Bereavement – Page 5 – Life is a rollercoaster

I’m so sorry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your faithful companion.

Grief x

Who am I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

18 months a widow

So, there you have it. 18 months of being a widow. I’m not a fan of that label if I’m perfectly honest, but the simple fact is that it is one part of who I am now. My husband died. I’m now a solo parent (I don’t like the term single). Yet, despite this, three months ago it was as though it was new. It was as though I’d been newly bereaved and lost him all over again.

You see three months ago; I held his Memorial Service on his birthday. I went into it feeling that I was doing it for everyone else. I was doing it for our daughter who really needed it. I was doing it for friends and family who hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to him. But I didn’t feel I needed it. I felt I’d had my closure at the funeral. I’d been living without him for 15 months; I knew he was gone. I knew the pain I was in and I’d accepted living with it. The service was just perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be. The tributes, the readings, our daughter singing. All just perfect. The Celebration of Life afterwards was equally as perfect. To see everyone in a room remembering him, celebrating him and being together was perfect. He’d have been so honoured.

It was the first time in 15 months that I’d stopped. That I just relaxed. I didn’t worry about being a widow. I didn’t worry about being a mum. I knew there were enough people there looking out for my daughter. I had a glass of wine. Or two. Or three. I naively did shots. In the cold light of day, I know this was a stupid idea, but at the time it was something I needed to do. I hadn’t been drunk since he fell ill. And just for that day, I felt alive. I relished the hugs from people. I hugged one of my closest friends for the first time. I didn’t want to let her go. It reminded me of what it was like to be a person. To have physical contact with people. To be a 40-year-old woman. Not a widow. Not a mother. But a person.

And then the spectacular crash happened. The day afterwards I felt delicate. But I put that down to the alcohol consumed. The following day I dialled in to my first conference call of the day. And promptly cried when I was asked how I was. I had to give in. I couldn’t do this. I was exhausted. I’d barely slept the night before. I turned the laptop off. I laid on the sofa willing sleep to come. I read and re-read a message from one of my friends who’d checked in on me that morning. I felt broken. I had nothing. He really was gone. This really had happened to us.

But the next day, I logged on to work again. Nobody forced me to. I just didn’t know what else to do. I made it through the day but felt exhausted by the end of it. The following day, I drove to one of our offices to try to make myself feel better. I went for lunch with one of my amazing friends there. But when I got home, I couldn’t remember driving round the M25 to get home. I couldn’t remember any of my meetings from that day. I knew I’d been there, but I couldn’t remember it. I sobbed. I broke on my daughter. I just kept saying “I’m just so tired. I’m so tired.” I spent nearly an hour on the phone to a counsellor via our Employee Helpline. I needed help. I knew that. And it wasn’t help that any family or friends could give.

Yet despite this, the very next morning I logged back on to work. Because I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t realised it, but work had become my security blanket. Around lunchtime, I had what was to be my final meeting for a while. When I was asked how I was, I just cried. I revealed what had happened the day before and was asked why I was working. The classic line was said to me. “If someone was telling you what you’re telling me what would you be saying?” I knew I shouldn’t be working. I knew I needed time out. But the simple fact was I was too scared to take it. Because to take it would mean acknowledging that I needed to stop. That I needed to deal with this. My husband was dead. 15 months later and it felt as fresh as it had on 19 April 2020. But for one of the very few times in my life, I listened to what was being said to me. I will always be so grateful for what was said to me and the care shown. I put the out of office on. I stopped working. And then I sat. I realised it was the first time I’d been in my house since he fell ill that I’d been by myself and not worked. I literally had nothing to do. My daughter was at school. I’d never been in the house during the day without her since he fell ill when I hadn’t been working. That was a real wake up call for me. Had I been looking after me at all for 15 months? Or had I been prioritising her (which I’d do again in a heartbeat)? Had I been hiding behind work? I’m a firm believer that you must look after yourself as you can’t pour from an empty cup but in that moment, I realised I’d not really been looking after me as an individual. I’d not got used to being on my own with nothing to do. I rang our Employee Helpline back. They did an assessment. They referred me back to counselling. I felt I was starting all over again.

Except I wasn’t. Because the difference was that I knew I needed and was able to have help from others. And while I barely told anyone what had happened, I did tell a few people. My amazing friends rallied around me. They fed us. They listened. They met me for lunch. They didn’t balk at my incredibly long WhatsApp messages getting my thoughts out of my brain. They knew they couldn’t understand fully, but they tried. They just let me do what I needed to do. When I was first widowed, I couldn’t get this help in the same way. Lockdown prevented it. Lockdown prevented us seeing others. It prevented physical contact. But now I could have it all. One of my oldest friends told me to embrace the hugs. As hard as I found hugging people, I knew he was right. I needed people to put their arms around me and just let me cling to them.

I’m not going to lie. Listening to my body, accepting when I’ve done too much and resting when I need to has been so hard for me. Yesterday was a prime example of me not doing this. Today is different. Asking for help and accepting I can’t do this alone has been so hard for me. But I’ve realised that I have to. It is simply not possible for me to do this alone. I can’t. And I’m one of the luckiest people in the world, because I don’t have to. All those people who have been there for me have shown me that. Yes, my husband died, and you might think that would leave me feeling unlucky. In a way, it does. But I refuse to feel hard done by. I won’t let this define mine or my daughter’s future. You either sink or swim when something like this happens to you. And I refuse to sink. I won’t let my daughter see me sink. Yes, she’ll see me struggle. She’ll see me cry. But not sink. I have to set an example to her. Because who knows what else she will go through in life. She needs to know that you keep going. You don’t let life beat you.

While last week took its toll and is one I suspect I’ll reflect on as being pivotal in months or years to come, it was also the perfect example of the amazing people I have around me. My friends let me drop my daughter off early so I could make it to the office slightly earlier. They let my daughter go round after school and fed her because I was in the office late. They then had us round for a Sunday roast because I’d had a heck of a week. The grandad of one of my daughter’s friends took her to her dance class for me. My long-standing colleague and friend let me wobble on him, waffle and share random thoughts til the early hours when my brain was overthinking. My mum and stepdad did the school run and had my daughter for two nights so I could do a late-night event and then an impromptu trip to Leeds to see Jason Donovan. A fabulous Twitter friend I’ve made offered me those Jason tickets because she felt I deserved them. My friend who said yes when she got a random message saying fancy a trip to Leeds? The people I’ve never met but have connected with because of what’s happened to me and got in touch because of the report into the pandemic that was issued. The Widowed and Young team for telling my viewpoints so beautifully in interviews. The team at ITU who let me go in and see the ward because I’d never been and felt that I needed to see where Mr C spent his final days. To see the machines that would have helped him to fight. The doctors and nurses who remembered him. Who were able to talk to me about him.

