Tag: Bereavement

A different WAY forward

Wow, it’s been a heck of a week. It’s been a full on juggle this week. Early starts for work. Dancing runs. Sorting childcare. Sorting doggy care. Travel. Three nights away from home. And the Widowed and Young (WAY) AGM and Annual Get Together.

This was the second one I’ve attended. Both times I’ve met some wonderful people with some heart-breaking and incredible stories. I felt more comfortable and confident this year. I knew a lot more people. I knew what to expect. It didn’t feel quite as scary to be walking into the room. And of course. I had my comfort blanket and angel there with me. The gorgeous other Emma, the brains behind Rainbow Hunting.

Over the past two years I think we’ve become each other’s biggest cheerleaders. We’ve become a bit of a dynamic duo and double act. Neither one of us really know which one is Emma 1 and Emma 2. We just kind of roll with it. We’re always there at the end of the phone for one another. And have so much fun whenever we’re together.

Emma was encouraging and championing me so much yesterday. You see, at the AGM the winner of the Helen Bailey blog award for best WAY blogger is announced. For the second year in a row, I was nominated. There are so many great bloggers who are part of WAY that I find it incredibly humbling to even be nominated. When I first started writing, I didn’t expect anyone to read my words. I don’t really write for others. I don’t sit down at the start of the month and plan what I’m going to write. I only really write when I have something to say. But I have grown to find it so incredibly cathartic. I often write before I go to sleep because it helps me get thoughts out of my head. It helps me to try to get a bit of clarity in my life.

Yesterday was triggering and emotional for a number of us in the room. When you have a room full of people who have been widowed before their 51st birthday, it’s inevitable that emotion will be high.

As we headed towards the end of the day, Emma was cheerleading and encouraging me about the nomination. It was so, so lovely. But I kept managing her expectations. “It won’t be me” I said. And I wholeheartedly believed that. Because despite what everyone tells me, I struggle to believe I’m actually good at this. That I’m good at writing. I went to university to study journalism but dropped out after three months because it wasn’t for me. Life took over and my path and way forward changed. The irony that I’ve now started writing and had an article published in the Metro online this year doesn’t escape me.

My friends and family always comment on my writing. They tell me how amazing it is. But the low self esteem and confidence that has plagued me for a lot of my life has often led me to wonder whether they say that because they feel they “have” to. After all, they’ve pretty much seen me at my worst, they must worry that if they told me my blogs were rubbish, whether they might tip me over the edge.

It’s why the nominations the last two years have meant so much. Because the nominations are made by WAY members. The winner is voted for by WAY members. These are people who get it. These are people who might have very, very different circumstances to me, but people who know the range of emotions to go through as a young widow. How utterly, utterly different your life becomes. In every single aspect. Everything about your life changes. Everything. So, when other widows tell me that they value what I write and it resonates, I always get choked. I just find it so humbling.

As the shortlist for the award yesterday was announced, Emma was holding my hand. As I had done to her just a few hours before when she was emotional following one of our speakers. And then the winner was announced. It was me. I had won it. The 2023 WAY Helen Bailey award for best blogger went to me and Life is a rollercoaster. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t an element of disbelief. As I walked up to collect the award, the emotion hit. I could feel the tears coming. “Please don’t make me say anything” I said to Jo Sedley-Burke, the Chair of WAY. I knew that I simply wouldn’t be able to do this. Fortunately, she didn’t make me. She just gave me a really big squeeze and the actual award. Emma was next in line with the squeezes. I could tell how proud of me she was. And that also meant the world. Having someone champion you in this new world is beyond invaluable.

As I went back to my room to get ready for the evening, the tears were a bit more free flowing. There were people I knew that I needed to tell before it went public on social media. Certain family and friends needed to hear it from me. I wanted them to know and to tell them first. One of them was someone who has only become a friend because of this blog. That is the power of writing. That is the power of WAY. It brings people into your world who wouldn’t be otherwise. And my word. I feel so exceptionally lucky to have them into my world.

