Category: Widowhood

Widowhood is like a walk in the park

Imagine of the last selfie of Emma and Stuart Charlesworth plus a recent picture of Emma Charlesworth

Tomorrow marks our fourth Fathers’ Day without Mr C. I’m not sure there will ever come a time that this feels right, our daughter only had 10 with him, how can she possibly have done four without him by the time she goes to bed tomorrow night? And tomorrow also marks three years since I made my first post in the Widowed and Young (WAY) Facebook group, introducing myself, sharing the last ever selfie of the two of us and telling a brief overview of our story. Looking back now I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t really know what it was going to be like living as a widow when I made this post. And more importantly, what it was going to be like living as a young widow. I think the t-shirt my sister bought me for Christmas sums it up. It’s like a walk in the park. Assuming that park is Jurassic Park.

I’ve written before about being a little bit of a control freak. I’ve struggled at the complete and utter lack of control in my life a lot over the last three years. Yes. I do try to find ways to bring elements of control into it, but the simple fact is that I’m not sure I’ll ever be 100% in control again. And that is quite a scary prospect. A couple of months ago, after a particularly difficult day, I was sat just before midnight, with a bottle of wine, sobbing ( otherwise known as a Widow Wail (phrase I learnt today while hosting a WAY New Member Zoom)) and needing to read all the Facebook posts made in the days after he died and watching his funeral simply to feel close to him. This came from nowhere. I didn’t wake up that morning expecting it to be a difficult day for us. I didn’t wake up that morning and think “I know what’ll make for a fun Saturday night. I’ll watch his funeral until the early hours.” But this is what I mean about the lack of control. I don’t have a choice as to how I feel on any given day, it just sneaks up and hits me. Looking back to the day I made that initial post in the WAY group, I’m not entirely sure what I envisaged my life would be like, but a tiny part of me wouldn’t have expected days like this to still be happening nearly three years in. Naivete, I guess. But I didn’t really know what to expect. Who does? Grief is the most individual thing to experience, no matter how many others around you are also experiencing it.

The untold pressure I feel is huge. The ramifications of everything I do constantly weigh on my mind. Shortly before we went on holiday recently, I had a day whereby I just completely and utterly felt like I had let my daughter down. That I wasn’t good enough. That the juggle of working full time, being a mother, grieving the loss of my husband, trying to sort out care for my nan and still make time for me simply meant I’d dropped some balls along the way. And this was going to, and will have, an impact on us over the next year. My sister, quite rightly, put me in my place and told me that in no way had I let my daughter down, but it didn’t stop the feeling. It didn’t stop the tears that fell. Because I’m all my daughter has now. If I mess up, if I’m not at the top of my game, if I drop some balls, then it has a knock-on effect on what I can do for her, what I can offer her and there’s no-one else to step in and take that pressure off. The rational side of me knows that I am good enough, all she really needs is to feel loved and I give her that in spades, but that irrational, grieving widow just sometimes forgets it. And I simply don’t get a choice as to which version of me takes over and leads the charge when it comes to my thoughts.

And that leads me nicely onto another learning over the past three years. Choice. Or rather the lack of it. I wasn’t given a choice about this situation. Because I can safely assure you that I would have said no had this been the case! It’s one of the reasons I struggled so much in the early days with everyone telling me how brave and strong I was, I just wanted to shout at them that I wasn’t. That I was simply trying to live with the hand that life had dealt me. About six months in, I think I was ready to punch the next person who called me brave or strong (for anyone who watched the Kelsey Parker, Life after Tom documentary, you would have actually seen me say this on National TV!) but it’s true. I’m now better at acknowledging that yes, I have been insanely strong to not only achieve all I have in the most surreal of circumstances, but to still be standing. I’m not sure I’ll ever willingly call myself brave, but I will admit strength. It’s a strength I simply didn’t know I had in me until I was put through the toughest test of my life.

I’ve had to learn to adjust to the lack of choice about all aspects of my life. When I was growing up and imagining the marriage and the 2.4 children, at no point did I envisage being 42, on my own, solo parenting and having to ask my mum’s permission to go out! A prime example of this happened recently, I’d been in the office all day, my daughter was with my mum after school and some rather fabulous friends suggested meeting for a drink off the train. But I can’t just say yes anymore and tell Mr C what I’m doing, I had to ring my mum and ask if this was ok. When we then decided to stay out a teeny bit later, I again had to ring to ask if I could stay out later. 9pm was the agreed time that my stepdad would come and pick me up. 42 and on a curfew set by my mum, definitely living the dream here! But while I joke about this, the simple reality is that I couldn’t do anywhere near as much as I do without my mum and stepdad. From going to the office, to having nights out and the odd weekend away, I just couldn’t do it. I am forever indebted to them for all they do, and will continue to do for us. I don’t have the adequate words to express my gratitude, but it doesn’t mean I find it easy. To constantly have to check that they can help me out, and if they can’t, then have to ask friends or other family if they can. I absolutely 100% know that none of them mind in the slightest, and that people are happy to help, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. While I might be Little Miss Organised and Little Miss Laminator, there are times when I wish spontaneity was a word that existed in my new life a little bit more.

It’s why I often do a bit of an eye roll when people ask me about dating again. Could you imagine what a catch I’d be? “I can offer you a Friday night in two months’ time once I’ve coordinated childcare, dog-care, work and around the other existing plans I’ve made months in advance because I have to get my life planned in order to do anything. Oh, and by the way, I also have an irrational love for Jason Donovan.” Who wouldn’t want me?! Again, the sarcastic, self-defensive side of me kicks in, because it’s just so, so hard to contemplate.

My daughter and I have recently had some very heated discussions about the prospect of me dating again. She inadvertently discovered the profile I’d created on a dating app, and it led to her feeling that I’d lied to her. But the simple truth, and as I told her, is I don’t think I want to date right now or go headlong into a relationship. I’m not actually sure where I’d find the time, but maybe that’s just because it’s not high on my list of priorities and if it was, I’d make time. But that doesn’t stop me feeling lonely. It doesn’t stop me wanting to have someone to care for. To have someone care for me. And have someone at the end of a long day send you a message asking how your day was.

It was the day after one of these discussions with her that I read an article by one of my LinkedIn connections, Alex Delaney, Co-Founder of Lemons.Life whereby she spoke about how she reacted after losing her husband. For the more easily offended among you, you might want to stop reading now! But I applaud Alex for being so honest about her experience and in particular about “Widows Fire.” Again. Another term that three years ago I hadn’t heard of. I can categorically tell you that this exists and is utterly real. There are days when you crave, long for and would do just about anything to have physical touch, to the point that it’s probably quite fortunate that our postman doesn’t have to ring the bell and can just leave parcels in the porch! Because it is that strong and overwhelming. It comes from nowhere. And there is no rhyme or reason for it.

But here’s the thing. Even if I wanted to go down the route that Alex chose to, it’s not that simple for me. We’re back to that choice and permission again. I very rarely go back to an empty house. Whoever is looking after my daughter always asks me where I’m going, who I’m going out with, and what time I’ll be home. Without question I’m exceptionally lucky to have so many people care for me, but could you imagine if I was to respond with “You wouldn’t know him Mum, I’m just off to have a casual night with someone I met on the internet.” I’m fairly sure that I know the response I’d get! And while there is a running joke amongst family and friends that I have 12 men on the go (I don’t, for the avoidance of doubt), I’m 42 now, I’m not sure where I’d get the energy from to do this! But if I’m being honest, there is a part of me that wonders what it must be like to be this age, to still want to feel desired, to act on those desires and not have to plan it weeks or possibly months in advance.

Yet, this is something my daughter cannot understand, because she simply doesn’t have the emotional maturity to. To her, it’s simple. I either love her dad or I love someone else. It’s not possible for me to do both. It’s not possible for me to love him but go out on dates. There is no just having a bit of fun. Even a friend with benefits would be out of the question if she had her way. Because in her eyes there is no grey. It’s black and white. And I completely understand that. I’m supportive of, and completely respect her views and do all I can do to reassure her that I’m not about to abandon her for a man. But it doesn’t mean that this is an easy situation for me to deal with. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want some affection, that I don’t think about it and wonder ‘what if?’ It doesn’t mean that I don’t get frustrated at what feels like a complete lack of choice or options.

Yet I’d be lying if I said widowhood had been all doom and gloom. It hasn’t. I have smiled, laughed, have had some brilliant adventures and am looking healthy again with a sparkle in my eyes. That’s not to say I wouldn’t give anything to have Mr C back, but I do find that you have to look for the things to be thankful for. For a start, I’d never have got away with the new flooring I chose in my kitchen and conservatory, decorating our utility room to be insanely pink or putting up numerous photos of Jason around the house. But more than anything widowhood has taught me so much about myself and what I’m capable of. It’s brought some rather brilliant and amazing people into my life who I’m fortunate to call friends. Again, I didn’t envisage that when I made that first post and while I hate what’s brought us together, I feel very lucky to have found them. None of us want to be in this situation, but that common ground is something that along with a dark sense of humour keeps us all going. It creates a bond. And without question shows that there is a WAY forward and that it is possible to keep living. Even on those very dark days.

Hang on to your love

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth and Jason Donovan across 2022

For the last two years I’ve posted a blog on 1 June, or as I prefer to call it Jason’s birthday. Mind you, since my daughter learnt it’s also Tom Holland’s birthday on 1 June, apparently that takes priority. Honestly. I don’t know where she gets it from. But as I read back the blogs from the last two years, I wasn’t sure if I’d have anything to say this year in honour of Jason’s birthday. I didn’t want it to feel like I was shoehorning a blog in just for the sake of mentioning him (again). And then I realised that once again this year, there’s been some key moments and learnings that have been linked to Jason. Probably not a surprise really.