That’s when it hit me. Stuart Charlesworth made an impact on everyone he met. He left a legacy. And this is another reason that we have such amazing support. Because as much as people are doing it out of love for me and my daughter, they’re also doing it out of love and respect for him. They’re doing it because they know how I would treat them if they needed me. They’re doing it because they know it’s what he would have done for them. They’re doing it because they know he’d want his wife and daughter to be supported. To not be riding this rollercoaster alone.

18 months ago today, I felt the most alone I’d ever felt. I didn’t know how I was going to cope on my own. Three months ago, I felt broken. I didn’t know how long it would take me to piece myself back together again. I still haven’t. But I’m doing it, slowly but surely. In the words of John Mayer, “I’m in repair. I’m not together, but I’m getting there.” My husband still died. That will never change. I’m still a widow. I’m still a mother. But I’ve started to realise I’m also a person. A person who is so unbelievably proud of herself and all she has achieved over the past 18 months. A person who will live to fight another day. A person who will honour her late husband’s legacy. A person with the most supportive family and friends anyone could ask for. A person who knows she has so many people to call upon whenever she needs help. A person who has realised that asking for help doesn’t make her a burden. A person who has so much love to give. A person who can start to think about her future. A person who knows all of this is exactly what her late husband would want her to know.

He would never, ever have wanted his death to be the thing that destroyed me. And it won’t. It will be a part of me always. But I’ve learnt so much about myself, my daughter, and the people around me. I still love my husband. I always will. I still miss him every single day. But 18 months on, I’m starting to acknowledge that I can’t hide behind being his widow and a mother forever. I have to become my own person and keep living for me. Because I’m now so acutely aware of the legacy he left. And I’ve come to realise that as well as my own attitude and determination, this is what will see me through. Always.

I am 1 in 4

Eight years ago today, I became a statistic. In the month that Baby Loss Awareness Week takes place, I become a statistic. Funny really how the most painful experiences in my life are linked to statistics. But this is one that shouldn’t be a taboo and more people should feel comfortable talking about, because it will happen to 1 in 4 pregnancies. 1 in 4 will result in a miscarriage. Eight years ago, I became one of those 1 in 4 when I experienced a missed miscarriage.

For anyone who has never heard that term before (I hadn’t until I had one), put simply it’s where the body doesn’t recognise the baby has died. So, you don’t tend to have any bleeding or signs that something is wrong and you carry on unaware that the pregnancy isn’t successful. I say unaware, but I can vividly remember saying to Mr C shortly before we found out that I didn’t feel pregnant anymore. At the time, he told me not to worry, that I’d not really suffered when I’d been pregnant with Miss C and he put it down to me approaching 12 weeks.

So, I carried on following the guidance for pregnancy despite the fact that something was niggling me. On the day of my 12-week scan, I left the office early, Mr C picked me up from the station and en route to the hospital we went to a camping shop as we had a small amount of time to kill. We wandered for a bit and I picked up four clips to put on a table to hold your glass in. But as we went to pay, I put one back because something told me I wasn’t going to need four, after all, there were only three of us in Family Charlesworth. I didn’t make a fuss and I doubt Mr C even realised but I remember doing it. A few years later we were in the same shop. I stood in front of those clips and cried because of the memory they evoked. When we finally got to the hospital and the receptionist asked me if I wanted to pay for my photos ahead of the scan appointment, I almost retorted that there was no point because we wouldn’t need any. But I figured Mr C would just tell me off for being negative, so I kept quiet and made that payment.

When we were called in, I didn’t say anything, I dutifully answered all their questions. And then they started the scan. It was at this point that I knew something wasn’t right. Because they were silent. They weren’t talking to me about our baby. Four years previously when I’d had my first scan with Miss C, they’re been talking to me pretty much from the off. I remember crying as I saw our very much wanted baby wriggling around for the first time. But this time, there was nothing. There was just silence. Until we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…”

The sonographer went to bring someone else in for a second opinion. Again, we heard the phrase “I’m very sorry…” There was no heartbeat. It looked like there was fluid on the baby’s brain. The baby had stopped growing approximately three weeks earlier. I’d been walking around for three weeks with a dead baby inside me and until that confirmation at the appointment, had been blissfully unaware of what was to come. I later learnt from the consultant that this was due to the pregnancy hormone reducing, my niggling feeling and not feeling pregnant was because of the hormones reducing. Had we not gone for that 12-week scan and found out, it’s likely my body would have realised anyway, it just took it a while.

We were dealt with very sensitively. Someone went to get me a refund for those photos I’d paid for. Looking back now, I wish with all I have that I’d insisted on still having photos. As macabre as that might sound, I have nothing other than memories to look back on. There’s no proof that this even happened. And since Mr C died, I have no-one to remember it with me. Days like today are just another reminder that the person I shared my life and experiences with is no longer here.

We made the decision that I would have a D&C. I felt that this was the best way to deal with what had happened. It would hopefully mean that there would be minimal impact on Miss C. It would mean that I was in control of what came next (needing to be in control is a very common theme with me). So, two days after our scan we went back to the hospital for the surgery. I sat in the car park and cried, refusing to go in because to go in would make this nightmare real. It would mean that this was really happening. Six and a half years later I’d do pretty much the same thing at the same hospital when I had to go and collect Mr C’s belongings. The hospital where we had our beloved daughter, where I was operated on after losing our second baby was also the hospital where Mr C died. And every single time, they’ve treated me with kindness and respect.

Going home after the D&C was surreal. I wasn’t in any real pain. It really was as though nothing had really happened. I could drink alcohol again. I could eat what I wanted. Overnight, life was returning to the way it was. Except for one thing. Me. It would take me a long time to return to normal after this. Not least because my body physically took a look time to recover and go back to normal. Mentally I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d done something wrong. Yes, I knew that this was just one of those things and it happens to 1 in 4 pregnancies, but it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. It didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d let Mr C and our baby down because I hadn’t been able to have a successful pregnancy. But the strangest thing of all was that despite this, I didn’t really know how to feel. A week after the D&C I couldn’t stop crying. I remember locking myself in the bathroom and ringing Mr C to tell him that I didn’t know how to stop crying. That I didn’t want to cry in front of Miss C because I didn’t know how to tell her what was wrong. She was three years old; how do you explain it? She was confused enough that I wasn’t working and was at home every day. That was enough for her to get her little head round!

