this is me. So, my brain completely overthought all of this and went from zero to 100 in a matter of milliseconds. My brain started over analysing these (perfectly normal) feelings. I barely slept. I couldn’t work out why, from what felt like nowhere, this realisation and these feelings had hit me. And so, I did what all “sensible” people who are going through times like this do, I buried it. I tried to pretend I hadn’t felt any of it. I didn’t even really talk to my counsellor about it. Because I knew to do so would be to unlock something I wasn’t quite ready to. Something I hadn’t realised I’d be needing to deal with.

But subconsciously, it’s been there ever since. I joked with a friend over Christmas as to whether I could borrow her husband once a month on a Tuesday. She laughed and queried why just a Tuesday. So, I explained. It’s the day I do an exercise class, the bins need putting out, my daughter needs help with homework, and I have to cook dinner. It would just be nice to have an adult in the house to do some of these things. To put the bins out and sort dinner while I’m out for an hour. To just take the pressure off me doing it all. Again, those feelings were sneaking up on me. I really was starting to miss something else. Something more than just Mr C as a person.

And then at the start of this year, I looked after the daughter of some very good friends. She’s my daughter’s BFF, she came round for a sleepover and they spent the following day together. Absolutely no bother at all. Yet when her dad came to pick her up, he stood on my doorstep with some flowers to say thank you. Totally unnecessary, but very lovely, nonetheless. But it completely unnerved me to see a man on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers. It threw me. I couldn’t think of the last time a man had given me flowers that weren’t linked to the death of my husband. A little gesture. But unbeknown to him, it came at a time when so much was going through my head about gestures, love, and companionship. It was another little thing that made me stop and think. Those feelings I’d been trying to bury were getting closer and closer to the surface.

And it’s funny what brings them to the surface and forces you to deal with them. Because that’s happened now. Over the past few weeks, a rather amazing friend has been helping me out by doing some decorating for me. He’s without question one of the best friends a girl could ask for. The sort of person you’d be genuinely lost without if he wasn’t in your life. The sort of friend you can have banter with, be sarcastic to and very rarely complimentary to. So much so, should he read this, he’ll no doubt pass out at me being so publicly nice about him. But it’s all true, I’m so lucky to have him and will be eternally grateful to him for his friendship and how he’s looked out for me (fairly sure this is what he told me to write if ever I mentioned him in a blog.) Told you. Our friendship is one of sarcasm.

Anyway. I digress. He was at my house the day I went to my first funeral since Mr C’s. At the same crematorium. With the same funeral director. I was absolutely done in by the time I got home. But having an adult there to talk to made the world of difference. Having an adult realise that all I really needed was a hug, helped immensely. Just having another adult in the house to talk to has been immensely helpful. It came at a time that I was missing going to the office and seeing people, so it was a godsend to have him here. There was one day that he finished early, and I went downstairs to discover his mug on the worksurface. Now, just to clarify, I don’t usually expect tradesmen to put their mugs in the dishwasher, but he doesn’t really count, and so, I sent him a message having a dig. When he was next back, I finished work and came down to find his mug in the dishwasher. It really made me smile that he’d thought to do this. I may also have moaned (ever so slightly) when on a day of calls, I rushed downstairs in a five-minute gap to make him a cuppa, only to discover that he’d already made himself one. And not me. Again. I don’t normally expect tradesmen to make me a drink. But again I, obviously, wound him up about this. In nearly two years, I think I can count on one hand the occasions when I’ve been working and someone else has made me a cuppa. So, on another day, when I was again back-to-back, he sent a text asking if I’d like a drink and brought it up to my office in my Mrs Jason Donovan mug. He subsequently did this without even asking. What more could I ask for?!

But all these examples. The thoughtfulness. The flowers. The Tuesday evening juggle. They’ve really got me thinking. Add them to the feelings that started to emerge a few months back and it’s forced me to stop and think. About what else I’m feeling and missing. It’s more than just “simply him.” It’s more than just a physical person. I’m missing a companion. I’m missing our relationship. I’m missing all the little things that go hand in hand with having someone by your side. The someone to talk to when you’ve had a long day. The thoughtfulness. The little gestures. The bringing me home a packet of Haribo because he knew how much I liked them. The unexpected bunch of flowers, just because. The person who would listen to what you were saying when they’d done something which wound you up, and try not to do it again. The teamwork. The splitting of responsibilities. Knowing someone was there no matter what. I’ve lost all of that as well as him as a person.