I think back to this time a year ago when I wrote about just how difficult I’d found it changing my profile pic to be one that didn’t feature Mr C, and how it was a photo with Jason that finally made me feel able to do it. I’ve changed my profile picture on Facebook numerous times since then, each time it gets that little bit easier. I don’t overthink it anywhere near as much as I was doing before. I guess this is what people mean when they talk about time being a healer.

But while time does help to heal, and can show you how much progress you’ve made, the reality of mine and my daughter’s situation never really goes away. A classic example of this came at the end of June last year, the night before I was due to see Jason in Grease with my Northern Nutter. Every now and then, things just get too much for Miss C, she is essentially a carbon copy of me, she can go and go and then things build up and it’s like we’re a pressure cooker. Simply explode. It’s the best analogy I have to describe both of us, and it’s something that I’ve had to work on a lot over the years. This evening in particular was a bad one for her, which ultimately means it’s a bad one for me too.

It was a stark reminder that despite all the other hats I wear, that I’m a mother. First and foremost, I’m a mother. Every single day since Mr C fell ill has ultimately reinforced that. I would do absolutely anything for my daughter, because she is, without question, my priority. And as she exploded at me, my fears and concern for her were so great, that I knew that despite how much I was looking forward to the following day, I couldn’t go. She, not Jason, was who I needed to spend the following evening with. I didn’t want to leave her.

This wasn’t me being overdramatic, this is my reality. I will simply prioritise her above me every single time. I rang my sister and asked her to take the ticket and to go the following day. I explained what had happened and that I simply didn’t want to not be at home. I didn’t want my daughter to feel I was abandoning her. Yes. I really was prepared to give up a ticket to see Jason for my daughter.

And while my sister said that she would take it, she talked to me. She rang and spoke to my daughter. She was the voice of reason for both of us. Because she reminded me that I’m also a person. And every now and then I am ok to prioritise me. Despite whatever else might be going on in my life, sometimes prioritising me is ok. It was quite hard to hear. I felt guilty for wanting to still go and have fun and see Jason. The constant conflict in my life. But 24 hours later I was so blinking glad she had reminded me of that. I simply had the most fabulous time with my kindred spirit eating fish finger sandwiches (nothing wrong with brown bread right?!), drinking cocktails and prosecco, and learning that I will simply never be as cool as she is even when I attempt to dress as a Pink Lady. I have never laughed so much at a stage door stakeout, especially when the three policemen walked up behind us! It was definitely worth the wait, Jason was as wonderful as ever, he posed for photos with us both and we whooped appropriately as he’d asked us to when he came on stage.

At the end of the day, I went home and was still a mother. But I actually think I was a slightly better one because I’d given myself a night off and looked after me. I don’t know if it was the cocktails talking, but it simply reminded me that I can’t pour from an empty cup. Prioritising me is just as important as prioritising my daughter. But that’s one of the things about widowhood and solo parenting a bereaved child, you tend to forget that a lot of the time.

Yet I won’t lie, the surprise trip to Bristol in September a few months later was prioritising Miss C. Yes, Jason was obviously there too, but I made the sacrifice and organised a brilliant surprise for so she could be front row to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and in particular, Jac Yarrow as Joseph. She had no idea until my sister and I got her to the theatre and saw Jac standing there. He was as lovely as always and when I met Jason a little bit later, his words to me “It’s been a long time, how are you?” made me melt. Not going to lie about that! And just a few weeks later in October, prioritising my daughter was again, without question, what I needed to do. You see, we went to see Joseph in Southend. On driving there, we learnt that Jac was ill and wouldn’t be performing. I think it’s fair to say that my daughter was heartbroken on learning this. “Are we stage dooring?” my mum asked when we arrived. “No” was my response. Because as much as I always love to do a stage door stakeout and chat to Jason, in that moment, I knew that my daughter was my priority. It would have simply been too hard for her to do it knowing that it wouldn’t have been possible for her to see the one person she wanted to. I couldn’t do that to her. That day she was the priority. Not me. Not Jason. Her. Because I’m first and foremost a mother. And I don’t want her feeling any more pain than she needs to.

Plus I knew I was seeing Jason again a couple of weeks later in Grease two nights in a row (a first for me). This was around the time that I was simply trying to do too much, trying to prove that I could do my old life and ultimately coming to the realisation that I can’t do that anymore. It’s what led me to realise that I’m not wonder woman and to re-evaluate all I was doing. See. Everything always, always comes back to Jason! Yet the stage door escapades were just as amusing as they had been back in June, even if he did tell me and the Northern Nutter off for waiting for him and not being in the theatre! Most amusing of all was his question “who’s Carl?” upon seeing my We love Carl badge (that’s a whole other story to be fair). It was another fun evening, yet, I can see in the photos how tired I looked. It was a far cry from how I’d looked in June and September. My Jason photos of 2022 really do tell a story about my widowhood journey.

And sadly, I didn’t manage to find anyone that wanted to take me to Australia to see Jason in Rocky Horror which is where he’s been for a large part of 2023. But he was back in the UK and did a one-off gig at Indigo at The O2 in April. Obviously I got tickets, although that in itself wasn’t without its stresses and confusion! And as the excitement started to build, a couple of friends made me smile. Without even realising just how much I value it, they started to wind me up. Both of these people have come into my life in the last year, and I hope they’ll both be in my life for a long time to come. “I think he’s got your name on the door to get security to question you. I’d be surprised if you made it in” was one of the messages received. When I joked with my other friend that I was on a hot date that evening, “Do not mention JD” was his response. I subsequently admitted that the hot date was, in fact, a Jason gig. But this ribbing about Jason really does mean a lot to me. Because it’s what Mr C used to do. As much as I tell my friends off for being mean to me, I secretly enjoy it. I enjoy the banter. It’s like when my daughter said “Is that all? Feels like you’ve been banging on about that for forever” when I told her it was a year since I’d got engaged. In an odd way, these things help keep Mr C with me and a part of the Jason adoration. Because every time I get a cutting comment from my daughter or messages from friends like these, I smile or laugh as I used to when he used to send them. I like the fact that I can be so open now about Jason from the off with new people who come into my life and that they feel comfortable enough to wind me up about it. It took years for me to get like that with Mr C, but now it’s simply part of who I am. Take it or leave it. I’m not giving up Jason for anyone, not even for that handsome millionaire that I’ve tasked my friends with finding for me!

And just the other day when on a work call, a new colleague queried the picture in my office. “Oh, that’s my marriage proposal from Jason Donovan” was my response as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to have something like this on your wall. Again, I was reminded how far I’ve come in feeling comfortable in myself to have conversations like this. How it doesn’t bother me anymore that while it might not be cool to admit to being a Jason Donovan fan, it’s certainly not something I’d have done in my teenage years or early 20s, it’s just part of who I am. A woman who is first and foremost a mother, but a woman who has also had some amazing experiences and learnings thanks to the celebrity she fell in love with at the age of seven. To write a blog dedicated to that man on his birthday once a year isn’t shoehorning him in, it’s actually the most natural thing in the world to do. Because he’s a massive part of my rollercoaster life. And one day, when I grow up, I still want to marry Jason Donovan. I think I always will.

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

I’m struggling to get my head around today. Three years. Three years since the hope we’d all been clinging to was lost. Someone said to me during the three weeks Mr C was in ITU, “where there’s life, there’s hope.” But three years ago, our hope, and with it, his life were lost. I don’t really know why three years feels so much longer than two years, but it does, it really does. My daughter and I have found the thought of this one more of a challenge. It just feels like a really, really long time.

But it’s not really, is it? In the grand scheme of things, it’s still just a short amount of time. I remember being at the Widowed and Young AGM in September last year, and a fellow widow commented that I was still early in my journey. In my head, I couldn’t quite work out how two and a half years was early, after all, it felt like forever to me, but the reality is that it’s not that long at all. Not when I think about his, and my story.

A year ago, my blog “Learning to live with the unimaginable…” was inspired by Hamilton. I think, to a certain extent, this one is inspired by that musical too. I recently took our daughter to see it again (I rue the day we ever got her into musical theatre!) and this time my sobs were also at “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” This question feels a particularly pertinent and relevant one for me. I remember some of the very few calls I made on this day three years ago. “Please help me make sure he isn’t forgotten.” “Please help me make sure she doesn’t forget him.” “Please help me keep his memory alive.” I uttered all three of these phrases whilst telling people he had died. Welcome to the world of widowhood. Even just a few hours into this new life, the fear was there. I hadn’t realised then just how acquainted fear and I were going to become as my story continued.

Fear has definitely become one of my main drivers over the last three years. Fear of pain. Fear of losing others. Fear of him being forgotten. I think this latter point is what drives me most of all. Why I’ve chosen to tell his, and my story. I think that’s why these lyrics always make me take a sharp intake of breath and make those sobs just a little bit stronger:

“You could have done so much more if you only had time And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell your story?”

I know how much more he wanted to achieve in his life. I know how much more he was capable of. It’s why I simply cannot bear the concept of people not remembering or talking about him and his story. It really is that simple. His photos are still up around our house, I still talk about him regularly, I’m planning another charity event in his name in 2024 and I’ve got a few other plans up my sleeve as well. To be clear. I don’t do any of these things because I’m stuck in the past or struggling to “get over it.” I do this because it helps keep his memory alive, and helps me and others. He’d very much like the thought he’s still having an impact, despite no longer physically being here. I know if he’d have been given more time, or been able to prepare me for his death, that this is something he would have told me to do. “Do good. Help others.”