I remember telling people not to be nice to me. Not to treat me differently. People would tell me it was ok to grieve, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what I was grieving for. I’d never met this baby. How can you grieve for something you’ve never really had in your life? But I was grieving. I was grieving for a lost future. I was grieving for our future family. Even now I grieve for that. Even now I still wonder who that baby would have been. Would they have been a boy or a girl? Would they have been like Miss C? What would they be into? Would it have made a difference to Miss C to have had a sibling when her father died? While the raw pain has dissipated, the “what if” that I feel even eight years on is just as strong.

And I also wonder “what if” about how I dealt with it at the time. What if I’d been more honest and spoken about it more. I know there will be people I worked with at the time who may read this now having had no idea of what I went through. Because I chose not to talk about it. I chose to pretend nothing had happened. I can’t remember for definite, but I’m fairly sure I only told two people at work. I went back to work after two weeks and the majority of people had no idea why I’d been off. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, it was just I wanted to carry on as normal. To talk about it would have forced me to deal with it. As I write this now, I have no idea why I took this approach. I’d have been given understanding. I’d have been given time. It would have meant that when I bumped into one of my friends at work, she’d have been a bit more prepared for me breaking on her. All she did was just ask me how I was because she hadn’t seen me for a while, and I cried. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. The experiences I’ve gone through since have made me realise that it’s ok to talk about miscarriage, about mental health, about grief. Because they’re all part of what is “normal.” They’re all part of who I am and what has happened on my rollercoaster life.

So today I remember. I think about my favourite and most treasured “what if.” I will always think about what might have been. And I talk about it. Because I am, and it’s ok to be, 1 in 4.

Being Mrs C

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Til death did us part.

Just gotta ride it…

One of the reasons it took me so long to launch a blog was because I just couldn’t think what to call it. People had been telling me for months to write one, but I just wasn’t confident enough that a) I’d have anything to say and b) what a fitting name would be for it. It was a real struggle. For someone who works in marketing, I was proving pretty useless at being able to market myself. I kept going round in circles. I didn’t want it to solely focus on my new life as a widow. I wanted it to represent my entire life. To tell my story. To be something that was important to me. Lovely people kindly gave up their time to help me brainstorm ideas. But something just wasn’t clicking. Even when I thought I’d landed on the name; I was still debating internally. I just couldn’t put my finger on what I wanted it to be.

And then my sister suggested “Life is a rollercoaster.” I immediately shut her down. I told her to stop trying to shoehorn Ronan Keating and Boyzone into my blog. You see, she’s every bit as much of a fan of Boyzone as I am of Jason Donovan. There’s been trips to stage doors to meet Stephen Gately (once actually when I was also waiting for Jason when they were in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) and there’s been many, many tours. In fact, 2019 will forever go down in history as the year of Boyzone because, somehow, she managed to persuade me to see them five times over the course of their farewell tours, one of which included a meet and greet with the band. I’ve never seen her quite as lost for words as she was that day!

But the more I thought about it, the more “Life is a rollercoaster” just felt perfect. I looked back at previous posts I’d made and realised just how much I’d already been using this statement. It was there in my Facebook profile. My second ever Instagram post was of my lightbox which I’d updated to say this (posted during the year of Boyzone!) My final Instagram post of 2019 was a picture of a rollercoaster and ended with the paragraph “As we head into 2020, there’s a lot of variables for Family Charlesworth and who knows where we’ll be this time next year. But whatever happens, we’ll get through it. For in the words of a song I’ve heard once or twice this year… Life is a rollercoaster. Just gotta ride it.” And somewhat fittingly, since I decided to launch the blog and go with this title, my sister has discovered that the original release date for Life is a Rollercoaster by Ronan Keating was 10 July. Mr C’s birthday. I got goosebumps when she told me. Yet another link to us. To me.

Because when I look back across my entire life, as cliché as it sounds, it certainly has been a rollercoaster. It’s why I’ve always been known to use and say it. When friends and family saw the title, they commented on how right it was. Because it’s not just 2020 and the impact of becoming a widow and grief which has been a rollercoaster. I’ve experienced so many highs in my life. But I’ve also experienced so many lows. All of which have made me the person I am today.

It’s odd that when I look back at 2019 and what was to become my final “normal” year, there were so many twists and turns, it’s almost like it was a prequel for what was come to in 2020. I think back to the very first Boyzone gig of the year at Butlins in Minehead in January. Four of us made the trip, there was laughter, there was fun, there was excitement. But most importantly of all, there was Ronan’s hat! To this day, I don’t know how I managed it, but when he threw his hat into the audience, I managed to catch it (if anyone reading this has video evidence of this, I’d be very interested to see it!) The euphoria on my sister’s face was something else. The photo of her at the moment when she put it on her head quickly became my favourite ever picture of her. We had a fab weekend. But the day after we came home, our family was thrown into disarray with regards to care for my nan. Within 24 hours we’d gone from a high to a low. The 2019 rollercoaster was underway. When I was writing this post, I started writing more about that rollercoaster year. But a friend who read a draft version observed that it made it feel quite long and went on a slight tangent. As I took the paragraphs out, I realised she was right. Instead, one day I’ll write one just on the story of 2019 because it’s absolutely one that needs telling and an integral part of my life.

But as this post is telling the story of how the blog came to be named, while writing it I decided to listen to Boyzone (don’t tell my sister). And while Life is a rollercoaster could be perceived as a cliché, I’ll forever be grateful to my sister for her spark of genius on this. Because as I reflect, it’s true for so many aspects of my life. Even my relationship with my sister has been its own little rollercoaster. We’ve not always been as close as we are today. She’s four and a half years younger than me, so for many years was actually a bit of an irritant! Our lives took us in different directions. We’d speak, but not really that often. There was never any bad feeling, we just weren’t as close as some siblings might be. But after our nan’s diagnosis with Alzheimer’s, there was a definite change. It brought us closer together. Life can be funny like that. Takes with the one hand and gives with the other.