And that feeling I tried to bury and not deal with? The reason I didn’t want my friend to leave that evening? That feeling that I wasn’t ready to unlock a few months back? It is, quite simply, one of feeling alone. Loneliness.

I find it incredibly hard to admit to this. To be able to say out loud “I feel lonely.” Because I’m surrounded by so many amazing and wonderful people. Yet, despite them, there are no two ways about it. I’m on my own for the first time in adulthood. I’m responsible for every single decision. Nobody says goodnight to me when I go to bed. And as I’m working through my grief, feeling less deadened and devoid of emotion, I’m having to acknowledge what this feeling is and how it makes me feel. Because I can feel it now. And it’s hard. It’s painful. I also think there’s a perception that loneliness is only really associated with the older generation, but hey, isn’t that meant to be the case with widowhood too? But my reality is that I am on my own. Being lonely is a new feeling that I need to learn to adjust to and live with. I’ve entered a new phase of my grief.

I’d love nothing more than to wave a magic wand and have this feeling go away. But I actually know I need to become comfortable with it. It’s why I’m not about to go on the hunt for, or try to find, a new relationship to quell this loneliness. I’m really not. Far from it. Because it’s all part of what I need to go through to be me and understand who I am now. To be able to know and love myself again. It’s why my first new love in this next chapter of my story is writing. Because it’s helping me to work through so much. It’s helping me to love and remember who I am.

Plus, as I’ve said to my daughter, I’m acutely aware that it’ll be a tricky task finding someone who would even be willing to put up with me. And the Jason Donovan obsession. And all the baggage that I’ll come with. And there’s not exactly been a queue of men at the front door! Yet, while this may sound like a jovial discussion, it’s another one of those conversations that I sincerely wish we hadn’t had to have. We had it after watching yet another Christmas film with a dead parent (do you know how many of these there are?!) The mum in the film had started a new relationship and my daughter told me she doesn’t want that to be me. So, we had to have a chat. When I told her that I will always love her daddy, she couldn’t comprehend how this would be possible if I also love someone else. That’s incredibly hard for a child to understand. If I’m honest, I don’t really understand how it would work. But it would have to.

Because it’s how it will always be. I don’t envisage a day when I won’t love Mr C. I don’t envisage a day when I wouldn’t want to. But I’ve also come to realise that I like the feeling of companionship. Of being part of something. I miss it. And so, despite the love that I will always have for him, I’m also beginning to acknowledge that it’s possible that I may want a new relationship. I may meet someone else. I can’t 100% promise my daughter that it won’t happen. Because none of us know what the future holds. The last two years have taught me that. There is no point planning and stressing about the future. Someone very wise has been trying to get me to accept this lately, and I simply have to. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

It’s why when my daughter and I finished our chat, I reassured and promised her that if, one day, someone does come into our lives, they’re going to have to be a pretty special person. They’re going to have to be one in a million. Because they’re going to have to accept that Mr C will always, always be a part of our lives. He’s not a part of my story to be shut away, never to be spoken of again. That’s not how love and grief work. My grief and my love for him will be forever intertwined.

So, as I sit here on a day to celebrate love, no matter how lonely I am, I know that I wouldn’t want it any other way. When he first died, I remember telling people that I would never, ever have another relationship. Because I couldn’t contemplate the thought of going through this pain again. But what I’ve come to accept and realise is that I only feel the pain and loneliness I do because of love. And that makes me lucky. Because I’ve known a love so great, that my pain, grief and loneliness are also so great. They’re the price I’m paying for our love. And without a shadow of a doubt, I’ll be paying it forever. Because my love for him will never die. Whatever the future may bring.

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

Who am I?