He’d have also told me to be happy, to find someone else and not to live my life in his shadow. I wonder if those close to me are starting to think more about this now too. And query why I haven’t. More and more this year, I’ve been asked if I’ve thought about starting a new relationship. It’s been a funny old year when it comes to that, I won’t lie. I do get a pang when I read or hear about other widows or widowers who have found love again. Or when my single friends start a new relationship. But that’s all it is, a fleeting pang because my overriding emotion is happiness. I feel pleased for them. Life is too short not to be happy. And what I’ve come to realise over the last few months, is that while part of the pang is jealousy because I wonder why no-one wants me, the stronger pain and feeling isn’t jealousy that I’m not in a relationship or dating. It’s actually my new best friend, fear. Fear at other people’s lives moving on, fear as to whether they’ll still be friends with me as their lives change but most of all, fear of being abandoned. Told you. Fear. It’s become an integral part of my life.

A few weeks after he died, I remember saying I’d never be in another relationship in the future because I couldn’t contemplate going through the pain of losing someone again. I was too fearful of it. Today, I still can’t help but feel I’ll be on my own forever. One of my closest friends cried when I told her this recently. Granted, I’m not a psychic and no-one can predict the future, but it’s just a feeling I have. But oddly enough it’s not because of the fear of the pain now. It’s because I’m now too fearful of change. Of upsetting the apple cart. I’m actually starting to feel at peace in my life again. Something that when I got that call from the hospital three years ago, I wasn’t sure I ever would.

I’m getting more comfortable not being part of a couple for the first time in my adult life. I’m getting more comfortable as a widow. And while it’s still a massive part of who I am, it’s not all I am. I’m getting used to the biggest plot twist in my story. I don’t necessarily view being on my own as a bad thing. It doesn’t keep me up at night worrying about it. I don’t cry myself to sleep because I’m on my own. My tears are for the man I lost. For his life being cut short. For what everyone has lost since he died. For everyone who is missing a man who played an important part in so many stories.

When I think about my own story, I think about my entire life. The many chapters which make it up. The phrase Chapter 2 is often used to describe the next relationship after a bereavement, but in my opinion, my new chapter began the day he died. I had chapters in my life before I met him and each one of them has shaped me into being who I am today. It’s why I found a certain irony when looking through photos and reminding myself of one he edited to say “Co-author of my story.” My story, like his, is not simply because we were part of a relationship, we were co-authors to each others stories but not the main writer. I’m not a strong-willed feminist in any way, but I simply don’t believe any of us should be defined by another person or relationship. Self-validation is way more important. I’ve spent the last three years learning who I am as a person in her own right, and I quite like her. Another one of the greatest learnings of widowhood. The need to get to know and understand yourself.

And I already know that getting more acquainted with myself and self-preservation is part of what this next year has in store for me. My next learning. Having to learn and get used to being on my own more. I’m watching my daughter grow into a beautiful teenager, with her own life, becoming more and more independent and with fabulous friends around her. Her dad would be so, so proud of her. But with this comes change for me. Last week, she had an impromptu sleepover with a friend. I was on my way home from the office when she messaged to ask if she could stay with her friend overnight, of course my answer was yes. But that little fear monkey was on my shoulder again. Because I wasn’t entirely sure what I was meant to do on my own for the evening. I panicked a little bit. An unplanned evening to myself. What the heck was I meant to do? The control freak couldn’t cope. The fear was there. The realisation that this is yet something else I have to adjust to.

But I did cope. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it might be. I had a meal for one, a glass of gin, sat on the sofa, did some writing, listened to music and just thought about my life for a bit.

I wouldn’t have chosen this to be my life and my story in a million years. If I had the power to go back and change it, I would without question, but I don’t have a bad life. All things considered.

I have my daughter, my dog, amazing family and friends, my health, my job, volunteering for WAY, my blog, holiday plans and other ambitions.

All of these are things I’d have been beyond grateful for three years ago. I didn’t know what would come next in my story. I didn’t know how I was meant to do this life without my husband by my side. I’m still not really sure how I’m doing it. But I am. And three years ago today, that simply didn’t seem possible. I was stood at the entrance to a very dark and long tunnel. Finding light at the end of it seemed impossible. But little by little that light is becoming easier to find. All these things are helping me find it. And one day when someone tells my story, they’ll make up an integral part of it. As will my late husband. Forever a part of my story.

Happy birthday to me…?

I’m sure birthdays are coming round quicker the older I get. But hey. Getting older isn’t a guarantee, is it? And of all the days to remind me of that, it’s my birthday…

You see, for close to 20 years I’d joked that my birthday was jinxed. I joked that I was never going to start a new decade again. That I was going to just be 39+1, 39+2 etc, etc… Because my birthdays when I turned 20 and 30 hadn’t been easy. My 20th birthday was spent in St Bart’s Hospital with Mr C having his first chemotherapy session. My 30th birthday was spent feeling ill after I got food poisoning. We also had no plans to celebrate because Mr C had been made redundant a few months before, hadn’t been able to secure a new job and I had just returned to work from maternity leave so things were a little tight. As you can imagine, I was approaching my 40th with a sense of trepidation.

What I was unprepared for was the carnage that my 39th birthday would bring. To the point I actually queried whether I’d got confused and I was turning 40 that day instead. It’s taken me three years to sit down and really be able to think about that day. About just what it was like dialling 999 in the early hours of my birthday, the complete juxtaposition of the day and the lasting impact it’s had on me.

I’m not entirely sure what time I rang for an ambulance now, but it was somewhere between 3am and 4am. It’s all such a blur. I don’t function particularly well on disturbed or lack of sleep at the best of times, let alone when my world is imploding. I do remember initially thinking that I’d just ring MedOcc rather than 999, they were busy after all and I didn’t want to be a bother, but something instinctively changed in me as I walked down the stairs to turn my phone on to get the number for MedOcc. That was the last night I turned my phone off before I went to bed. I don’t think there’ll ever come a time when I’m comfortable to turn it off overnight again. As I spoke to the incredibly calm 999 call handler, the enormity of what was happening just hit me. We were living in the middle of a pandemic, my husband was most likely suffering from COVID-19, the virus we didn’t really know a lot about, nobody could come into our house to help us and our daughter had woken to chaos, hearing her father struggling for breath and her mother just trying to do the best she could in those circumstances. I remember running up and down the stairs in my PJs, fluffy dressing gown and alicorn slippers (a sight to behold, I’m sure you’d agree!) trying to keep Miss C calm and reassure Mr C as we waited for the ambulance to arrive. It took what felt like forever. How long it really was, again, I don’t know.

And as the paramedics started to tend to him, the nervous energy kicked in. I joked with him and them that this was the most elaborate way of getting out of buying me a birthday card that I’d ever come across. That this was now the second birthday of mine that I’d be remembering for him being ill. Little did I know what was about to happen. That gut instinct of mine that had made me call for an ambulance, was proven to be right. Because if those paramedics hadn’t been there and given him oxygen, I’m 99% certain he’d have died at home. I won’t ever forget what I witnessed. The severity of the situation was rapidly becoming more and more apparent. I didn’t understand. He’d been stood in the bathroom shaving six hours before. How the hell could this be happening? But it really, really was. They told me they needed to take him to hospital to get checked over and to call two hours later. This would be ok. They’d just do those checks and then I’d go and get him. He walked down the stairs to the ambulance and that was to be the last time we ever saw him in person. This was around 4:30am. As he got into the ambulance, I made my daughter shout that she loved him. I needed both him and her to have that as a lasting memory.

I was too wired to go back to sleep. Miss C was too wired to go back to sleep. So, we did what all sensible people would do. Downloaded Disney+ and watched movies. Our world was imploding so we turned to Disney. Escapism. Fantasy. And a way of putting off the inevitable. I decided not to ring people at that point because I didn’t have any answers and didn’t really know what I’d say. So, at 6:30am I rang A&E as I’d been told to do and learnt that he’d been taken to Intensive Care, sedated and ventilated. Hmmmm. This wasn’t the message I was meant to be being given, I honestly and genuinely thought they’d tell me to go and pick him up. But I knew in that moment that I’d have to start making calls. But how? What was I meant to say? I just sat there in shock for a bit longer. I just sat there staring at my phone willing this nightmare to not be happening.

And then the messages started, because no-one other than my mum and stepdad knew what had happened. That was only because I’d needed someone to talk to Miss C on the phone while I was with the paramedics. Messages such as “Happy birthday! Hope you enjoy it despite the strange circumstances”, “Happy birthday, hope Charlie is feeling better today” were coming through. I just stared at them inanely. Right. It was time to put the big girl pants on and start telling people. I think I waited until 7am though, I needed to process what I’d been told and I also thought 7am felt a more appropriate time to ring people, before that was too early. It’s astonishing what goes through your mind in times of chaos.

My sister was one of the first people I rang, I vividly remember saying to her amongst the sobs “I’m scared, I’m just so, so scared.” I gave her a list of people to tell because I couldn’t face doing all these calls. I remember talking to one of Mr C’s sisters who told me the plan her and her sister had come up with for Miss C if I fell ill too. I phoned work, I phoned a couple of other friends and other people I simply messaged. I’m sure most of these calls and messages were incoherent. It’s why I assigned different people the tasks of telling other friends and family. I didn’t really know what I was doing. All the while, the birthday messages were still coming. Deliveries were arriving. It was, quite simply, overwhelming. I couldn’t deal with it. Shock. Hope. Worry. Positivity. That was to be the first day of me becoming so completely reliant on my phone as my lifeline.

Somehow, we made it through the day. The birthday messages were still coming. The Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn messages were mounting. I had a decision to make. Ignore them, be polite and say thank you to people or admit what was happening to us. I chose the latter. I made a very conscious decision on that day to use social media to start telling our story and use it as a way of getting support. It was the best decision I ever made. The virtual support I got at a time when I couldn’t get physical support meant so very, very much. It always will.