Last night, I danced the night away with Emma. With people I’d met at the AGM last year. With people I met this year. It’s one of the most uplifting and positive evenings. So much heartache and tragedy in the room, yet so much positivity and smiling. And then I went back to my room and reflected. I reflected on the win all the way home. Which was quite a lot given it was a four-hour drive. Before picking my daughter up, I headed to Mr C’s Memorial Bench. I sat there with the award for a little bit. It might be my name on the award, but the win is very much for him and our daughter too. For everything the three of us have gone through and will continue to go through.

This new world and this new path are not ones I would ever have chosen. I would give anything to swap them. But, without wanting to sound blunt, I can’t. This is my new world. My new now. My new way. I am beyond grateful and thankful to every single person who has taken the time to read my words. To every single person who took the time to nominate me. To every single person who took the time to vote for me. It might sound trite, but it genuinely, genuinely means the absolute world to me. I don’t and won’t ever take it for granted. Thank you. A million times thank you. By doing this, you have also helped me.

I sit here tonight, not only thankful, but also proud. Proud of everything this blog has achieved. Proud of every person it has helped, whether directly or indirectly. Proud that my words have been able to do this. I am now finally comfortable to say, “I’m good at this” and “I can write.” I have plans for my writing. I have things up my sleeve. My life has taken a very different WAY forward, but it’s taking me on a new and exciting path. The win yesterday was just the beginning. I have no doubt of that. And I know with the WAY crew, as well as my family and friends in my corner, I’m capable of achieving anything I put my mind to.

Have you noticed if I was wearing a ring on my thumb today?

Today I did something I haven’t done in a very long time. I tried to put a brave face on and chair meetings. I cried in the office. I cried on the tube. I cried on the train. And why? Because at just after 1pm today, I looked down at my thumb and couldn’t see my late husband’s wedding ring on it. It’s where I’ve been wearing his ring for a couple of years now. Admittedly, not every day, but more often than not.

Logic dictated that it had to be at home and that I’d just been so busy this morning that I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing it from the off. I logged a Lost Property claim with the train company. I retraced all my steps in the office. I emailed Security at work to see if it had been handed in. I asked my colleagues the most stupid question “have you noticed if I was wearing a ring on my thumb today?” Of course, they hadn’t, we’ve all been busy, in meetings or on calls and it wasn’t like I was asking them something obvious like what colour dress I was wearing when I came into the office. But immediately they started rallying around me. I was reminded once again of just how lucky I am to have this support and care at work. To the point that one utterly amazing human even went through bins for me while I went on calls. Other colleagues brought me tissues, a glass of water and tried to persuade me to go home to look for it.

But what I couldn’t properly articulate to them though was that a part of me just needed to be there and to do calls. Because to go home and discover it wasn’t there would have made this real. I needed to cling to that one word that’s kept me going through the last three years. Hope. All the while I could maybe pretend my mind was playing tricks on me and I simply hadn’t put it on this morning, I could try to rationalise that it must be at home. Hope with everything I had that it was at home.

As I walked out of the office I was crying. I knew I was edging ever closer to finding out once and for all if it was gone. I messaged on the Widowed and Young WhatsApp group what had happened. I just needed people who “get it” to empathise. Their messages of support and understanding helped. They knew what this would mean if it was lost. I messaged my sister who also tried to calm me down. I corrected her grammar as I’m known to do, I felt I could be let off, I was trying to keep myself busy after all, but I knew I wasn’t really feeling it anymore. This pain was real. Absurdly real. And raw.

It absolutely blindsided me. I kept trying to keep myself calm and tell myself it must be at home but all I really wanted to do was sit and sob. Yet I couldn’t really understand why. The ring isn’t him. If I’m perfectly honest, he was a complete nightmare with it when he was alive. He’d fiddle with it, take it off, not wear it and forget where he’d put it. So much so that when the Funeral Director asked if he was going to be buried with jewellery I said no, I simply didn’t see the point of him having it. I felt like I’d probably end up wearing it more in the future than he had over our 14-year marriage!