The $64 million question. When I first started this blog, I said that it was a journey of me finding Emma. But in all truthfulness, that journey has taken a bit of a dip these last few months. I’ve spoken a little bit before about the loss of identity I’ve felt since being widowed, but it’s really come to the forefront lately. So many times, I’ve said “I just don’t know who I am anymore.” It’s something that friends of mine struggle to understand. And I can see why.

Because on the surface, it seems odd. I’ve always been Emma. I was Emma before I met Mr C., I was Emma during our relationship. I’m Emma now. And that’s true. But I’ve lost a massive part of me. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of a couple. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of Emma and Charlie (or Stuart and Emma depending on your perspective.)

The two pictures I’ve selected to accompany this blog I’ve done so for a reason. The one on the left is the last ever picture of us on Christmas Day. I looked at it in the run up to Christmas last year and didn’t recognise the people in it. The one on the right is the penultimate selfie of us taken a month before he fell ill. It’s what I chose for November on my desk calendar. I’ve been looking at it every day this month. And I don’t recognise myself in it. It doesn’t look like me. I struggle to understand why. But I simply think it’s because I don’t believe the person in either of these photos exists anymore.

Being shallow, you could easily put it down to a change in hair colour and growing my hair ever so slightly. You see I’ve always had dark hair. Never in a million years would I have considered blonde highlights. But in August last year, I needed to do something to try to hide the grey hairs! Or so I thought. But looking back now, I think I needed to do something completely different with the way I looked. To try to find a new identity to help with what I was going through. I’m so glad I did it. But, interestingly enough, when I had to dye my hair dark ahead of the highlights being refreshed this August, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person looking back at me. It just so happened this took place the day before I was due to go the Palladium to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and chance my luck at the stage door for a certain Mr Donovan. You would not believe how much I stressed over not looking like me on the train to London. How I positioned my sunglasses on my head to try to hide the fact I had dark hair again. I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Jason that day, my sister got the most amazing picture but when I first looked at it, all I could think was “does that even look like me?” No-one else noticed, they all told me what a great pic it was, but I still couldn’t help thinking about the person in that picture.

Because on the surface I am still very much the same person I’ve always been. I do know that. But what’s different is what’s on the inside. What’s different is the way that I feel. The way my life is now defined by “before” and “after” the death of my husband. What’s different is the insecurities I now have. Ultimately that’s what’s changed. Not the way I look. Not the way I dress. But the way that I feel. I admitted to a friend yesterday that I’m scared of being judged by people now. For how I’m grieving. For decisions I’ve made. But also, for my friendships. I’ve always had close and strong relationships with men, Mr C always accepted that and never had a problem with it. But now I constantly wonder whether people are judging me for it. I know this comes from my own insecurity about who I am, but it’s because I’ve never had to deal with it before. It’s new. Aside from a three-month break in 2003, I’d never been a single adult until last year. Navigating life as one on top of the grief is complicated. Because I don’t know how I’m meant to behave. I don’t want to change who I am because of societal norms and expectations, but I’ve considered whether I should.

It’s just another example of why I look back on a person from two years ago who now feels so very different. The person from two years ago who now feels like someone I used to know. Not me. That Emma can’t have been me. There’s so much about her that I miss.

I miss the Emma who used to be able to run at a 100 miles per hour constantly (figuratively speaking you understand). I miss the Emma who used to be able to juggle 1,000 things in her head without the need to make to do lists to even remember the simplest of tasks. I miss the Emma who felt confident at work and good at her job. I miss the Emma who used to host parties. I miss the Emma who could go to a wedding and not have a panic attack during the Father of the Bride speech because she doesn’t know who’ll give her daughter away if she gets married. I miss the Emma who felt safe and secure. I miss the Emma who didn’t sleep with her phone by her bed every night in case something terrible happens in the middle of the night. I miss the Emma who didn’t spend so much of her life on the verge of tears knowing that even the smallest of things can make her cry. I miss the Emma who didn’t automatically assume the worst was going to happen in every single situation she faced. I miss the Emma who used to have a bit of fight in her. I miss her most of her all.