And then as we headed into the evening, in classic Miss C style, she pointed out I hadn’t opened any cards or presents. Her view was that it was still my birthday and I needed to do it. In that moment, my child probably saved my birthday forever more. Because she reminded me that life goes on, irrespective of what else is happening. She found 39 candles (don’t ask me why we had so many!) and put them on a cake. She arranged for my mum, stepdad, sister and nieces to video call me and sing Happy Birthday. We smiled. Against all odds, we smiled. The rest of that day and the next few weeks is, as they say, history…

Fast forward a year. I turned 40 on the first anniversary of Mr C being admitted. I was unsure how this was this going to go. I knew people would be so aware of this. What felt like an unfathomable day actually turned out be a good day. Family, friends and colleagues all made that extra bit of effort for me. I was so humbled. Lockdown restrictions lifted slightly the day before and so I was allowed visitors in my garden. It was a day tinged with sadness I have to admit, but I smiled on the day. I really did. After all, life begins at 40…

Fast forward another year. I had my delayed 80s themed 40th party and the next day my heart felt full for the first time in a long time. Yet, my birthday did fall during the time I wasn’t working. I arranged to meet my sister for a spot of shopping and lunch. I did this. And then in the biggest twist of fate, I ended up having to go to the hospital Mr C had been admitted to two years to the day before. Two years prior, it was the only place I wanted to be. That day it was the only place I didn’t want to be. I’m not ashamed to say that as I pulled into the car park, I broke down. How was this happening again on my birthday? Fortunately, it wasn’t for anywhere near as serious as the reasons of 2020 and the amazing NHS once again took brilliant care of my family. But still. That night however, I ended up having an unplanned curry with my family. The following night I went for dinner with one of my oldest friends and then did a quiz with a number of other people. In amongst the chaos, smiles and happiness were possible. Just like my child showed me was possible in 2020.

And now we land at today. This is 42. Not been the easiest week getting to today, but I went to the office for the first time on my birthday since 2018. For most people this would seem like something dull to do; I have friends who take the day off on their birthday; but for me, it felt like a hurdle that I needed to overcome. I needed to do something for me. To be around people on this day. I went for lunch with a lovely colleague. The team bought me sweet treats. I had human connection. I’m going out for dinner with my daughter this evening. All things that remind me that life moves forward and things I desperately wanted and would have begged to be able to do three years ago.

So. Happy Birthday to me. How do I feel about my birthday now? Honestly? It’s the weirdest day in the world for me. The impact of what happened on 30 March 2020 will never, ever leave me. It’s simply not possible for it to. Because each year I turn older, I can’t help but be reminded that Mr C doesn’t. Because while he didn’t die on my birthday, that day was without question the beginning of the end. No two ways about it. I never spoke to him again. I’ve never been wished by him or wished him a Happy Birthday again. That messes with my head. I have no doubt that it always, always will. I am already dreading 2026 and 2027. I should never be the same age as him, I should never be older than him. But God willing, I will. And those two days are going to sting a little bit.

But those two days will also be a reminder that I am still living. Because my daughter reminded me of that in 2020 and it’s something that I continue to remember, and be thankful for, to this day. It’s a real cliché, but growing old really is a privilege. Life is for living and making the most of all opportunities. It’s what my late husband did and three years since I last heard his voice, I realise that, quite frankly, it’s exactly what I intend to, and need to do too.

National Day of Reflection

Three years ago today, 23 March 2020, the UK was put into its first lockdown.

It is a day that will be forever imprinted on my mind. Just 24 hours prior to that, Mr C had noticed a raised temperature and our journey with covid had begun.

I was honoured to be asked to author a blog for Widowed and Young to tell my story and what it’s been like for so many people over the last three years and you can read this blog at this link.

I was then humbled when the Metro online also featured this article, it is slightly different but focusing on the same timeframe. You can read this article at this link.

Today is a day for reflecting. For thinking about those we’ve lost and my thoughts are with everyone that has experience of what it was like to be bereaved during the pandemic and to be widowed young.

Goodbye 2022

Photos from across 2022

Wow. 2022 is done. Pretty sure that’ll go down in my history as that was the year that was. A year that took so much. A year that gave so much. A year that made me look at the world differently. A year that feels like it could have been about 10 years in one in all honesty.

Before writing this, I read back the blog I wrote this time last year. I ended it with the phrase “I am good enough.” Funny. Within six weeks I wasn’t feeling this anymore. My world capitulated. I was signed off work sick. I was forced to stop. I was forced to really and truly look after me. I don’t doubt when I wrote that blog that I meant it, but now I just think I was still trying to convince myself. I’m not convinced now that I properly believed it.

But that’s how grief works. That’s how stress works. You think you’re ok. You think you’ve made progress. But it’s only when you look back at where you were that you realise that while you were ok and had made progress, it wasn’t nearly as much as you thought you’d made. I remember looking at a photo of from New Year’s Eve last year and saying that the smile reached my eyes and I wanted to hold on to that feeling. But again, that smile faded relatively quickly.

I honestly thought going into this year that I was a lot further ahead than I was. I didn’t realise the effect that stress was having on me. I didn’t realise that my emotional resilience simply isn’t as strong as it once was. I doubt it ever will be again. I’d spent 2021 adjusting to reality and trying so very hard to keep going, to keep things as they’d always been, that I didn’t think about what was best for me as I started to look for coping mechanisms for adjusting to my new life.

As I look back over this year, I realise that I spent a lot of 2022 looking for distraction techniques. I absolutely know that I did it. I gave so much of myself to others as a way of stopping me thinking about me and what I was distracting myself from. And for what? Were these the people messaging me on Christmas Day to wish a Merry Christmas? No. People who are willing to take and not give back aren’t really the people that someone like me needs. Plus I’ve learnt something invaluable in the last few months. Distraction only really works in the short term. It’s only really preventing the inevitable. You can only really jump from one distraction to another for a short amount of time. It’s quite tiring for this to be sustained.

But it’s fair to say that new people have become a big part of my life this year. In an odd sort of way, it’s easier talking to and being with these people. The people who didn’t know me before (my life genuinely feels marked by the timeline of before Mr C died and after). Yes, I talk about him with them. But it’s on my terms. I like and enjoy being with people that didn’t know him, that only know me and accept me for who I am now. This is no doubt incredibly selfish of me, but when you’re trying to work out who you are and find your way, you sometimes have to be selfish.

A perfect example is someone who has become an integral part of my life this year. I received a message recently because of a conversation they’d had about me. “I don’t think we’d have met if she hadn’t lost her husband, and I’d give anything for that to be the situation” was the phrase that hit home. Because that’s it. My life is now on a different trajectory. With different people. With a different outlook. With a different mentality. I hate “what ifs” but they’re all par for the course. They’re what mess with my head the most. If Mr C hadn’t have died, what would my life be like? Who would be in it? What experiences would I have had?

Online dating is a prime example of something I wouldn’t have entertained if he was still here. And after my small foray into it this year, I do still sort of like the idea and haven’t totally given up that one day in the future someone may care for me or love me again (damn those cheesy Christmas films I’ve been watching! Although if anyone knows a widower like Jude Law, please send him my way!) But someone else in my life is still not something Miss C is willing to entertain. And that’s perfectly understandable and something we’ll have to work through if the Jude Law widower appears. Right now though, she much prefers the idea of me being on my own forever and becoming a Crazy Cat Lady with nine cats. Touching really.

But even creating an online profile is something that a year ago I wouldn’t have felt capable of doing. It wasn’t on the agenda. I know I said this at the end of 2021: “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” but attempting to date wasn’t one of those plans. Damn those curveballs. And I also know I didn’t achieve as many of those ambitions as I wanted to because of curveballs and distraction techniques. But add those to your world capitulating within six weeks and it’s actually very hard to.

But I have achieved some of those plans. And so very much more. I’ve seen Jason (once or twice!), I’ve had weekends away and nights out with the girls, I’ve done a lot more as “Emma” (including meeting Ronan Keating, not sure my sister will forgive me if I don’t mention that!), I’ve been to Wales and Scotland for two Widowed and Young (WAY) events, my blog was nominated for the Helen Bailey Award, I’ve appeared on TV as part of the Kelsey Parker: Life After Tom documentary, I’ve participated in a 25 Tuesday’s with WAY Instagram Live, I’ve spoken on the panel at the launch of the UK Commission on Bereavement’s “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report, I’ve hosted a fundraising event in memory of Mr C raising £3,500 for Medway Hospital’s Critical Care unit, I’ve launched a 2023 calendar featuring his photos and I’ve joined my daughter on an Instagram live with Winston’s Wish.

And on Miss C. This hasn’t been an easy year for her. The secondary losses she’s adjusting to have felt worse this year. But as a pair, we’re getting there. We’re finding a rhythm. We can argue like cat and dog at times. But we keep going. My proudest moment of the year was watching her dance at Disneyland Paris with her dance school. I’d have paid a fortune just to see that smile again, but I didn’t need to. Her being able to perform gave her that. We’ve managed overseas trips together. Florida, Paris and New York. I’m not going to lie, there’s been tricky moments during all of these trips. But somehow, we get through them. We’ve got through so much worse, we’re still living with pain and we always will be, but our little rhythm is picking up a bit of pace.