It’s why I’ve never been more honoured than when she asked me to read the Father of the Bride speech at her wedding (our grandad who was due to give her away, sadly died the year before she got married and while our nan gave her away, she wasn’t confident enough to do the speech). And while I doubt I’ve ever told her this in person, I’m so exceptionally proud of my sister and how she’s dealt with her own rollercoaster life. Of how she coped with two premature and very poorly babies. Of how she manages and lives with her Crohn’s disease. Even when she was admitted to hospital twice in 2020 due to it (once needing surgery), she still made sure she rang me every day to check in on me (I could probably count on two hands the days she hasn’t rung me since Mr C was admitted to ITU). She has been my rock. She has picked me up off the floor both literally and metaphorically. She was the one to drive over when my daughter rang her after we’d had a heck of a row due to the stress of putting the Christmas decorations up without Mr C for the first time (that day was a literal pick up off the floor). She has done so very much for me over the last 16 months, I will never, ever be able to thank her enough.

Or so I thought. But actually in writing this, I’ve realised that while Life is a rollercoaster is perfect for me and very much represents my life, calling it this also gave me the perfect way to give a nod, to say thank you and acknowledge the role my sister has, and continues to play in my life. Because as much as I mock her, all the Boyzone memories we’ve created are so important to me and will always, always make me smile. Because when you’re on a rollercoaster in the way that I am, you need someone pretty amazing to be on it with you. And I can think of no-one I’d rather have on it with me than her. Because no matter what happens in the rest of my life, I do genuinely feel one thing is for certain. Life is a rollercoaster. Just gotta ride it…

The art of being social

Since 3 July, I’ve posted five times on Instagram. I’ve posted 12 tweets. For someone who usually posts a daily #BeThankful on both platforms and actively uses them, this is unusual behaviour. But taking this step back is absolutely something I’ve needed to do. I’ve needed to take some time out from the world. To take stock. To look after me. To have some very much needed R&R. This was what I shared with the world on Wednesday when I decided I was going to start dabbling on social media again. With a picture of a quote from one of our favourite John Mayer songs “I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there…”

Because I am getting there. And as I reflect on the past month, I can honestly say that I have missed being “social.” Not to begin with, because social media can be a double edged sword. As much as I like it, seeing people celebrating wedding anniversaries, moving house, having fun in couples, going on holiday or photos of dads with their children can at times just be too painful. It’s a reminder of what I’ve lost. But over the last week or so I’ve found myself wanting to start using these platforms again. Partly because I consider myself to now be in repair with a brain somewhat functioning again (rather than being at rock bottom) but also because it’s become a part of who I am. I know social media is an intensely personal preference. Some people love it, some hate it and some are in between. And don’t get me wrong. As much I as enjoy using it, I don’t profess to be a social media influencer (mainly because I don’t even know what that means!) but I do like and value the platform social media gives me (even if at times Instagram confuses me!)

It’s why I made a very conscious decision to use social media as a way of telling our story when Mr C fell ill last year. It would have been easy to hide away and not use it, but that’s just not who I am. I firmly believe social media isn’t just about the positives. Life isn’t cupcakes and rainbows all the time so why should your social media feeds be this way? But more than that. When Mr C fell ill, we were right at the start of the first lockdown. There were no such things as support bubbles or childcare bubbles. The only support I was able to get was via phone calls, via messages, via Zoom calls or via social media. The wealth of love and support I got was overwhelming. I’ll forever be grateful for it. One of my colleagues and friends sent me a Twitter DM and asked how I was on a particularly bad day. I answered honestly how I was feeling, and she then promised to check in on me every single day. She did. It meant a lot. And despite the physical loneliness and pain of what I was going through, I can remember thinking at the time how fortunate I was that all this was happening to me at a time when technology made that contact that much easier. I knew that via any number of platforms, there would always, always be someone I could reach out to if I needed to. And just type what I was thinking. It was invaluable. Why? Because when your world is falling apart and you don’t know which way is up, actually speaking to people can be so, so hard. I lost count of the phone calls I had when people would ask how I was, and I’d not be able to answer or would just simply cry on them. I was always so very mindful of how hard that must have been for those at the other end of the phone. Unable to do anything but merely try and offer small words of comfort to a woman whose entire life had been torn apart.

Yet despite this decision, there has been so much over the last 16 months that I haven’t shared. Because so much is incredibly personal to me and my family. What you see on any of my platforms is the snapshot of my life that I am comfortable to share. There is so very much more to me than this but I actually feel it would be quite dull if I shared everything, because in all honesty, I’m just a 40 year-old trying to get by and I really don’t do very much. If I was to post every time I have a wobble or a cry or a bad day or even just something I consider a small win, it really would get quite monotonous. But the people who know me, know that despite whatever I choose to share on social media, these everyday occurrences, falling apart and good moments are still happening. But I also don’t post about them all because I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of them in years to come via Facebook Memories or Timehop. I’m regularly sideswiped when memories of family activities or time with Mr C crop up, I don’t need to be reminded in years to come of how ridiculously difficult and heartbreaking my life has been since 22 March 2020. Because without a shadow of a doubt these feelings and memories will stay with me for as long as I live. Instead, I want to be reminded of the new memories my daughter and I are creating. What we’re doing to honour Mr C. Things that are making me smile. Yet, unwittingly, to the outside world this seems to create a parallel reality. A few months ago, I had someone tell me via a Facebook post that I am “always so happy.” Seven months after my husband died. At that point I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d have used the phrase “so happy” and so quickly refuted that statement on the post. I’ll openly acknowledge that I share aspects of what we’re doing, and that I am having to continue living my life. For me. For my daughter. But the phrase that was used to describe this started to make me think about the perception social media inadvertently creates vs. reality.

As I’ve said, I’ve been incredibly lucky with the support I’ve had via social media. But for me what is interesting is the different approach people have to what they say on social media vs. their everyday actions. I’ve had people comment that they will “always be there for me” but then not return phone calls or acknowledge messages I send. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but if you’re telling the social media world that you’ll always be there for me but aren’t in the real world isn’t that a bit of a disconnect? Now don’t get me wrong, I know only too well how much of a juggle life can be trying to fit everything in and stay in touch, but little things like this get me thinking.

I’ve had people de-friend me since Mr C died. I’ve had people delete posts they’ve made where I’ve offered a different perspective to their viewpoint. I struggle to understand why. Isn’t the clue in the title? Social media? Isn’t the whole point of it to be able to share different views, have conversations and generally be social? Again, I don’t profess to know the exact reason that I’ve been de-friended or why posts have been deleted, but from my point of view if you can’t offer a different perspective when people make posts, then I’m not sure it’s worth it. It’s like in any other social setting. I can spend evenings with friends, family or colleagues and we can have discussions. Not everyone will think the same, not everyone will agree and there will always be different viewpoints, but the difference is you can’t just delete something you’ve said in person and try to pretend it never existed. Why should social media be any different to the real world? I love a good debate, I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinion as me and in fact I’d hate it if we suddenly all had to agree and be the same. That would make the world an incredibly dull place in my view!