I’ll type a message to family members about how much my daughter needs them right now knowing that I’ll never send it. Because of what’s previously happened when the protective mama bear kicked in and I stood up for her. Because of the unsubstantiated accusations levelled at me since he died. I have no fight left. And this pains me beyond all belief. Yes, for my daughter and what she is going through, but also for me. Because it’s not who I was before my husband died. I would fight for what I believed was right. I would do everything I could to make things right. I would do everything I could to make things better for our daughter. But now I’ll simply walk away. Because anything that takes additional effort and fight, I can’t do. I don’t have the energy in the way I once did. Because it takes everything I have just to get out of bed and keep going every single day. That is the hardest part of being Emma now. Getting through every day is a fight.

Now. That’s not to go all woe is me and make out that I’ve not had any enjoyment since my husband fell ill. To do that would be lying. We’ve now got a puppy. I have the most amazing people around me. I’ve been shopping. I’ve been to the cinema. I’ve been on days out with my daughter. I’ve been on meals with friends. I’ve had days in the office that energise me. I’ve been to theatres. I’ve been to gigs. I’ve been to a festival. I’ve had nights away. I’ve had a marriage proposal from Jason Donovan (more on that WILL follow in the future). But each of them is tinged with sadness. The changes that were made at Carfest that saw me think “I must ring Charlie and tell him about them.” Coming home to an empty house after a fabulous time in Brighton and having no-one to talk to about it because my daughter was away. Watching my daughter grow up and experience things knowing what both she and he are missing out on. The number of tears I’ve shed in theatres because everything feels like a trigger. All of which take it out of me. And quite frankly, are exhausting. I often wonder when the time will come that this will lessen. I suspect it’s a while off.

Yet, I do know there’s hope. I know there are glimpses of the old me coming back. Recently after a night out, a friend went home and told her husband “I’ve seen Emma tonight” because she felt that it was the first time she’d seen “Emma” in 18 months. I’ve had another friend say she’s starting to see the old me in photos I’ve shared. But this is where it gets interesting. Because as much as I miss the old Emma and who she was, I’m also a fan of the new one. I feel grateful that she is now a part of my life. The Emma who can write. The Emma who can take photos. The Emma who can actually cook a meal and not give anyone food poisoning. The Emma who can put shelves up. The Emma who has become a dab hand at building flatpack furniture. The Emma who is far more sensitive but who has opened up, let people in more and is now closer than ever to friends and family. The Emma who is gaining strength and friendship from strangers who she has a commonality of experience with. The Emma who has astonished me every single day by how she has kept going.

So, who am I? I still don’t actually know. If you asked me to do an elevator pitch to answer that question, I don’t think I could. Because so much of my identity came from my life with my husband. He helped shape the person I became. He was a massive part of my identity. Without him, I’ve lost that part of my identity. It will never be possible to gain that back. And while finding Emma is one of the scariest things I’ve ever had to do, I do know that one day in the future I will find her. I will know who she is again. And I already know she’s going to be somebody who in so many ways is the same person she’s always been. But she’s also going to be somebody who is stronger. Kinder. More thankful. More vulnerable. And that’s probably not a bad thing.

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.

There will always be light no matter how dark this life can get

Twenty years ago today Mr C got the all-clear from his testicular cancer. Yes, that’s right, 11 September 2001. The day the world changed forever. And with it being 20 years, I’ve spent a lot of the day reflecting on the eight months that also changed his life forever. This is really his story to tell, but he can’t do that anymore. So, I’m going to tell the story of one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I think he’d want me to.

It was February 2001 when things really got bad for Mr C. He’d been going back to his GP on and off for around 18 months ahead of this with various symptoms. At each point he was reassured that there was nothing to worry about. He never got a second opinion or pushed for one. So, in February 2001 when he was in so much pain and could barely walk because of how swollen his testicle had become, his GP finally sent him for tests. Within three days he was being operated on to remove his testicle. I remember vividly going to see him after this operation and thinking how well he looked. He looked well because he was no longer in pain. Little did we know just how ill he actually was, and what would happen within a matter of weeks.