Today though I realised it was much, much more than that. This ring was proof of our relationship and our marriage. Now, that may sound silly to some people but one of the more random things that has happened to me since being widowed is this bizarre feeling that I dreamt him. That I dreamt it all. And that none of it was real. It’s beyond difficult to explain, mainly because I don’t really understand it myself. I know he was real. I know our relationship spanned over two decades. I know we had a child together. I know we owned different houses together. I know we made a gazillion memories. But how much of that is tangible? How much of that is real? And outside of my head?

I think in part this is down to the circumstances of his death. The fact that none of it seemed real. It was two weeks before I even saw him on a screen and could verify that they had the right person. I didn’t get to physically see him in hospital. I didn’t get to see him in the Chapel of Rest. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. Everything just felt so, so surreal. So, I cling to anything now that proves he was real.

It’s probably why it’s been so important to me to have memory items made. We’ve had Memory Bears and Blankets made out of his clothes. Again. In the same way as the ring isn’t him, neither are they. But I can look at them and know that he did wear them. I can show them to family and friends who also remember him wearing them and we can talk about him. I’ve also had a ring made with his ashes in and my daughter and I both have a decoration for the tree made out of his ashes. It keeps him part of our future.

I’m also fairly sure that this upcoming Sunday was subconsciously playing on my mind today too. Sunday marks 18 years since we got married. My fourth as a widow. That’s another funny thing I’ve noticed the longer I’ve been widowed, I refer to things that I previously would have said plural as singular now. My daughter. My wedding anniversary. My house. I don’t actually know when I started doing this, but I’ve recently become conscious of the fact I’m doing it. And I don’t really know why. I guess as time goes by and our lives move forward, his absence feels more and more pronounced. That I feel even more on my own and without him than I did at the start of widowhood. The all-consuming pain and grief kept him very much part of me back then. And while I’m still relatively early on in the widowhood journey, I do know that I’m so much further along than I was. The pain and grief don’t consume me in the same way. But today, losing the ring, that pain and grief was strong. Because losing the ring simply felt like another loss. Another loss that I was unprepared for. In the same way I was unprepared for losing him. All of this going through my mind on the train on the way home. My brain working overtime.

Then the inevitable. I got home. And if I’m perfectly honest, I knew what was going to happen next. It wasn’t there. The ring wasn’t there. And while I did empty my handbag and laptop bag for the gazillionth time again and look in all the very obvious places, I didn’t turn the house upside down. But that’s because I didn’t need to. I know where I put the ring when I got home last night. It was with all the other ones I was wearing today. I know where I’d have picked it up from this morning. It wasn’t there. Or anywhere obvious. That gut feeling I had at 1:15pm was right. I knew the second I noticed that it was no longer on my thumb that I’d lost it since leaving home. I was just clinging to hope. The tears didn’t stop then. I just felt numb. Completely and utterly numb. I went into autopilot. I started cooking dinner. I started sorting things out. Because it’s my default. Rather than having to think about how I feel, I keep busy.

It’s why I then wrote a Facebook and Twitter post (sorry, can’t call it X). To stay busy. Ironically I tried to find a photo of the ring, but we didn’t get the obligatory one at our wedding of the hands. And in almost every photo I found of him, he wasn’t wearing it. Told you, he was a fiddler with it. I did find one though. But it’s not the clearest. But I also wanted to write these posts on the off chance that it might help find it. What I was unprepared for, however, was how quickly my phone would start going mental. How quickly my daughter would be saying to me “Mum, your phone is really annoying me.” And despite how rubbish, emotional and numb I felt about the lost ring, I was taken right back to when he fell ill and to when all I had was virtual support. I’d forgotten what it was like to have strangers sending good wishes your way. I haven’t actually been able to keep up with all the comments yet. It’s all a little overwhelming.

I feel exhausted right now. My brain still feels scrambled at what’s happened today. I don’t really know how I feel. Other than numb. People say things happen for a reason. I don’t always believe that; let’s face it, I’ve still not and doubt I ever will, work out what the reason for a global pandemic was. But if I’m going to take anything from today, it’s a reminder that there really is a lot of kindness in this world. That people care. That if you ask a friend to send you something to make you smile, there are hilarious videos on the internet to be sent. Which against all odds do make you smile.