And these trips are just some of the firsts we’ve had to do in 2022. Anyone that tells you all the firsts are done within the first year is wrong. Partly because we lost in a pandemic. This year has also seen us return to the theatre for the annual panto trip for Miss C’s birthday, we’ve seen Mr C’s football team for the first time at a charity match which raised money for WAY in his memory, Miss C did her first dance show since 2019, her first dance show Christmas party (where I incidentally performed a Street dance having started lessons in September, although I’m not sure she was as proud of me as I was of her in Paris!!!!), and a return to friends for their annual Christmas gathering.

Life has slowly, slowly returned to “normal” this year. Except it isn’t our normal. Our normal was with Mr C. But he’s not here anymore. I don’t actually know what our normal is. I don’t know if I ever will. I’ll always be a widow. My daughter will always be growing up without her father. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told her this hasn’t been a normal year. It’s exceptionally unlikely we’ll ever have a year filled with as much as we have this year. I think we’ve got one more theatre trip to do and then we’re finally caught up on rescheduled dates.

I know that 2023 will be very different. The theatre trips and days out will be less, the overseas trips won’t be able to happen as frequently, I’ve got to adjust to being a one salary household against a cost of living crisis and the return to normal activities. There’s going to be some tough decisions coming my way because of this. I know that. I’ve got decisions to make regarding my future career, in the short term, medium term and long term. Sacrifices are going to have to be made. Nearly three years since my late husband died, I’m now in a position where the world is open, costs are higher and life on my own is harder.

But. I will make these decisions. They feel a little overwhelming but I’ll make them. Because it’s what I do. I’m so exceptionally proud of 2022 and all I’ve achieved. But the thing I’m proud of most of all is the fact that I’m still standing. 11 months ago I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown. It was one of the biggest wake up calls I’ve ever had to face. Something had to give. I had to stop. I had to look after me. It’s taken a hell of a lot of adjusting for me.

If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control, because I wonder what I’m now actually capable of. What comes next for Emma? If I strip back the distraction techniques, the need to constantly be busy, the constant trying to find out who I am and the acceptance that I am not Wonder Woman, what can I achieve? I don’t know. It’s going to be exciting to find out so bring on 2023. Because if 2022 has taught me anything, it’s to remember the words to a song I say is my song and regularly tell myself:

“Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did?

Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid

And I’m still standing after all this time.”

I am not Wonder Woman

Image of quote regarding vulnerability being a superpower and image of a caricature

To be honest, that title could just be the blog. Done. There’s not much else to say really. But for someone who spent years saying to her daughter “have you ever seen me and Wonder Woman in the same room? How do you know I’m not her then?” to finally be admitting I’m not takes a heck of a lot. Especially given three months ago I asked to be portrayed as her in a caricature!

But now, at the age of 41, two and half years to the day after being widowed, I will finally admit it. I am not Wonder Woman.

I’ve always had a fairly crazy and hectic life. For years, we had this life together. Mr C and I would often be like passing ships in the night, I worked full time, he worked full time, he was a part-time photographer, he was in two bands, we had a child etc, etc… So many people would say to us “I don’t know how you do it” and I feel like I now know what I’d say to them.

Having been without him for what feels like forever, it’s funny (or ironic really) looking back. The amount of times that I would say to him that I’d just like it if he did more, that I’d appreciate more help and that I was sick of doing everything by myself. But the simple reality is that he did way more than I think I ever gave him credit for. And now, two and half years after his death and with the world pretty much back to a pre-pandemic state, I totally appreciate that. I feel so sad that I didn’t really see it and value it when he was here. That I never said “thank you” enough.

It’s taken such a long time for me to have to worry about and manage living again. I was shielded after he first fell ill and died because the world was shut down. We didn’t have to worry about a social life, we didn’t really have to worry about living. We were just essentially surviving. We 100% needed to do this, it was the only way for us to begin to process what had happened to us. To adjust to life just the two of us. We became insular because the world made us that way. And in many ways, I’m so incredibly grateful for that. We only really had to focus on each other, we had no choice but to learn to live without him in our lives, we couldn’t hide from it because it was so bloody obvious and apparent he wasn’t there. He was gone, never ever coming back and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

But over the course of 2021, I realised that was never going to be sustainable. I realised we couldn’t avoid life forever. I spent a lot of last year saying that 2022 was going to be our year. The year we’d start living again. We’d spent a long time in shock. We’d spent a long time with life on hold. We’d spent a long time keeping him ever present in our lives. We’ll always do that, but I knew we’d need to find a way to keep him ever present while moving forwards. Not moving on, I don’t like that phrase, but moving forwards.

Yet what I’ve come to realise more than ever this year is that everyday life is hard work. Being a mother is hard work. Being a widow is hard work. Being a person trying to forge a future is hard work. Wanting a career is hard work. I’m exhausted most of the time trying to juggle everything. My entire life feels like a military mission. Spontaneity is not a word that ever really enters my vocabulary. At the start of September, I sat down and worked out all the days I wanted to go into the office between then and Christmas. Then I had to check that my doggy daycare lady could have my dog on those days. Then I had to check my mum was available to help with my daughter and pick the dog up on some of those days. My poor mum and stepdad now have a column on their organiser calendar just for us. Without them I’d really struggle. To go to the office. To have a social life. To live. I completely took this for granted before I was widowed. I’d just let Mr C know if I’d made plans and he’d be the one at home with our daughter instead. And vice versa. I just went to work. Simple really. I’d be up and out of the house before either Mr C or our daughter got up, he’d then get her ready in the morning and drop her at her childminder. This was our life; I didn’t have to think about it. But now, I have to ask for help simply to go to work. Crazy really. It’s the little things that you take for granted.

It’s one of the reasons that I feel quite passionately that I am not a single parent. I have friends who are single parents and they’re all blinking amazing. But I’m not. Yes, it might sound like semantics to someone not in my position, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m a solo parent. It’s bloody relentless. My daughter is, and always will be my priority, but it’s relentless. I can’t take it for granted that I can go out when invited, because if I don’t have a babysitter, it doesn’t happen. Every decision about her, every financial aspect of her life, all the running around, the organising, the arguments, the good times are all down to me. I can’t play good cop, bad cop with someone else when it comes to disciplining her anymore because I’m literally the only cop in the house! I miss co-parenting, I miss having someone to sanity check decisions about her with, I miss having someone that was my equal when it came to her. I reckon I always will. No matter how old she is.

But it’s not just parenting where I miss an equal. It’s in the day to day running of a house. Absolutely everything falls to me. I’ve said before about wanting to borrow my friend’s husband on a Tuesday because that’s my busiest night of the week and this really came to the fore earlier this year. I’d been to see Ronan Keating with my sister on a Tuesday, I got home at 12:45am and promptly realised I needed to put the bins out. Because my mum had picked my daughter up from school, they’d got the dog from daycare and then stayed at my mum’s, they’d had no need to go back to my house. And given no-one else is there, there simply was no-one to put the bins out except me. Reality of being a widow 101. You can go out, have a brilliant day and evening, and then come home to be brutally reminded that you are on your own and have to do everything. It sucks. No other way about it. Coming home and being able to just go to bed without having to sort anything out first rarely ever happens now.

I’m basically always on 99% of the time. Trying to do everything I’ve always done. Trying to work. Trying to be the organiser. Trying to have a social life. Trying to be there for everyone. Trying to give my daughter the same life she had before Mr C died. Over the last 10 days I’ve spoken at the UK Commission of Bereavement report launch, been to the office four times, helped at an event I’ve been involved with since 2004, seen Jason in Grease twice (crazy even by my standards!), been to the Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour and dealt with the usual juggling. I used to be a pro at a life like this, but looking at the photos, I can see how tired I look. These photos show me I’m not the same person as I used to be. Yet I know I’ve spent a heck of a lot of 2022 attempting to prove I am. Trying to prove I can do this. Prove I can do it all. We’ve done countless theatre trips (a number of which were rearranged from 2020 and 2021) and days out, we’ve been to Florida, we’ve been to Disneyland Paris, we’re going to New York. All of which are beyond bittersweet because we can only do them because of his death, but we’ve done them.

And more than this, since he fell ill and died, I’ve had so many people comment on how much I’ve done to keep his memory alive and honour him. The funeral, the memorial service, the charity event, the memorial bench, the podcasts, the newspaper and magazine articles, the blog, the charity calendar, becoming an Ambassador for Widowed and Young… I always retort with “but this is what anyone would do” but now I’m not so sure. Now, I suspect I’ve done it all because I’m simply terrified of him being forgotten, of what I will do with my life if I’m not desperately trying to keep his memory alive. And above all else. Now I wonder if I was doing it, as I did with the dating app, to prove that I could.

But, who the heck am I trying to prove anything to? Nobody puts any pressure or expectation on me. Expect one person. Me.

I’ve clung desperately to try to be the wonder woman I was before he died. Because to admit I’m not and I can’t do it all without him makes me feel like a failure. I’m a strong, independent woman who can do this by herself, why shouldn’t I have the life I’ve always had? Why shouldn’t I be able to give our daughter the life she’s always had? To adjust our lives, to accept I can’t do it all, to accept that running a house, managing the finances, working, raising a child, having a social life, buying all the presents, planning and everything else that goes with being a grown up means I have to accept that my emotional resilience has been irrevocably altered by his death. It means I have to accept I’m not who I was before. But that’s the reality. My life can’t be the same as it was before. Because I am 100% not who I was before. I can’t be two people and do everything two people did. The simple, hard-hitting truth is that our lives are different. I just wasn’t given a choice as to whether I wanted them to be.

Recently, very good friends of mine (the sort of friends you’ll allow to be brutally honest with you) have started asking me to slow down. They’ve told me that they’re exhausted just watching me. That they’re worried about me and what I’m trying to hide from by keeping continually busy. But I can honestly say that I don’t think I’m hiding from anything. I simply think I’m someone who is still struggling to find her way as a widow. To know where she fits in this world now. To get the balance right. To learn how to be an adult by herself. To feel confident in raising a child by herself.