Three weeks later we learnt that the cancer that had started out in his testicle had spread. He had three additional tumours and would face intense chemotherapy and potentially more surgery. He was just 26 years old and there was no guarantee he would make it. The staff at St. Barts hospital in London were simply brilliant with their support and the speed at which they moved to get his treatment started. Over the next couple of weeks, he had to make sperm deposits in case the chemotherapy left him infertile and then on 30 March 2001 (my 20^th birthday) he started chemotherapy. He would go in every Thursday, have a cannula in each arm with the drugs in and be in hospital until the Sunday. He’d then have three weeks off before doing this all over again. It was intense. He lost his hair. The steroids he was on made him put on weight. He was exhausted. But he always, always wanted to fight.

Until one day in June. It had all got too much for him. He encouraged me to walk away from him and live my life. He was worried that I hadn’t signed up for this and it wasn’t fair on me. For anyone who read my blog “Being Mrs C” you’ll know that I didn’t walk away at this point. But it was hard to watch him lose his fight. Gradually he got it back, he felt had his whole life ahead of him. He wanted a future. So, he kept fighting. And then in August 2001 we learnt that while the tumours had shrunk, he would need that further surgery. Because of where one of the tumours was, there was a chance that to remove it would result in him losing a leg. He still signed that consent authorisation. To him, having a future without a leg was better than no future at all.

The day of his operation, his dad and I went to London. Delays on the train meant that we didn’t get to see him before he went to the operating theatre. This pained me beyond all belief. So, we just had to wait. We went for breakfast; we went for a walk via St. Paul’s Cathedral (it seems ironic now that the Remember Me project for those lost to COVID-19 will be in St. Paul’s). I can’t tell you what else we did but I do know that I’ll always be grateful his dad was with me that day. When we eventually made our way back to St. Bart’s we thought we’d be seeing him shortly. It was still some hours to go. His surgery was taking longer than anticipated. I think it was just under nine hours until he made it back onto the ward. One of the first things he did when we saw him was lift the sheet to check on his legs. His sense of humour even on such a day was there to see. A few hours later the consultant told us that everything had been removed. All was looking positive, but we’d still need to wait a few weeks to be sure. He was in hospital for a week after this surgery. He’d essentially been cut in half and it was going to take time to recover. He had a lot to endure, obviously helped when on one visit I tripped over his catheter… It’s a miracle he stayed with me after this!

And then on 11 September 2001, he got the news he’d been waiting for. He was clear of cancer. We spent the morning at St. Bart’s and then met his dad at a pub in Westminster to celebrate. We then got on the tube. It was rammed. We weren’t sure why, it seemed most odd. As we pulled out of London, we overheard a guy on the train talking on his phone about World War III breaking out. We didn’t have a clue what had happened. This was before smartphones and all we could do was wonder.

I remember us getting home, switching on the TV, and finding out about the unbelievable events in the USA. The euphoria from the morning left us. So much loss and devastation was happening overseas, it was quite hard to be jubilant. We just sat there for hours watching the news in disbelief. It was like something from a disaster movie, this couldn’t be real life surely? Except it was. And it made the day of his all-clear memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Over the next few months, he tried to find a job (he’d just started one when he was diagnosed and unfortunately couldn’t stay). He really struggled to even get interviews because of the gap on his CV. It turned out that all-clear was fast becoming an anti-climax. Life wasn’t all cupcakes and roses because of it. I started to see the change in him too. He was far less tolerant of things. His temper was shorter. This experience changed him. Yes, there were so many elements of the old Charlie there, but you don’t go through what he did, staring death in the face and expect to still be the same person afterwards. You reassess your life. You reassess the people in it and how they treat you. You have new expectations. I’m not saying this happens to everyone that goes through an experience like this, but it certainly happened to him. And I can see it happening to me too now that I’ve been widowed. I haven’t personally stared death in the face, but death has affected my life in a way I’m still trying to comprehend.