Maybe this was a sign from Mr C to remind me of all this. Maybe this was a sign from him to tell me something else. I don’t know. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll work it out and I will know. And in the meantime, I’m going to pray for a miracle and hope that somehow it comes to back to me.

Am I going to die?

“Your sister has had an incident with a rabbit.”

I’m fairly sure this isn’t what my sister was expecting to hear when she saw my daughter’s number flash up on her phone last Sunday afternoon. Confused is the best way to describe her response. And I think the confusion became even greater when my mum followed up with that the Easter Bunny had fallen on my head. We’re in August after all, what on earth was she expected to think?!

But let me take you back to the beginning of this story. Last weekend was the weekend I’d had earmarked for months to empty, sort and tidy up the man cave at the bottom of the garden. It’s become a bit of a dumping ground over the last couple of years, but when it reached the point that I was struggling to even get in and needed to climb over boxes just to move, I knew something had to be done. The past few months have been pretty chaotic, and we had to clear it in the summer to prevent things being rained on, so August it was. I’d been off work for a couple of weeks, and it just felt like this was the perfect opportunity.

Saturday morning, I was fired up. I was raring to go. I was annoyed with myself that I’d let it get into this state and became a bit of a woman on a mission. “No, not used that in years, that can go” became a frequent phrase of mine. My mum, stepdad and I created piles of bits to stay, go to the tip (I do love a tip run after all!) and go to charity shops. By mid afternoon on Saturday, one side was all done and dusted. A proper sense of achievement, and I felt that Sunday would be a slightly easier day as the majority of the bits on the other side were already in boxes and just needed organising better.

But on Sunday morning, I wasn’t feeling as fired up. I’d woken up and tried to find family photos and videos of Mr C singing to send to accompany a recent podcast I’d recorded, and in that moment, I felt sad. The tears started to flow, and it felt like it was going to be harder doing more sorting of his belongings without him. It was, as I’ve come to know them, “a grief-y day.” But I persevered. My mum and stepdad came round again to help, and we got it done. More charity shop bags were created, and another tip run booked. We were going to finish earlier than the previous day and would then be all good to sit down with a cuppa. That was, until the Easter Bunny attacked.

As my mum and I went to put something in front of the windows, I accidently knocked the bunny which was on top of a box. It fell, hit me on the head and then fell to the floor where its foot was smashed off. I swore quite emphatically. It had really hurt after all, but I then continued with what I was doing. Mum walked out of the man cave to get a bag of peas or something else cold to pop on my head (benefit of her having been a nurse for over 30 years, she knows exactly what to do in circumstances like this). And then I realised my head and neck felt wet, feeling confused I put my hand there and discovered I was bleeding, and in my mind, there was a lot of blood.

“I’m bleeding” I then shouted and went to sit down in the garden. Mum was there, putting wet, cold kitchen towel on my head to stem the bleeding and I think it was at this point, I went into shock. “Am I going to die?” I asked her. The rational side of me knew I wasn’t, I hadn’t passed out and it wasn’t the most severe of bangs to the head, but the fear was palpable. As I looked at my daughter, I sobbed “I can’t die, I can’t leave her by herself, please don’t let me die.” Again, rational Emma knew this was unlikely, but vulnerable, irrational, widow Emma was scared. I think this Emma took my mum a little by surprise, it’s not often that I’m vulnerable like this in front of others. At this point, she sent my daughter indoors to make me a cup of sweet tea and made the call to my sister in a bid to get her to help calm me down and see sense. Ever the pragmatic realist, my sister was able to do this to a point and then we went to Minor Injuries.

Explaining that a giant rabbit had fallen on my head did feel, quite frankly, ridiculous. But then came the question which anyone who has lost someone close to them dreads “who is your next of kin?” I’d been there before; I knew chances were that I’d already changed it from Mr C but in that moment everything just felt too much. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s my mum” was my response as I started crying again. I don’t want to be reminded that I no longer have a spouse. The receptionist very kindly gave me a tissue and then I went to sit in the waiting area. Fortunately, I was seen relatively quickly and established I didn’t need stitches or any further treatment but needed to rest and do very little for the next 24 hours. I went back to my mums where she cooked us dinner, dozed on and off and then went home.