But, what makes me most sad, is that on more than one occasion this year I’ve used the phrase that my daughter “is for life, not just for social media.” She’s only 11 and, despite her constant badgering for TikTok, I don’t yet allow her to be on any social media platform. Mainly because, in my opinion, she doesn’t have the emotional maturity for it. She’s a child. She’s trusting. She takes people at face value. She believes people when they say they’re going to do something. So, if she had seen half of the comments I’ve had on the various posts I’ve made over the last 16 months, she’d have had far greater expectations of people. And right now, she’d be feeling incredibly let down. Because it’s very easy to put a comment or a like on a post I make but the reality is that she doesn’t see these and needs real-life support. And while I’ll always be so very grateful for all the virtual support I’ve had, and will continue to receive, over the past few months I’ve realised that I’ve also needed that real-life support more than ever. And I’d underestimated just how much until Mr C’s Memorial Service last month.

It will probably come as no surprise to those who know me or who are familiar with grief and bereavement that this Memorial Service is what ultimately led me to withdraw from social media for a while. Quite simply there was too much in my brain in the lead up to it, and in the immediate aftermath to even begin to think about posting content. But over the last month or so since I’ve taken a step back, I’ve also realised how much of a part of my everyday life social media has become. How it can actually be used for good and have a great impact. When your friend has a baby but because of all the various lockdowns you can’t physically visit them, you can still see news about them and watch them grow (we’ve finally be able to meet the baby who is now 13 months old and every bit as gorgeous as social media would have you believe). When you post a blog and a stranger takes the time to send you a message to say “I don’t know if you need to hear this, but I wanted to let you know you’ve helped a stranger today.” When you feel like the only person in the world to have a problem and post on the private Widowed and Young group and receive a ton of encouragement and support to reassure you that you’re not alone. When someone from the other side of the world messages you because she’s heard your podcast, noticed the similarities of your stories and subsequently becomes a friend you can turn to. I could go on. But ultimately social media has, and I’ve no doubt will, continue to have a positive influence on my life.

So, as I continue my repair of me and head back to work tomorrow, I know that my social media usage will be increasing again. Because I’ve missed my work Twitter family. I’ve missed the banter with all the Jason fans (although admittedly this has been on the increase over the past few days). I’ve missed doing a daily #BeThankful. I’ve missed engaging with people that I’d never normally come into contact with. But if I’ve learnt anything during my time away, it’s that as the world starts to open up again there is absolutely a place in my life for both social media and the real world. I don’t want to withdraw and hide away from the real world because it’s easier to hide behind words and pictures. I need physical and real-life contact. I value social media interaction more than I can really articulate and wouldn’t change it for the world, but I will always, always need the phone calls, the messages, the chats and catch ups. But most importantly. The hugs. I know that as I work through this current phase of my grief, I’m going to need a lot of hugs and hand holding. And you simply can’t get that through watching the likes and comments increase on a social media post.

A letter to my 15-year-old self

I’m writing this to you today because I really wish someone had been able to tell me this 25 years ago. To reassure me that everything was going to be ok. To let me know that I would survive everything that life had to throw at me. Many people are looking back at 1996 right now, each one of them with their own reasons for doing so. But for you, 1996 is going to be the start of your life changing. It’s important you understand just how important this year is going to be.

So. Quite simply, 1996 is going to be a pivotal year for you. It’s going to be one you’ll remember for many reasons and for many years to come. Not least of which will be Euro 96 and the heartache that will come from a missed penalty. Don’t worry though, you’ve only got to wait another 25 years for a tournament like it. Although, spoiler alert. There’s going to be penalties involved again.

I must admit I’m going to start shallow with my words of advice. Right now, you’ve still got long hair, yet within a couple of years you’re going to cut this off. I know, I know, you’re laughing at this prospect. But you will, you’ll spend most of your adult life with short hair and whenever it grows, you won’t feel like you. Go with it, dye your hair, try different styles but always go back to short hair. It looks good on you.

And now for the serious stuff. Over the course of this year, you’re going to fall in love for the first time. It’ll feel like the best thing in the world. He’ll make you feel like the most special person in the world. However. You’re also going to have your heart broken for the first time too. This is something that you’re going to have go through, it’s almost like a rite of passage. All I can say is that it will hurt like hell. You’re going to shed a bucketload of tears. It’s going to leave you taking a sharp intake of breath whenever you hear certain songs. Always. But you’ll reach a point where these songs will not only cause that intake of breath, but also make you smile. Why? Because you are going to get over this heartbreak. Honestly. It will become a part of your story. I won’t lie to you though. You’re going to hate him for a while, you’re going to want horrible things to happen to him, you’ll think you’re never going to recover and that you’re never going to love again but you really are. On more than one occasion. But do you know what? Don’t be too quick to judge him. Don’t waste your time on hate. Because as inconceivable as this is going to sound right now, that first boyfriend is going to turn out to be not all bad. Really. He’s going to end up becoming one of your closest friends. He’s going to be a rock for you after the death of your husband (we’ll come onto that bombshell in a bit). He’s going to be one of the key people holding you up. Crazy huh?!? But I promise you it’s true. You’re going to be incredibly lucky that he not only comes into your life in 1996, but that he stays a part of it.

But of far more significance to you, 1996 is going to be the year you’ll meet your future husband. Of course, you won’t know this at the time, but he really is going to come into your life in the summer. You’ll meet him standing by his blue fiesta outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. You won’t give him a second thought. He won’t actually give you a second thought to be begin with. Over the course of the next few months and years when people ask you who he is, you’ll say “just Charlie.” 1996 is the year that he’ll move from Essex to Kent, a key factor in how and why he’ll start to appear in your life more and more. Don’t underestimate the role that he’s going to play. Cut him a bit of slack when he tries to woo you. Still play hard to get, because it’ll give you a story to tell, but just try to prepare yourself for the massive impact that man is going to have on your life.

I know you worry that you’re not the most popular girl at school. But it really, really doesn’t matter. Because you have such an amazing group of friends there and that counts for so, so much. Always treasure them. Over the next 25 years you’re going to need them in different ways and at different times. But always, always treasure them. They get you. Even when you don’t see them for a few years, when you get together it will feel like nothing has changed. And during the most difficult times of your life they’ll be there. Without fail. Without judgement. But more than this. You are going to go on to meet and make other wonderful and supportive friends. You’re going to meet and have so many fabulous people in your life. You’re going to be so loved. And while some friendships will drift apart, that’s only natural after all, the ones where there’s no demand or expectation from either side will be the ones that see you through. You’ll count your blessings that you have so many of them.