But this experience also made him appreciate life more. He lived for the moment. He realised life is fragile and made it his mission to just enjoy it. He was told on more than one occasion that he should lose weight, but his philosophy was that he liked food and he wanted to enjoy his life. Not live governed by other factors. He was the life and soul of the party. He treated everyone equally. He wanted to make sure that everyone enjoyed spending time with him. But above all else, he became fiercely loyal to all his friends and family. For the people who had been there for him. The people who visited him in hospital. Who took him unbelievably noisy toys! But in all seriousness, those people who were there for him then are now there for me. He was blown away by the support in 2001, he’d be blown away by the support for me now. I just know it.

And as the years went by, he’d remember this day. Usually with the phrase “B*ll*cks to cancer.” But he never forgot the significance of his all-clear date. He would make reference to the tragic events that had happened as well as the milestones he was reaching in Facebook posts. I’ve been reminding myself of them today, it makes me feel closer to him. And one stopped me in my tracks. It ended with this paragraph “So please, while we must remember this date, the horror of what happened in New York and share our support with the families of all those who were lost, some still have a reason to celebrate this date, people were saved, children were born and illnesses were beaten. There will always be light no matter how dark this life can get.” He knew this first-hand. His life had been dark but in typical Mr C fashion he always looked for the light, he knew it was there. And since his death, he’d be so honoured that his Testicular Cancer experience is raising awareness and hopefully giving light to others via raising funds for charity. When the funeral directors asked me the name of a charity for people to donate to after his death, I chose The Oddballs Foundation. So many of our friends, family and colleagues now get their underwear from Oddballs, over the weekend one of his school friends completed her first triathlon and the little boy who was ring bearer at a wedding (he’s not so little any more!) will be running Scarfell Pike. Because of the significance of the date, they also chose to raise money for The Oddballs Foundation in his memory. He’d be so honoured.

But above all else, I know without question that this philosophy he strongly felt about finding light after darkness, the strength he displayed when living with his cancer and the character he showed after he was given the all-clear is something that has stayed with me to this day. I can’t, and won’t, let the darkness beat me. The strongest man in the world taught me that. I will always continue to look for the light. And I will do it because of, and for him.

Being Mrs C

Today marks 16 years since I officially became a Charlesworth. Since I officially became Mrs C. But I won’t be celebrating with my husband tonight. Because today also marks the second wedding anniversary I’ll have spent as a widow. I don’t know how this is possible. Time seems to be going incredibly fast since Mr C died. It’s hard to believe in just over a month he’ll have been dead for 18 months. I’ll have been without him for the first time in my adult life for 18 months. I’ll be at the two-year mark before I know it.

But my wedding anniversary also gives me the opportunity to look back on my marriage and my time as Mrs C. Many people have said how much love comes through my writing and my other blogs, and while this is true, I don’t want to give the false impression that our relationship and marriage was plain sailing. Put simply, it wasn’t. Friends will tell you how they could always tell if Mr C and I had been arguing in advance of going out or seeing them. Tense. Frosty. Just some of the terms used to describe us! But this was who we were. It was par for the course. Because while our relationship may not have been perfect, it was real. We took the good with the bad. The rough with the smooth. Because we’d got used to life being like this. We’d gone through a hell of a lot before we even got married.

You see, Mr C’s first chemotherapy session was on my 20^th birthday. Just shy of our second anniversary of being a couple (what can I say? I’d needed a date for my 18^th birthday party!) I was ill equipped to deal with this. I didn’t really know how to cope with having a boyfriend who had been diagnosed with cancer, because I didn’t really know myself then and how to ask for help. It’s why 15 months after he got the all clear, we split up. It sounds like the biggest cliché in the world but during my time as Charlie’s girlfriend and his illness, I’d lost who I was, I felt like I needed to find me again. Little did I know that this loss of identity would come back again almost 20 years later after his death. I think this is a whole other blog in itself. Trying to maintain your identity after being widowed is, in my opinion, one of the hardest things in the world.

But back to our story. At the end of 2002, we split up. It was my decision. It hurt him. I ended up hurting him even more during our time apart. I didn’t mean to or even want to; I was just trying to find Emma again. And ultimately my actions resulted in us getting back together and giving it another try. Why? Because we realised we wanted to be together and needed to work through things as a couple, not as two individuals.