The next morning when I woke up, I was still feeling incredibly vulnerable. It just reminded me that accidents happen. Life can change in a heartbeat. The fear of leaving my daughter was the highest it’s been for a very long time. I sat on the sofa and just sobbed. While the physical pain had lessened, the emotional pain was a little bit higher. The underlying fear that lives inside me was that little bit higher. I don’t do sitting at the best of times but knew that I needed to rest. As much for my mental health as the physical recovery.

A few hours later, my stepdad popped round to help me take things to the charity shop and the dog to the groomers. But in another twist of fate, as we were looking at a broken picture frame, I unclipped part of it and a large shard of glass slipped and cut his leg. There was blood everywhere. Not overly great when you live with a child who doesn’t do blood! The fear crept in again, I felt sick. How could this have happened? Someone had literally just popped round to help me and there’d been another accident. I wasn’t entirely sure this was what was meant by taking it easy! Back to Minor Injuries I went, and the wait times were a lot longer than they’d been the day before. The guilt kicked in even more at this point, he was going to be there over lunch, and it was all my fault. I’d have to tell mum who was at work blissfully unaware of the carnage that had occurred. To cut a long story short, Minor Injuries were unable to help him, and he then had to go to A&E. Two hospitals, stitches, tetanus, antibiotics and eight hours after he’d come round to mine, he finally made it home. Guilt, emotion, vulnerability increasing by the second.

And as we were sat waiting for news from him, my daughter put Gavin and Stacey on. The episode where they get married. If you’ve not seen it, the bride’s uncle brings out a letter from her late father that he wrote for her wedding day. My tears were back. I yelled at my daughter to turn it off. I just couldn’t face dealing with seeing this on a TV screen. It’s something that pains me to this day and will probably pain me forever that Mr C never got the chance to do something like this. That he never got to tell people how he felt about them, to write letters for her as she grows up and more importantly, that he never got to say goodbye. To anyone. He was robbed of that opportunity, and I hate it. I absolutely hate it. For him and everyone who was left behind.

I went to bed that night emotionally fraught and done in again. Two accidents in two days. I was feeling the most vulnerable and fearful I’d felt in such a long time. I just wanted someone to give me a hug and tell me it was all going to be ok. Yet over the next few days, these feelings started to dissipate a little. My daughter had some friends over, I had my lovely WAY angel stay, we took cheques to both The Big Cat Sanctuary and Medway Hospital ITU totalling £2,020 from the profits from his calendar sales. I started to feel a bit more with it again. I then went away on Friday for a fabulous weekend with friends to see Jason Donovan. I’ve probably drunken and eaten too much over the past few days, but I’ve also let go. I’ve not been Control Freak Emma (can I get a range of dolls made like Barbie please?!) and I’ve had so much fun.

And on the drive home today it hit me. A week ago, I was a mess. A proper emotional mess. But what I’m learning as I go through widowhood is that while these days and feeling like this will never, ever go away, what has happened and will continue to happen, is that I’m better at managing them, accepting that they’re part of life and being able to bounce back that little bit quicker from them each and every time. I’ve learnt that it’s ok to be vulnerable, but it’s been a heck of a long time since that vulnerability and fear came to the fore as it did last weekend.

Yet that’s ok, and just serves as a very good reminder to be wary of the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas in future… turns out when they’re mixed with a clumsy person they can be a tad dangerous!

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.”

Children are resilient

Family photos of The Charlesworth Family

I want to start this by saying I’m no expert on grief. I’m no expert on bereavement. I’m no expert on childhood bereavement. But what I am an expert on is my child. My child who, at the age of 10, watched as her beloved father grew steadily weaker and more ill because of COVID-19. Who watched as her father walked out of our house to an ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. Who then never physically saw him again. Just think about that for a moment. It’s not fiction. It’s real. This is what happened to my beautiful, clever, amazing 10-year-old.