This year, you’re going to start looking ahead to your career and future as you start to consider your A-Level choices. Right now, you’re going to see yourself as a journalist. You’re going to apply to university to study journalism. But your A-Level results aren’t going to go the way you planned. You’re not going to get into your first-choice university. But you will still go. You will still persevere with the course for three months. But then one day, you’re going to realise it’s not right for you. You’re going to drop out. It’s one of the bravest things you’re ever going to do. Doing what’s right for you. You need to remember to do more of this. Putting you first and doing what’s right for you. Again, I’m not going to lie, you’re going to feel scared and nervous. You’re going to wonder what next, but it will all fall into place. You will go on to have a good career. It’s going to change over time, you’ll head down a secretarial route before switching to marketing but you’re going to be just fine. Of course, there will be instances during your career where’ll you have had enough. Where you’ll be beyond frustrated. Where you’ll query why you bother. Where you’ll want to quit. But just keep going. Things have a funny way of turning out for the best when you least expect it. Just remember that you’re the one in control. You’re the one that can change things. And don’t be afraid to. This is your life, nobody else can live it for you.

And throughout your career, there’ll be one constant. The people. Your colleagues. Who will become friends and confidantes. Who’ll offer support and a friendly ear. Who’ll be there with gin and fried food. Who’ll be there with doughnuts. Who’ll be there with “Smile Thursdays”. Who’ll be there with straight talking. Who’ll give you the tough love you need. And above all else, will help look after you in a way that you simply won’t think possible on the day you walk through the doors of 1 Embankment Place for the first time. You’re not going to, but I just want to tell you to never, ever take them for granted

Yet without fail, I wish I could prepare you for just how much heartache you’re going to go through. And to give you the knowledge that you will make it through all of it. That heartache is going to come in many forms. It will come when you must confront living with depression and anxiety. It will come when your boyfriend is diagnosed with cancer and you have no idea if he’s going to make it. It will come every month when you just can’t fall pregnant. It will come when close friends tell you that they’re pregnant again and you break down on them. It will come when you’re pregnant with your second child and have a missed miscarriage. That “what if” of that baby will never go away, but the pain of this and the other heartaches will ease with time.

Right. Take a deep breath before you read this next paragraph. Because, this is the one where I talk about you being widowed. Where I tell you that this will happen when you’re 39. Where I tell you that the greatest heartache you’ll have to face will come in 2020, when your husband of 14 years (that random guy you met in 1996) will die during a global pandemic. (Oh yes, incidentally during 2020 and 2021 you’re going to have to live through a global pandemic and your entire life will be turned upside down). The pain and heartache this will cause you will be nothing like you have ever, ever felt before. That broken heart in 1996? A mere paper cut compared to this. The grief is going to be unbearable at times. You are going to break. You are going to hit rock bottom. You are going to think you’re doing ok and then get side swiped and fall apart. But the one thing you absolutely need to remember is to ask for help. To admit that you can’t do this alone. To let the tears flow when they need to do. To be kind to yourself. To stop. To breathe. To acknowledge just how difficult this is. As I write this, I don’t know if you’re ever going to love or feel love like it again. But I do know that you’ll feel the love from your husband for a very long time.

But above all else, I want you to know just how much joy and happiness there’s going to be in your life. How despite all the heartache and hardships you’re going to go through, you will smile. How you will enjoy your life. How you’re going to have a beautiful and simply inspirational daughter even though it’ll take you a while to get her. How you’re going to meet some truly brilliant people when you cave and take her to postnatal group in the vague hope she might find some friends. How you will go on to make so many fabulous memories with these people. How there’s going to be so much laughter in your life. How you’ll stop worrying about everything all the time. How you’ll stop trying to fit in and how you’ll come to actually quite like yourself. This is the one thing I wish more than anything that you could know, and I could teach you. It would change your life during your 20s and 30s. But by the time you reach 40, you’ll know this. Promise.

I know you’re never going to see this. But you’ll never know how much I wish you could have. To have had someone confirm that despite everything you’re going to go through, you’re going to be ok. You really, really are. And that will largely be down to the people who come into your life, it will be down to your determination to never give up, it will be down to your willingness to accept help, it will be down to your realisation that there is always, always something to be thankful for. When you learn, accept and remember this, I promise you more than anything that you’re going to be just fine.

And now as I sign off, I can’t help but wonder if this letter has really been for you or something I actually need to remind my 40-year-old self. Because no matter how good she might be at giving out the advice, she definitely still needs reminding from time to time to take it.

Me xx

Celebrating the life of Mr C

Yesterday would have been Charlie’s 47th birthday. It was the perfect day to host his Memorial Service and Celebration of Life. I thought about writing a blog for the day but then realised the speech I read said pretty much everything I wanted to say. And I even managed to make it all the way through in one piece!

Well, it turns out there’s a reason I write instead of speaking. It’s actually quite intimidating to stand here and see you all today. But hey, I’m going to give it a go. And please bear with me. As an aside, there are tissues provided on the table and this is your disclaimer that you may need them! Charlie got everyone with his speech at our wedding, so now it’s my turn.

Firstly, I wish we weren’t all here today. In the nicest possible way, I wish we weren’t all here. But we are and we all know why. We’re here for a very good reason. To remember and to celebrate my husband. Stuart Peter Charlesworth. “Charlie”. I still find it surreal and unbelievable to use the phrase “my late husband.” so I don’t tend to. Because let’s be honest, he was never late! I equally still find it difficult to comprehend what’s happened, and if I’m completely honest, I probably never will.

I have gone through every emotion possible since ringing 999 in the early hours of my 39th birthday. Since I saw the fear in his eyes. Since I saw the panic on our daughter’s face. There are days I go through every emotion possible in 24 hours. Losing him is a pain like nothing I have ever experienced before. It is something I pray I never have to go through again.

But today isn’t about me. It’s about Charlie. A man I first met nearly 25 years ago outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. He was stood by his blue fiesta and I had no idea then the role he’d gone on to play in my life. I remember sitting in Steve and Libbie’s lounge a few weeks later listening to him say he wasn’t going to go to a Bryan Adams gig because there was a chance it would be Sittingbourne’s last ever game on the same day and he needed to be there. Because that was Charlie. Dedicated and loyal. To know him was to love him, to know him was to be loved by him. Whether you’d known him for a few months, years or a lifetime, it didn’t matter. He treated everyone equally. When he came into your life, you felt it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m well aware that he’ll have frustrated all of us at some point or another with his rule master behaviour, rolling his eyes, his tendency to always want to be right (yes, really), and some of his Charlie-isms. But when I look back now, these tend to pale into insignificance. The impact he had on each and every one of us in this room ultimately comes down to love, friendship, authenticity and laughter.