Don’t tell them, but they’re right. I know and I feel that I need to slow down. I’ve proven that I can have a manic life like I had before. The reality is though that I don’t want it. I find it insanely hard work. I started this blog by saying I can respond to the phrase “I don’t know how you do it” and it’s simple. It’s taken the world opening up again to help me see it, it’s taken two and a half years since becoming a widow to see it, it’s taken the sheer exhaustion of life to help me see it. I could do it because I was part of a team, there were two of us, we shared responsibility for our daughter, we shared responsibility for everything. I could pretend to be Wonder Woman because I had my own superhero that meant I had a shot at achieving it.

So, while it pains me to admit it, this is my first step in pausing, breathing, slowing down and not trying to be a wonder woman and do it all. I realise now that not all superheroes wear capes. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. It means I’m simply human. It means I have the greatest superpower of them all. Vulnerability. Couple that with the superhero and guardian angel who will always have my back, and who knows where that’s going to take me. Changes need to happen. Changes are coming. I am not Wonder Woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve, and can’t live a wonderful life that’s fulfilling but less hectic. It’s time to reprioritise. It’s time to refocus. It’s time to take control of me and my new life.

I owe it to our daughter. I owe it to Mr C. But most importantly. I owe it to me. 

It’s been a long time

Various images of Emma with quote from Young, Widowed and Dating

Oh how I’ve debated writing this one. I’ve debated publishing this one. I’ve debated whether this is a part of my story that I want to share. I’ve debated whether it’s a sensible one to write. But the trouble is. This has been whirling around in my head. And when that happens, I know I need to write. And I also doubt that I’m the only one that has gone through, or will go through this…

A while back, I decided to join a dating app. I didn’t really know why at that time. But it felt like something I needed to try. I didn’t even know what I really wanted to come out of it. I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted a relationship. I wasn’t really sure anyone would want me and all my baggage. Let’s face it, I come with a lot! And around the same time I randomly heard a Bruce Springsteen song (Secret Garden) that I hadn’t heard for years. There’s a couple of lines in it that resonated:

“She’ll let you into the parts of herself

That’ll bring you down.

She’ll let you in her heart

If you got a hammer and a vice.”

Yup. That was my worry. Admit to the dead husband and I’d bring anyone that was interested in me down. And the fear of being hurt and losing someone again makes me feel as though my heart is impenetrable without serious trying on their part. God help anyone that made the mistake of liking me! But most importantly, whatever was to come of this, I didn’t want anything that would throw me and my daughter off kilter. I knew that if anything was to come of this, it would need to be handled exceptionally carefully. But something inside of me said I needed to experiment and try a dating app.

I barely told anyone. I didn’t want any judgement. I didn’t want any pressure. I didn’t want people asking how it was going. I didn’t want any expectations. I didn’t want my mum rushing out and buying a hat! This was, quite simply, something I needed to do for me. For the first time in a very long time, I was 100% selfish. I did something that was completely and utterly for me. It was, in essence, my secret and a gift to myself.

I’m not going to lie. It felt absolutely alien to me. Choose your best photos. Sell yourself in a paragraph. Give people a brief overview of yourself by answering some questions. I had never had to do this before. I’d known Mr C for nearly three years before we started dating. I didn’t have to sell myself to him in a paragraph, a natural connection formed over time. And ultimately, that’s why I was sceptical about being on an app. I just didn’t think you could feel an attraction or form a connection with someone without actually knowing them. How on earth could that happen?

But more than that. I didn’t really like the person that I was turning into from being on it. I felt I was becoming such a shallow, ruthless person. I’d reject people based on looks, their height, whether they were vaccinated, if they said that COVID-19 was a hoax, if they were called Charlie or Stuart, if they said they wanted no drama, poor grammar (yes, honestly!), fetish requirements (opened my eyes a little though!) and acronyms that I didn’t understand (you know you’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time when you’re having to Google what people are putting in their profile because you haven’t got a clue what they’re saying).

However. I did send some messages to people that passed the ruthless test. The majority of them didn’t respond however. Which, of course, does wonders for your self esteem. A couple did. Some were literally laughable with how forward they were. Definite eye rolls from me at some of the messages. There were a few nice chats but that was it. “Ok,” I thought, “I’m capable of doing this, I’m capable of having a message conversation with someone I’ve never met. Get me.” But the first time someone asked if he could ring me, I made up an excuse. Shut that down straight away. Because, as I’ve said, I didn’t really think this was what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted to come of this.

And then. A guy responded to one of my messages. He seemed “normal.” We started messaging. Just a few a day to start with, but then they gradually started to increase. Hmmmm. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was completely and utterly on my wavelength. We seemed to have a huge amount in common. We discussed anything and everything. He made me smile, he made me laugh and I found myself looking forward to the little notification that I had a message. Seriously. What was happening? This wasn’t on the plan (probably because I didn’t laminate it). I wasn’t meant to like someone. This didn’t happen on dating apps. He ended up invariably being the last person I messaged before I went to sleep and the first person I messaged when I woke up. Hmmmm.

The very few people who knew about this encouraged me to ask him to meet for coffee. Nope. I batted them away whenever they suggested it. To do that would make this real. To do that would mean I’d have to deal with it in real life. Hiding behind messages was just fine for me. I could be who I wanted to be. I could be Emma. I wasn’t a widow, a mother, a colleague or a friend. I was, quite simply, Emma. It was refreshing. I didn’t want to have to address any elephants in the room about why I was on the app. I just wanted to be me. Not meeting him allowed me to do that.

The messaging went on for just over a month. We didn’t exchange numbers. He didn’t put pressure on me to meet. He was sweet. He seemed genuine. What on earth was the catch? He seemed too good to be too true. And then. One Sunday evening, when I went to send a message, I made a discovery. He’d deleted his profile and vanished. Just like that. It was over. Whatever “it” was.

My stomach dropped. I felt the tears start to come. I felt sick. I’d let my guard down. I’d trusted someone enough to have all these messages covering a wide range of topics. And then, in the blink of an eye, I’d felt like I’d been played for a fool. Of course no-one would seriously be interested in me. How on earth could I have been so stupid?

But. The one emotion that I didn’t feel was anger. I didn’t want to yell about the injustice of it all. I didn’t want to shout at anyone. After the initial feeling of stupidity, I just sort of accepted it. That confused me. And oddly enough, I felt relief. Not hurt. But relief. Again. What was happening? Why wasn’t I feeling what I “should” be feeling? What on earth was going on in my head and my heart now?

I sat and gave it some serious thought. And that’s when it hit me. This was actually the perfect outcome for my first foray into dating again. Because at this point, it just helped crystallise that I probably wasn’t ready for a relationship and all the quagmire that comes with it. The relief was that it wasn’t going anywhere. I wouldn’t have to deal with the where is this going question. All that had happened, was that I’d reached a point in my life where I wanted and needed some flirting, banter, chat and to be made to feel good about myself. I got that from doing this. But why? Why had I needed that?

Again. Serious thought time. When I’d first subscribed to the app and said to my sister I didn’t know why I was doing it, she told me the answer to that was simple. “To prove you can.” And that’s really what this whole experience came down to. I needed to prove something to myself. Rightly or wrongly. For over 20 years, I’d had someone on hand to pay me compliments (admittedly they’d sometimes be backhanded ones, but still), I’d had someone to message on my way home from work, I’d had someone to make me smile, I’d had someone who could make me feel good about myself on those down days. And that person went just as I was approaching my 40s…

Now. I’m not saying I stressed about turning 40. I’m not saying I need validation from a man. Far, far from it. I instil this in my daughter on a very regular basis. “You are enough. You simply need validation from yourself.” But. Let’s be honest. Who doesn’t like to receive compliments? Who doesn’t like being flattered? Who doesn’t enjoy having someone to talk to who you’ve got a connection with? Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of intimacy? Yet, all of a sudden I found myself alone in my 40s, knowing that I had more grey hair, knowing that I had more wrinkles, knowing that I was carrying more weight than I used to and being way too self critical of myself. I was trying to navigate the world alone at a time in my life I should never have been.

Yes, Mr C and I had had those random conversations about if something happened to either of us and us wanting the other to be happy, meet someone else etc… But, when I said “til death do us part” at the age of 24, I didn’t really expect to be facing this dilemma. I expected us to grow old together. I expected to have someone there to pick me up on my down days. To make me feel good about myself when I needed it. I didn’t anticipate what would happen. I didn’t anticipate being a single person and basically being surrounded by couples and happy families. It’s bloody hard work. Seeing people in the throes of new love. Seeing people loved up. Seeing people compliment their partners. Seeing lives move forward as people celebrate their anniversaries and share all the things they love about their other halves. No matter how happy you are for others, that jealous pang hits. You find yourself withdrawing. Because it’s easier to do that than feel alone.

And that’s ultimately why I did this. That’s why I joined the app. My sister was 100% right. Annoyingly. It was, quite simply, to prove that I could. That if I really wanted to, I could sell myself. I could find someone to connect with. I could find someone who would appreciate me. Who would make me feel wanted and desired. Who would make me feel flattered and complimented. But this was also something I was doing as me. As Emma. People weren’t liking me and responding to messages because I was a widow, a mother, a colleague or a crazy Jason fan because I didn’t share any of that in my profile. They were liking Emma. I said when I launched this blog that I was trying to figure out where I was going next. Answering who Emma is the $64 million question. This experience has helped me on that quest and to answer that question.