One of the very first things that was said to me in amongst all this carnage was “children are resilient.” It was said in a way to make me feel better, to make me feel that she would be ok despite our world crumbling around us. It wasn’t meant with any malice at all, because fundamentally children are resilient in a way that is different to adults. They are far more black and white, they are far more pragmatic, they see the world in a different way to us. But over the last two and a half years, this phrase has come back to haunt me time and time again. Because I can’t help but wonder if we are actually doing children a disservice by using this phrase and immediately telling them and their families how resilient they are. Yes, they might be, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, that they don’t feel pain, that their lives aren’t ridiculously changed forever, that they aren’t ridiculously changed forever. And quite simply, this is what has happened to my daughter.

She was a relatively carefree 10-year-old when the pandemic came into our lives. She was never meant to have been an only child, but after Mr C’s cancer we didn’t even know if we’d be able to have a child, and then after my miscarriage, we decided to just be thankful for the child we did have and that was that. I’ve wondered on more than one occasion how different her experience of bereavement and grief would have been had she had a sibling to share the pain and the loss with. It’s one of those “what if” questions that should never be asked and will never be answered.

And while I say carefree, she hadn’t always had it easy. She’d had to watch me hit rock bottom at the age of eight. She’d had to watch my nan’s health decline due to Alzheimer’s from the age of six (just six weeks before the diagnosis, she’d still been having sleepovers with my nan and baking cakes). She’d seen the usual marital arguments that happen. But, overall, she didn’t really have that much to worry about in her life. We tried to make as many memories with her as possible, we knew that she would only be a child for so long and that we needed to make the most of our time with her. I will be beyond grateful for the rest of my life that we took this approach and have a wealth of memories and photos to look back on.

But as the pandemic seemed to grow in its severity, the biggest worry and challenge I thought she was going to face was that of isolation, of not being at school, of not being able to go to dance lessons, of not seeing her friends and just being stuck with two adults in the house. But I didn’t worry too much, because children are resilient… Little did I know what she was actually going to face. I will never, ever forget the early hours of 30 March 2020 when she woke up to hear her father struggling for breath, me making a 999 call and seeing the utter panic and desperation I felt. Yes, I tried to say calm for her but in that moment I’m sure she saw it. She knew. And then, in a reality that will forever pain me, I had to leave her on her own when the paramedics arrived because they needed me. My 10-year-old had to sit on her own in our lounge, whilst knowing that upstairs people were trying to save her father and the only comfort she could get was via my mum on the phone because no-one could come in our house. But that’s ok right? Because children are resilient.

The next three weeks sort of passed in a blur. There were days we didn’t make it out of our PJs. There were days we’d have cake for breakfast and brownies for lunch. There was the day a week before he died when I had to sit her down and tell her that he was very poorly (understatement of the year) and might never come home. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I remember saying to her. “Yes, you’re saying daddy might die” was her response. Pragmatic. Real. She was bloody amazing. And then the Skype calls came. I didn’t do the first one with her because I wasn’t sure what he’d look like but having done that one, I knew she’d be ok seeing him. Each day I would ask if she wanted to talk to daddy and her response was always “well, I’ll talk to him today because he’s here today isn’t he and might not be tomorrow.” I told this story when I was on a panel at the UK Commission on Bereavement “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report launch and you could hear a pin drop. I saw members of the audience crying. It hit me then. Just how much I’ve come to accept what we went through because we were living it. How I’ve probably downplayed our experience because it was ours. And yet when other people hear it, they consider it heart-breaking.

But. The attitude and philosophy that my daughter adopted during that final week kept me going, because if she could do it, then so could I. And then the fateful day came. The call came. Hope had gone. He was going to die. She was actually about to become a child whose father had died. My biggest fear had been realised. Again, we did a Skype call and this was our chance to say goodbye. I can still remember her saying to him “I’ve not really got anything else to say to you now, I haven’t done much, I’ll go talk to nana and come back in a bit” (my mum was sat on our driveway at the time). Because let’s face it. Children are resilient. This was just something else she was dealing with.