When I see everyone here today, I feel humbled and overwhelmed that you all made the effort to be here. For him. For me and Rebekah. I can’t thank you all enough for doing this, I know so many of you were added at short notice because of the change in guidelines, but it didn’t matter. You wanted to be here and that means the world to us. For those of you who’ve had to travel some distance, I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. Charlie would be so, so honoured at the effort you’ve all gone to, so thank you.

I look around this room at how all aspects of his life are represented. And the people who are here show what a full life it was. Childhood friends and their families, his bands, Sporting Sittingbourne, family, friends. I really do thank you all for being here with us today to celebrate him. But also, two amazing people who were due to be here but unfortunately illness meant they couldn’t be. Two amazing people who I only got to know because he fell ill. Two people who were there for Rebekah and me during the agonising days of ITU, two people who become our lifeline for a week. Our Skype angels, Mel and Sharon. I’ll never be able to repay you and the rest of the ITU team for all you did and continue to do for us. Thank you.

And without wanting this to turn into an awards acceptance speech, I do have some other thank yous! None of these people are here today, but I want to say thank you and acknowledge in front of you all the role that my colleagues have played over the last 15 months. They’ve seen me at my best, they’ve seen me at worst. They’ve supported me throughout, they’ve seen me via online meetings way more than friends and family, they’ve dealt with my tears this week on calls and listened to me rehearse this speech. They really have been a fundamental part of the scaffolding that’s held me up.

And now for the tough part. To thank people who are here today. To Rob for your tribute. Just perfect. Thank you to Elliott for always overthinking yet still managing to deliver a great reflection. To James for your reading. It was just so right to have you all speak, Charlie would have known how hard it would be for you all but been so honoured that you all said yes. And once again, I’m indebted to you Estella. For the time you gave helping me organise the church including the seating and social distancing. For the beautiful service. You did it at his funeral and you have done it again today. I don’t underestimate how much of a challenge this would have been for you on both occasions, I’m so very, very grateful.

But in addition to today, I know Charlie would be so grateful at how so many of you have been there for his wife and daughter in the darkest time of their lives. Who have picked me up off the floor (both literally and metaphorically), who have picked up the phone or sent messages, who have been there without judgement, who have appeared on my doorstep with a Costa when you’ve text and I’ve said I’m having a bad day, who have turned up with gin and hair dye to stop me stressing in advance of his funeral, who have cooked us meals, who have looked after Rebekah, who have let me break down on them when it all gets too much. Thank you. You all know individually the role you’ve played, how you’ve supported us and how you’ve been there for us. I simply can’t detail it all. But from the bottom of my heart and I’m sure his, thank you.

I also want to thank the person Charlie always said was his greatest achievement. Our greatest achievement. Our beautiful, brave daughter Rebekah. You astonished me when you spoke at his funeral last year and have done it again today with singing for him. But more than that. Quite simply, I would not still be standing without you. You have been my reason for getting out of bed every single morning for the last 15 months. You have inspired me to keep going. Earlier this week when I said I wasn’t going to come today because the enormity of it all hit, you were the one talking sense into me. Just like daddy would have done. Without a shadow of a doubt, you have been phenomenal. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Daddy would be so unbelievably proud of you. Everyone in this room could learn so very much from you and how you have coped with losing your dad at the age of 10, I know I have.

But the biggest thank you I have to say is to Charlie himself. I think back to the last night he was at home. When I asked if he wanted me to stay with him while he shaved, he said no, so I trundled downstairs, finished the ironing and watched my Jason concert. No way Jason wasn’t going to get a mention in this speech! But in all seriousness, if I had known what was going to happen six hours later, I’d have sat on that bathroom floor. I’d have talked non-stop at him. He’d have absolutely hated it! I’d have said thank you. I’d have thanked him for the love he gave me for over 20 years, for the love he gave our daughter, for the laughter, for the influence he had on us. For being my wingman when it came to parenting. For the fact that it’s down to him that a number of you are in my life. For always taking and twiddling the photos, for introducing me to new music, for teaching us board game rules. For so much more. But most importantly, for the lessons he taught me, that it’s ok to be me. That I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to be me. Warts and all. For teaching me that I don’t need to conform, that people either accept me for who I am or they don’t. And that’s ok. I don’t need to change who I am to fit in. If I had the night of 29th March 2020 all over again, this is what I would say. Thank you Charlie. For everything.

It is a cliché to say he is always with us, but he really is. The music we’re listening to today are the songs that people told me reminded them of him and make them smile. I’ve turned it into a Spotify playlist so you can all share those memories. The seeds on the table that you can all take and plant in memory of him. Wherever you like, scatter them at his bench, scatter them in your garden. Wherever. Just do it to celebrate and remember him. He loved a wildflower and helping the bees, so again, it helps him live on. The memory cards that are on your table. Write your memory, funny, sad, thoughtful. Again, just share this. It’s all part of keeping him part of us. I vowed to him on the day he died that I would never, ever let him be forgotten. Yes, Rebekah and I are having to move forward with our lives, but I know that he will be a part of mine for as a long as I live. He will be a part of our daughter’s life for as long as she lives. And I hope in some small way, he will and we will continue to be a part of your lives too.

So. I’ve made it. Just. Please, please carry on smiling today. Take the photos, make the memories. You know it’s what he’d have been doing. When you watch the Euro final tomorrow, think of him. He’d have been loving this tournament. And as for making the final over his birthday weekend. It’s what dreams are made of. Only one other thing to say really before I wrap up. It’s coming home.

And finally, I’d like to ask you all to stand, to raise a glass and to toast Charlie, Dad, Stuart, Son, Bro. Whatever you called him, just raise that glass and make that toast. To Charlie.

To Mr C on Fathers’ Day

Well Mr C. This one has come around quick. How can we possibly be on our second Fathers’ Day without you already? She only had 10 with you alive, yet somehow, she’s now done two without you. It’s wrong. It’s all so very wrong.

Because without question, being a father was something you always wanted. Only being one for 10 years isn’t right. Your original life plan was to be married with a child by the age of 26. Falling in love with someone nearly seven years younger than you was always going to make that a challenge. But I knew. From the very early days of us dating, I knew what a doting and wonderful father you would be.