After that Sunday discovery, I did keep looking at the app. I did send some more messages. But my heart was never really in it. It hadn’t been from the off if I’m perfectly honest. It really wasn’t for me. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing with my life. I let the paid subscription run out. I didn’t renew it. However, I can’t say I’ll never subscribe again. I can’t say I won’t consider dating. After all, as my daughter forges her own life and becomes more independent of me, I’m going to need someone to talk to. As wonderful as my dog is, he’s not the best at conversation or compliments! And as I know all too well, you never know what life is going to throw at you. Someone could come into my life at any point. I could get swept off my feet tomorrow. And maybe at some point I’d actually be ready to brave that coffee. Or brave being taken out for dinner. I mean, let’s face it, I’m never going to turn down a free meal! And as Rachel, a fellow widow wrote in a brilliant Twitter thread about her requirements, once a month would be enough, (I could literally have written this thread myself).

But for now, I’m content. I’ve done what I needed to do in this new world I’m navigating. I’ve got what I needed. I like the new found confidence and glint in my eye. Yes. Most of that has come from me and all the work and effort I’ve put into me through counselling and looking after myself, but some of it, without a shadow of a doubt, has come from my app man.

And how do I feel about him and the whole episode now? He shockingly hasn’t put me off men for life. I’ll never regret those messages or any of the time I spent in conversation with him. The thought of it still makes me smile. I suspect it always will. I’ll forever be thankful to him. He reminded me how to accept and say thank you for a compliment about me. Not about how brave or strong I am, not about how I’ve coped with what’s happened to me, not about how I’m raising my daughter. But about me. We come back to why I did this, I just needed to be selfish for a bit. But more than that. I’ve said before about believing people come into your lives for a reason. I wholeheartedly believe that this is the case with him.

And the reason? To give me back something I didn’t realise I’d lost. To give me a bit of a confidence boost. To help me realise what I needed and was looking for. To help me appreciate myself again. To help me look at myself through different eyes. Not the eyes of a grieving widow. Not the eyes of a devoted mother. Not the eyes of someone trying to hold down a full time job while also juggling her life.

But through the eyes of someone who can appreciate all she has to offer. Who can appreciate that she deserves more than she gives herself credit for. Who can appreciate all she’s been through and realise she’s right to be proud of herself. Who can realise that the wrinkles and the extra weight are part of her story. They’re something to be proud of. Because they reflect her life. They reflect the fact that she’s still standing and still keeping going despite everything that life has thrown at her. It hit me one day when I took a selfie to send to him. Because I looked at it and didn’t criticise it. I’ve started taking more selfies. I’m less critical of myself now. I can see and like the sparkle in my eyes again. I can look at pictures of me, like them and appreciate myself for the person I am. The person I’m evolving into. The person who is, without question, enough. And ultimately, that’s an incredible gift for him to have given me.

Be Thankful

Images of different sayings for Be Thankful and the original message from my niece

It was on this day three years ago, that a text message from a six-year-old changed my life. That might sound fairly dramatic, but that message really did have a massive impact on me and how I look at life. There isn’t a chance that she’d even remember it, but I do.

For those of you that follow my personal accounts on social media, you’ll know that every day I post something which includes this: #BeThankful. I try to find one thing a day that I’m thankful for, no matter what my day might have been like. It’s something that I started doing in 2019 and has now become a part of my everyday life.

In my previous blog on my mental health, I wrote about how 2018 was the lowest I’d ever been mentally. I was at rock bottom. It took me a lot of time and effort to claw my way back to feeling like I could survive and cope with life again. But the start of 2019 suddenly saw stress building again. Within the space of 24 hours my sister and I went from the euphoria of seeing Boyzone and me catching Ronan Keating’s hat to being in disarray at care for my nan. As my rollercoaster life started to dip and the stress started, I could feel myself slipping back into old ways. What I was most comfortable doing. It was so easy to focus on all the negative in my life.

But I knew that I couldn’t go back to how I’d felt in 2018. I knew that I had to do something that would stop me just focusing on the negative and try to change my mindset. I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do but then in amongst the stress, I mentioned to Mr C about something good that had happened that day. It was like an epiphany. In that moment, I decided that no matter how hard my day had been I would find one thing a day to “Be Thankful” for and share it on Twitter. I tagged in some of my work colleagues to let them know what I was doing with an image that said “Be thankful for what you have. Be fearless for what you want.” I sort of figured that if I’d publicly said I was going to do it, that I’d be accountable for doing it. It was almost like a pressure that I put on myself to do this. But a good pressure. Yet when I made that first post, I had no idea whether I’d even be able to stick to it. I had no idea whether it would actually make the blindest bit of difference.

But over the next few months, it did make a difference. I started to realise that even on those days when there were a number of stresses that I could find something. Some days it was small such as cooking a meal for Mr C and not giving him food poisoning (oh how that one has come back to haunt me now!) the washing basket being empty, a nice walk or a good day at work with brilliant colleagues. Other days it might be something fairly big such as seeing a show and being thankful for it. It was starting to change my mindset. It was starting to change the way I looked at the world.

And then I reached 18 June 2019. I vividly remember this day. It was a particularly tough day at work. I’d been going through a particularly tough few weeks and it all culminated on this day. I left the office in tears. I wasn’t in a great place. I got home and said to Mr C that I wasn’t going to do my Be Thankful’s anymore. That there was just no point. That they were a complete waste of time. I was fed up of trying to find the positive even on days when there really, really wasn’t anything. I suspect I also yelled or cried at my sister over the phone. Because a little while later I got a text message from my six-year-old niece. I’ve added it to the image at the top of this blog. When I received it, I cried. Because on that ridiculously tough day, she reminded me that I was loved. She made me smile with her innocence. And she taught me an incredibly valuable lesson that day. That even when you might not realise it initially or feel it, there really is always, always something to be thankful for. She became the inspiration I needed. She spurred me on.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the start of the next phase of the 2019 rollercoaster ride. I’d suspected that I was at a crossroads in my career at that point and that day in particular, cemented it for me. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to go or what to do next. I thought back to some advice that has always stuck with me shared by a previous line manager “it’s your life, it’s your career, the only person who can change it is you.” After a lot of soul searching and external coaching, I made the move to a new role. I joined a fabulous team. I felt I’d finally found where I was meant to be. It put me back on the upward trajectory of my rollercoaster. This was the start of September 2019, just six months before my rollercoaster would completely dip again in a somewhat spectacular fashion that none of us would have seen coming.

It actually scares me now to reflect on this. Because a few weeks after I started my new role, Mr C and I were having a conversation in the car. I remember it like it was yesterday. I have no doubt that I always will. My tweet for the day was this ““Life feels settled” I said to Mr C today. “It’s like I’m in the calm before the storm.” Who knows if or when that storm will come but on day 230 I’m going to #BeThankful for the calm and all that brings.” I shared it with an image that said, “Be thankful for all you have, because you never know what might happen next!” Wow. It’s sort of hard to remember and contemplate a time in my life when I didn’t feel like I was living in a storm. Two weeks after I posted that tweet, we learnt there was a chance he could be made redundant. Three months later, he was. Six months later his first symptom of COVID-19 showed. Seven months later he was dead. Seems I was fairly prophetic with my calm before the storm statement. I blinking wish I hadn’t been.

But even after we had the news that he might be made redundant, I continued doing my daily Be Thankful’s. I ended up doing them for an entire year. They sort of became ingrained in me. Other people started to tell me they looked forward to seeing them and reminding themselves to look for something in their day. I remember someone telling me that she had tried to do a daily “Be Happy” but all it had really served to do was show her that she wasn’t happy. It’s interesting isn’t it? Because when we try to force ourselves to feel something, it becomes incredibly difficult to do. When we allow ourselves to feel something no matter what else might have happened and to help us breathe a little bit, it becomes far more natural. I don’t in any way claim to be a psychologist, but these conversations do make me stop and think about people, how we respond to situations and what helps our mindset.

And of course, I do remember overthinking it and asking people what I should do when my year was up. I hadn’t really had an idea of how long I’d do them for when I started, but a year felt like a good time to finish. And of course. The marketer in me did a nice little word cloud when that year was up. I queried if I should do a daily “Be Brave” (my sister started giving me ideas such as jumping out of a plane). But again. Had I gone down that route, it probably would have been prophetic. Who knew what I was about to face in my life. But I didn’t. Shortly before Mr C fell ill and I was getting fed up with all the doom and gloom on my timeline, I started doing the Be Thankful’s again. I invited other people to join me. One of the Twitter family started doing it, I believe she’s on day 823 now. I love seeing her daily tweets and knowing that someone else does this as well.

After I started them again in March 2020, I carried on doing them for a little while after he fell ill and then I stopped. It was just something else I didn’t need to be doing or thinking about. I had enough on my plate. And to be honest, I was completely struggling coming up with things in those ridiculously early days. It was bleak. It was hard work. No two ways about it. But it recently popped up on my Facebook memories that I did start doing them again in June 2020. I’d had the weirdest day where grief was getting me in every which way. Of course it was. My husband hadn’t been dead for two months, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I was up. I was down. I was up. I was down again. And then I managed to build a computer chair. I felt I was going to carry them on this time.

Except I know I didn’t. At some point I stopped doing them. I can’t tell you when and I can’t really tell you why, because I don’t actually know. Until 1 December 2021. I remember it because it was a day that felt like someone had flicked a switch. I spent a lot of the day in tears. Mr C absolutely loved Christmas and just seeing December on the calendar and knowing we were about to do our second Christmas without him tipped me over the edge. It felt that it was going to be harder than the one the previous year. I could feel the potential for me to spiral. So, I decided that I was going to return to an old faithful just for a month and see where it took me… I’m now on day 201 of this round of Be Thankful.