Fast forward a year and he proposed. It wasn’t a fancy proposal, but it was everything I’d wanted from one. And when I said yes, he told me that he had a date in mind. 10 September 2005. Yes, that’s right. There was no Bridezilla here, Mr C chose our wedding date. Three years earlier when he’d received the all clear, he did so on 11 September. The 11 September. The day the world changed forever. But for him, it was the day he felt he got his life back. And so, when he was thinking about proposing he thought about dates. He wanted our first day of waking up as Mr and Mrs Charlesworth to be on the anniversary of the day he got his life back. So, it was set. 10 September 2005 was our wedding day. I never imagined that when we uttered the words “Til death do us part” this would happen just over 14 years later.

And while I’d love for our wedding to have been the happy ever after and start of a blissful life that you hear some people talk about, it wasn’t. We had to work hard at our marriage. Having two stubborn people in a relationship, both of whom must always be right is going to lead to clashes! There were times we both came incredibly close to giving up. I think our daughter was three or four years old when he packed his bags and almost left. When I was particularly struggling with my mental health, I almost walked out. But we always worked through it. We were good at that. Working through our problems. We had plenty to contend with which put a strain on our marriage from both sides, but we worked through it. Because we were Mr and Mrs C. We were a partnership.

I look back now at what it was like being Mrs C. I felt secure. I felt settled. I was part of a team. I was independent but always knew there was someone there who had my back. I was loved unconditionally. I mean, on occasion there was tough love, but it was always done to get the best out of me. I was part of a parenting partnership. Mr C would do the drop off of our daughter in the mornings, I would be there to do pick-up in the evening, either on my own or with him. I didn’t cook, I did the washing and ironing. I would come up with elaborate ideas of how to decorate cakes and cookies involving edible eyes for Easter, Fireworks and Christmas parties, he would be the one to research how we could do them. I would watch him capture special moments by taking the photos, I rarely held a camera. I’d give him cards to write because I always said he had a better way with words than me. I didn’t do the food shopping alone; we would always do it together while our daughter was at dance lessons. It took me over a year after he fell ill to walk back into a supermarket for the first time. I couldn’t bear the thought of doing it on my own. And the first time I did walk in one I cried, much to the embarrassment of our daughter! There’s so much more to my life as Mrs C, but it feels a lifetime ago. And while part of me will always be her, I know deep down inside that she doesn’t really exist anymore. She can’t. Not without Mr C.

Life is hard without him in it. Both of my bereavement counsellors have asked me what I miss most about him. The answer is simple: him. I just miss him. There isn’t one thing I can single out. I miss all of the above. I miss his laugh. I miss his voice. I miss watching him be a father. I miss his sarcasm. I miss him rolling his eyes. I miss him telling me about the latest board game on KickStarter. I miss being part of Family Charlesworth. I miss his advice. I miss him being my thought of reason. I miss his company. I miss him being here. Ricky Gervais summed it up perfectly in After Life (please don’t watch this if you’re easily offended!) when he said “I don’t miss doing things with Lisa, I miss doing nothing with Lisa. Just sitting there knowing she was there.” And it’s exactly that. Because that’s the crux of a relationship and marriage. During the good times and the bad, you know that there is someone there for you. Always. 16 years ago I thought I’d have a lifetime of having that person. I miss him every single day, but days like today hurt that little bit more. Because while I’m so grateful for the time we did have, it somehow feels ridiculously short. And all the petty arguments and stubbornness now feel like a complete waste of time.

Because without question, what saddens me most about his death is that we’ve lost our future together. When he died, our relationship was the strongest it had ever been. We really were in a good place. I remember going to one of his gigs a year or so before he fell ill and watching him sing the Feeder song “Buck Rogers.” There are two lines in the chorus “I think we’re gonna make it. I think we’re gonna save it.” I can remember looking at him with pride and feeling these lyrics were about us and our relationship. I never told him that. But I just felt that despite everything we’d been through that we really were going to make it. We were going to be ok. Life had thrown a lot at us, but we’d got through it all. We’d survived it. And I guess in a funny sort of way we did make it. Neither one of us gave up on our marriage. We kept going.

‘Til death did us part.

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