Sadly, 26 was the age you were when you were diagnosed with testicular cancer. The chemotherapy and the surgery meant that having a family was no longer a certainty. We had no idea whether it would happen for us. As it was, it took nearly 18 months and a number of medical tests before I fell pregnant with her. But we both loved her from that very first scan when we saw her wriggling around. You were made up. You were about to get everything you had ever wanted.

From the moment she was born, it was evident how strong a bond you were going to have. How much you adored her. And as she got older, that bond only strengthened. It was a joy to watch. To see you finally come into your own as a father. Firm but fair. And while she was never meant to be an only child, I know that we made the right decision for us as family not to have any more. After losing our second baby, we just became even more grateful for all we had. We hadn’t known if it would be possible at all, we just decided to count our blessings. In fact, I like to think that you’re now looking after our angel baby while I stay here looking after our first baby.

Yet it makes me so angry and sad that you’re not here to see that beloved first baby grow up. At all you’re going to miss out on. That you’ve not seen just how unbelievably amazing she has been since you were rushed to ITU (although in the pragmatic style of her daddy, she’d tell me that if you had been here, she wouldn’t have needed to be this amazing). She’s changed and grown up so much, I wish you were still here to see it. She’s now getting excited about the next phase in her life and starting secondary school in September, but I’m so nervous about it. You should be here for this; I don’t really know how I’m going to do it without you. I just know I’ll be trying to do everything I can do hold it together because a) our baby is growing up and b) you’re not here to share it with us.

I’m also so angry and sad at all she has lost. At all she’s continuing to lose. Her daddy, her protector, her partner in crime, her innocence, her security, her family. We’ve brought her up to know that life isn’t always cupcakes and rainbows, but I wish she hadn’t had to have it confirmed in such a heart-breaking way. At the risk of saying something ridiculously childlike, it’s just not fair. Because it isn’t. None of this is. The memories of you and her together throughout the years keep cropping up on Facebook memories, you really were as thick as thieves. And this month is the worst because of all the Fathers’ Day ones. They make me smile and cry at the same time. There was just so much love between you both. I so wish I could have bottled it for her.

I think back to the first Fathers’ Day without you last year. It was me who struggled and cried more than she did. I even queried whether this was “normal” with others on the Widowed and Young Facebook page. Why was I so upset? Why wasn’t she? But this year is different, I can see that. Even the build-up has been so much harder for her. Last year the two of us were cocooned in our own little world. This year she’s seeing more people, she’s seeing more children with their dads, she’s been in shops where Fathers’ Day is advertised everywhere. “Why do they do that?” she asked me “Why is it everywhere? I don’t have a dad, I don’t want to see it.” It breaks my heart to hear her say that because she does have a dad. Granted, you may not physically be here, but she does have one. And I promise you Mr C, with everything I have, that I will never, ever allow her to forget you. To forget how loved by her daddy she was.

But it’s not just her feeling the pain of you not being here, I’m missing co-parenting and your role as a father too. She went on a school trip this week, you know how much I hate her doing these. How paranoid I am and how sick I feel whenever she goes on a coach. You were the one always there to placate me when I’d leave her and cry. This week I went back to the car by myself. All I wanted was a hug and for you to tell me everything was going to be ok. The fabulous Widowed and Young contingent were there for me though, I wasn’t totally alone. And I ran away to the office to distract myself, even managing to get lunch bought for me to save me cooking when I got home (Wednesday’s win!)

Yet despite my feelings and how much I’m hurting and missing you, she continues to be my priority. I will always put her first. I will always make sacrifices for her. I need to help her to learn to live without you. To continue to live her life without her daddy. To help her not feel guilt, because despite her young age, she does. She feels guilty that for several of the Fathers’ Days you had, that she was away from you either at dance shows or rehearsals for them. I’ve tried explaining that seeing her do something she loved was just as rewarding for you as being with her, but she’s a child. She can’t comprehend why. She doesn’t have the emotional maturity to understand it. She doesn’t understand how that can be possible. She sees things very black and white. But it’s true. You adored seeing her on stage taking after you with performing. You were so unbelievably proud of her; I can only hope that she knows that, and I can only promise you that I will continue to tell her.

But it’s not just performing. I simply see so much of you in her. I don’t know if it’s always been there and I never noticed it before because you were here, but it’s there now. I’ve said before that I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said “she’s her father’s daughter” but she really is. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, she stands up for herself, she rolls her eyes, she loves a board game, she’s always singing, she’s crazy at times. But these are all things she’s watched and learnt from you. Without a shadow of a doubt, you have had such an influence on her. It’s testament to your role as her father. I just hope you knew what an amazing job you were doing for all those years.

And I strongly suspect you did. You were the one who came up with the idea to take her to a special place every year on her birthday and document her growing up with a photo. You were the one who created a special email account for her and emailed her throughout the years, I’ve read some of them now but I can’t read them all. They make me cry. They make me miss you even more. Because they’re not me telling her how much you loved her, they’re you telling her. It’s such an unbelievable legacy to have left her, and, when the time is right, I will absolutely share them with her. She will always know that love directly from you. I doubt I ever said it when you were alive, but thank you for doing both of these things.

They will be invaluable because as the months have gone on, there are little things she’s forgetting about you. There are little things that just aren’t as prominent for her any more even after only 14 months. I’m doing all I can to keep you alive in her memory but one of my biggest fears is that these memories will continue to dissipate over time. We talk about you all the time, I encourage her to write down memories so she doesn’t forget and can look back in years to come, I make sure when we’re with family and friends that they talk about you too. You will be part of all our lives forever. I’ll make sure of that. It’s not without its challenges, but I won’t give up on it. I won’t allow myself to give up on it.

Yet I know over time, the challenges will probably get harder. Relationships and friendships will change. The memories will fade more. She’s going to grow up, be less reliant on me and be around me less as she lives her life. She’s going to go on and do great things (of that I’m sure) and right now I’m scared as to where will that leave me. We won’t be able to watch her to do this together and as cute as he is, the dog really doesn’t provide the same level of conversation and have the same level of pride that you did! But in all seriousness, the future does scare me more than ever now. What it will bring for me. Who I’ll become when I’m not needed in the same way as a mother and don’t have you here with me. The one thing I am sure of though is that I will always, always be immensely proud of our little girl. I am sure that as you watch over her, you will be immensely proud of her too. Because after all, no matter how old she is, she will always honour you and be daddy’s little girl. Just you watch.

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