And let’s be honest. She didn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. We were living in the middle of a global pandemic. Her father had died. I couldn’t make this any better for her. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. Both of us had to deal with it. But unlike me, she didn’t cry. For weeks, if not months, she didn’t cry. She queried this with me because she didn’t understand why not. “Everyone grieves differently, please don’t worry about it” was my reply. It was all I had. The day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She stood in the crematorium, did a reading with me, and didn’t cry. Shock. That’s what she was experiencing. Shock. I didn’t really realise it at the time, but like I say I’m an expert on my child and now I can say she was in shock. She was in shock for such a very long time. My amazingly brilliant, resilient child had experienced pain that no child should ever experience. She not only experienced loss, but went on to experience isolation, a lack of physical contact, her mother falling apart and secondary losses. Yet all the while people kept telling me that she’d be ok. Because children are resilient.

What I hadn’t really realised at the time and didn’t really realise until this year is how she aged overnight. Not just mentally, but physically. Her eyes took on a sudden weariness. She looked older. Yes, partly because she was growing up, but also partly because of the trauma she went through. And I realised this in the simplest of ways this year. We went to Florida for three weeks; it was our treat to ourselves after the heartache we’d gone through. We did a day trip out of the parks one day and she asked me for a cuddly toy as a memory, before then I couldn’t tell you the last time she asked for one. On the coach back to the hotel, she cuddled that toy. I snapped a photo and sent it to my sister. “She looks so young” was her response. And that was it. That was the moment I saw it. Our three weeks in Florida enabled my daughter to be a child again, to not have a care in the world and ultimately, to regress. She got back a little bit of her childhood on that holiday. I cried on the plane on the way home, partly because I felt I was leaving Mr C there but also because I felt I’d got my little girl back. She had been given the space and ability to be a child again. It was a momentous feeling. I wanted to keep her like this forever.

But back to reality we came. She said something to me a couple of weeks later after a difficult few days and it just winded me. “People don’t ask me how I am anymore, it’s been over two years, I’m supposed to be ok with it now aren’t I?” Because time is meant to be a healer, isn’t it? But sadly, the misconception that exists because we’re “trained” to believe that children are resilient is that they don’t suffer for any length of time. That they just bounce back from whatever comes their way. That they don’t experience pain in the same way. That grief doesn’t affect them. Without question it does. And it’s something that will be a part of them forever. I wonder how we can change that, because in my opinion it needs to be changed. Unless you’ve witnessed it first-hand, you have no real idea of what grief, trauma and pain can do to a child.

I won’t talk about all the ways I can see that she’s been affected and what it’s like for her because that’s her story to tell and I don’t want to divulge it. Maybe one day, but not now. Not while she’s living it. But what I can tell you as her mother is that she is 100% affected by her loss. That she is 100% struggling to work through and process what has happened to her. Losing her hero. Losing her protector. Losing one half of her history. And quite simply, why wouldn’t she be? It doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, it just means she’s human. It just means that she’s experienced one of the most awful things that she possibly could, and she needs to be allowed time and space to work through it. She needs love and care. She needs people to ask her how she is. She needs to talk about her dad. She needs to know that all of how she is feeling is ok.

And interestingly enough, from my perspective, it is this that I believe will build her resilience and help her as she goes through the teenage years and adulthood. Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable. And I will be there with her on every step of this journey. I am so grateful for the child bereavement charities that I’ve spoken to who have given me guidance, who have supported her and will continue to support her.

But most of all, as her mother, I couldn’t be prouder of her for the way she has responded over the last couple of years. It’s not been easy; I’d be lying if I said it had. But I hope that she’ll retain the human and vulnerable elements to her as she gets older, because they’ll be two of the most valuable qualities she’ll ever possess. I hope that her experience doesn’t define her but instead helps shape her. To help her go into adulthood retaining that realistic and pragmatic view on the world. To truly understand that being resilient doesn’t mean that you don’t find things hard. That you don’t suffer. That it’s ok to need help now and then. And without question, I know that if she takes this into adulthood, it’s something that her dad would be very proud of her for doing too.