I’m so incredibly glad I started doing it again. Yes, there are days when it feels like a stretch to find something. But I always do. People always tell me that I’m so positive. I disagree. I don’t think I’m positive. I don’t pretend the tough times don’t happen. I don’t try to turn them into a positive. But what I am is a realist. And I try to find just the tiniest shred of hope and something to appreciate even on those tough days. About a month ago, that same niece of mine said “I’m proud of you” when I was talking about being nominated for an award for my blog. Again. Something so small at the end of a really long day, but the impact it had was immeasurable. Finding one thing that is good in a day is just something I have to do to help my mindset and help me survive the madness.

Because as the prints around my house remind me. There is always, always something to be thankful for. I don’t know why I ever forgot that really. The kindest and sweetest six-year-old taught me that three years ago. And I will forever be thankful to her that she did.

Suddenly you’re seeing me, just the way I am

A year ago, I wrote a blog called “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Jason Donovan.” I’ve now given a copy of that blog to Jason. “I promise you I’m going to read this darling; I promise you” was his reply. I’ll be honest. Even if he didn’t, it’s not the end of the world. Because he called me darling. Life made in that moment!

And for those of you who have followed my story, you’re not going to be surprised when I say this viewpoint about wanting to marry him hasn’t changed over the past year. I can’t lie. Every time I meet him, there’s still a nervousness and a tiny part of me that always wonders whether this will be the occasion where I change my opinion. Whether this will be the occasion where he crushes my love. But no. It hasn’t happened this year. If I’m completely honest, I doubt it ever will. But what has happened since my last blog is a vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster, a marriage proposal and the biggest surprise of my life…

Let’s start with the vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster. I’ll start by giving some context. When I look back at my Facebook profile photos from across the years, Jason features in more of them than Mr C! I’m lucky that my late husband was fine with this. After all, he knew his place! But since he fell ill, all my profile pictures had featured him. Aside from one, when I wanted to show solidarity with my friend who had just lost her partner. I felt that was ok to have and people would understand. Because at the back of my mind was the worry that I’d be judged of having a profile photo that didn’t feature Mr C or didn’t have a valid reason behind it. Now, a lot of this comes from my own insecurities and fear of judgement since becoming a young widow. I know that. But I worried. Would I be accused of moving on? Would I be accused of forgetting him? But this is my life now. Overthinking absolutely everything. And there’s also a small part that couldn’t change the photo because of guilt. That I’m still able to live my life, take new photos and make new memories when he no longer can. Grief really is the most conflicting thing to live with.

A prime example of my overthinking about this came in August last year. We went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the London Palladium, and waited at the stage door. Something I’ve done many, many times. This time though, I was pushed forward to talk to him by a fellow Jason fan who mentioned what had happened to Mr C. Thus followed a lovely chat between me and Jason about everything I’d gone through. I turned round to see my sister and my friend in tears! They were so moved by how lovely he was and how intently he’d been listening to me. But that’s Jason for you. A genuinely lovely guy. While we were having that conversation, my sister got the most wonderful picture. I walked round the corner to Pret A Manger to grab some lunch, (it’s literally a two minute walk) and when in there I debated whether I should change my profile photo. Whether it was the “right thing” to do. By comparison, when my daughter and I had met Jason at the same place in 2019, my profile photo had been updated before I’d even made it to Pret. But this time, I just couldn’t bear to do it. For that fear of judgement from others. So, after debating over lunch, I didn’t do it. I didn’t change my profile photo. Despite me absolutely loving the photo and what it represented.

Fast forward to October 2021. I was fortunate enough to get some Meet and Greet tickets at the last minute to Jason’s Even More Good Reasons Tour. I don’t think two days’ notice was adequate preparation time really, but I did it. I overthought my outfit (to be fair I’d have probably done this pre-widowhood) and my sister and I made our way to the Hammersmith Apollo. It was only when we got there that we learnt that we’d only be allowed in one at a time. “What on earth am I meant to say to him?” was her response to that. She messaged my brother-in-law. He responded with “go in first and tell him to run.” And while she did go in first, she didn’t tell Jason to run. In fact, she came out with tears in her eyes “he’s just so lovely, I can’t right now” was her description of the conversation they’d had. But I couldn’t ask her why, because it was my turn to go in.

He told me what a lovely conversation he’d had with her. (Shockingly, she didn’t tell him to run. He confirmed that!). And it won’t surprise anyone to know that I left that experience completely agreeing with my sister. He really is just so lovely. I received a brilliant picture from that moment. It came through while the concert was happening and as soon as I looked it, it made my evening. It was a proper smile on my face. The smile reached my eyes. You can see the adoration in my face. You can tell how happy that moment was making me. Just like the conversation I’d had in August.

And I knew the instant that I saw it, that I’d love this to be my profile photo, but that thought I’d had before was nagging at me. What would people think of me if I no longer had Mr C on my profile? Yet on the train home, I did decide to go ahead and change it. Believe me, it took everything I had to click “save.” When I did this, I cried. It might sound small, it might sound stupid, but to me, it felt huge. It felt like I’d just taken a massive step forward. It felt like I was finally giving myself permission to keep living. It felt that I was finally allowing myself to be more than just a widow. To show people who I really am (title of this blog works on so many levels!) One of my friends even commented “well done” when she saw it. She knew just how much it had taken for me to do it. And it’s probably no coincidence at all that it was a picture of me and Jason that made me do it. My one constant since childhood.

I woke up the following morning still on cloud nine. This was what I shared on social media…

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who wanted to grow up and marry Jason Donovan. That little girl went on to go through quite a bit in her life. Jason always proved to be a constant for her. Yesterday, that little girl got one step closer to realising her childhood dream…

I am aware I bleat on about him (a little bit). I am aware that it possibly looks like I have a problem (a small one). But yesterday just reminded me why I am the way I am. He’s honestly one of the most genuine people there is. He reminds me of a time when life was simple, and I didn’t have a care in the world. And for the second time this year, he had my little sister in tears because of the care and compassion he showed regarding Mr C. Spoiler alert. Even she is starting to have a soft spot for him now. Only a little one mind you.

So, when she grows up, that little girl still wants to marry him. His proposal is in writing now. That must be legally binding ❤️

That’s right. I got a marriage proposal. From Jason Donovan. And it’s in writing. 23 years I’d been waiting for this moment. And it was definitely worth the wait! My sister had teed it up for me when she spoke to him, she explained everything I’d gone through over the past couple of years and thanked him for all he’d done for me. What she was unprepared for was how much compassion Jason would show to her about this. The questions he would ask about Mr C and what had happened. That’s what brought the tears to her eyes. The kindness and the compassion.

So, when he and I spoke, he said “I understand there’s a question you’ve wanted to be asked for years, shall we do this then?” I was lost for words. He did tell me not to tell the wife, but I told him how lovely she is too. I was sure she’d understand just what this meant to me! I clutched that signed programme for the entire concert. It is my most treasured possession now. It’s framed. I sent pictures of it to everyone as soon as walked out of the Meet and Greet. But it was the response from my daughter that got me the most. “God save me” was her response. It made me take a sharp intake of breath. Because it was no doubt what Mr C would have said. Or something incredibly similar. That pang of missing him hit. Even when I was the most excited I’d ever been, the happiest I’d been in months, the pang of him not being here was there. I’ve come to accept that’s how my life will always be. The happiness and the pain being intertwined.

And then we come on to the biggest surprise of my life, which is obviously linked to Jason. In October last year, I did something most unlike the old me. I trekked halfway across the country to meet up with someone I’d never met after she so very kindly offered me tickets to see Jason in Leeds. It sounds crazy. I’d never let my daughter do it. Travel halfway across the country to meet someone you’ve only ever spoken to on social media and take her at face value that she’ll give you tickets to a gig. But this is the new me. The new me that realises that life is too blinking short not to do crazy things every now and then. The new me who has been so absolutely blown away by the kindness shown to me. I just knew it would be ok.

I was right. As soon as I walked into the pub to meet her, I knew she was my type of person. She is without question my kindred spirit. So much so, I invited her to my belated 40th birthday party. Despite only ever meeting her that once in Leeds. Sadly, she was unable to attend. Or so I thought. It turns out that she had colluded with my sister to be there. She travelled 5.5 hours to be there. With her somewhat wonderful husband who had never met me (bloody love that man). They walked into my party wearing Kylie and Jason masks so I wouldn’t recognise them. When they came over to me and lifted them up, I think I actually shrieked. I hugged them both so much. I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t believe people would do that for me. Travel all that way and surprise me. A mutual love of Jason has brought the most wonderful, full of life person into my world. I’m so lucky.

And since my marriage proposal last year we’ve repeatedly joked on Twitter that she will be my chief official bridesmaid. So, her gift to me at my birthday was a photoshopped image of me, her and my sister onto the Neighbours wedding photo. She even got Jason to sign it for me when she did a Meet and Greet. We come back to that word I used a lot in my blog about him last year. Kindness. It means the absolute world and invariably costs nothing. Though I’m not going to lie. I do wonder what he must have thought when he saw that picture! And I also feel he probably needs some warning ahead of us going to the theatre or a gig together. I’m thinking someone should brief The Dominion Theatre ahead of our visit at the end of the month!!!

But while I jest. My adoration and love of Jason really has given me so much this year. It’s helped me take a step forward I didn’t actually realise I really needed to take. It’s brought someone truly wonderful into my life. It’s helped me make some new and very special memories. That I will treasure for my entire lifetime. I wonder what I’ll be writing this time next year. I may have peaked with the proposal last year, but there’s a few more theatre trips booked over the coming months. So, you just never know what could come next. A girl can dream. I mean, after all. Any Dream Will Do…