Tag: Bereavement

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.

If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?

A year ago today Facebook was flooded with pictures and memories of Mr C. For a year ago today my husband’s funeral took place. I don’t know when statements like this will ever stop feeling as though they belong to someone else. I don’t know who else today is thinking back to 7 May 2020. I don’t know how I feel about today, I’d not thought about today when I thought about my firsts. How will I feel about this date in future years?

When I look back, my husband’s funeral was the first time I think I really realised he was dead. Not coming home. Ever. This might sound strange, but due to all the restrictions in place, since he’d walked to the ambulance, I hadn’t physically seen him. I hadn’t seen him in hospital other than via a screen, I hadn’t seen him in a chapel of rest, I hadn’t given clothes for him to be dressed in. As weird as it sounds, it sort of felt that he was just on holiday. So when the hearse pulled up outside our house, I was hit with the realisation that my husband was actually in the coffin. The flowers we’d chosen and the cards we’d written were on top of the coffin and really were accompanying him on his last journey. We hadn’t just done them because someone had asked us to. My legs buckled under me as the funeral director came to speak to me. I didn’t want to shut our front door and follow him, because then this really would be real.

This day was the culmination of the toughest six weeks of my life. Everything about the funeral and the weeks leading up to it were hard. All of the preparations for it were hard. If he’d had died even just a few months earlier, it would have been so different. People would have been allowed in my house. The crematorium would’ve been standing room only. There would have been a wake. There would have been hugging. My god, there would have been hugging. But COVID stole that from us. Just like it stole him and our future, COVID stole my opportunity to give him the send off he deserved and for us to have the physical support we needed. We were not allowed funeral cars, we were not allowed a wake, he was not allowed to be carried in (the coffin was wheeled in on a trolley) and most devastating of all, we were only allowed 10 people to be present.

I don’t think I was really prepared for how hard it would be when I was faced with making the decision of who would be present. Family members couldn’t be there, I knew one of my sister in laws wouldn’t be able to travel to be there in person. Families couldn’t be together, some members were in the crematorium while their husbands or wives and children waited in the car park. When my father in law changed his mind about attending the service shortly before the hearse arrived and asked me if he could come in, I didn’t know whether he’d be allowed. On autopilot, I said yes but I didn’t know. Never in a million years did I think at 39 years old, I’d have been planning my husband’s funeral and dealing with all these things. But I was. I was faced with so many decisions. None of which I wanted to make. None of which I should have been making.

“What music will you be playing?” was one of the first questions the funeral directors asked me. I’d be lying if I said for a fleeting moment I didn’t consider Too Many Broken Hearts or another Jason Donovan classic. Just for a laugh. But in all seriousness, I have never felt such a responsibility to get a decision right. Mr C loved his music. It was so much a part of who he was. Get this wrong and I’d be haunted for life. Of that I was sure. I couldn’t just choose any old song. I couldn’t choose a standard funeral song. Fortunately the exit music was one that Mr C had always told me he wanted because of how special it was to him. We even have the opening line as a piece of wall art to go up in our house. We’d just never got round to putting it up. And quite frankly, I’ll still put it up as it feels even more poignant now, “If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?” But when it came to the music we’d walk in to, I agonised over it. I listened to so many of his favourite artists. And then a song by Train hit me. “When I look to the sky” had such perfect lyrics. I didn’t realise at the time just how important they’d turn out to be over the following months too.

“Do you want a live stream?” Another decision. The answer to this was instantly “yes”. Too many people needed to be a part of it. I couldn’t not have one. Although the marketer in me wanted to ask if I’d get stats. How many people viewed it? Did they watch the whole service? Did everyone tune in on time? Could I get stats for the on demand version? I reached the conclusion that it was probably inappropriate to ask but it certainly crossed my mind to. It’s odd what goes through your mind during stressful times. But the live stream gave so many people the opportunity to be with us in spirit. Friends and family across the country tuned in. An old school friend of his now living in Australia watched it. The live stream allowed so many more people to be a part of this day. I hope this option continues for people post pandemic.

People asked me if the dress code was black. Another decision. And it was. It’s what he would have wanted. But do you know how hard it is to find a formal black dress for a 10 year old girl in May? Apparently 10 year olds should be all summery and wearing bright colours in May. Not needing an outfit for their daddy’s funeral. But the one decision when it came to dress code that was a no brainer was my footwear. I needed my heels. Except my black heels were in my locker in my office. “No-one will mind or care if you wear flat shoes, don’t worry” my sister said to me. She was met with a steely gaze and I quickly shut her down. Because I minded. I cared. It was important to me. Quite simply, I was not wearing flat shoes to my husband’s funeral. He’d have been disappointed in me if I had. It’s not who I am.

“What charity would you like donations to go to?” Again, another question and decision to make that I hadn’t really thought about. I knew small charities would be hit hard throughout the pandemic, so I chose The Oddballs Foundation. Having beaten Testicular Cancer, it was very important to Mr C to raise awareness of it. He loved the bright socks Oddballs sell. In fact, he even had some brand new ones sitting unopened in his drawer, so despite the black dress code, the men attending the service were each given a pair. Another little nod to him.

And then the day came. I remember asking my best friend during a phone call a few hours before the service if it was acceptable for me to have a glass of wine beforehand. “Go for it. No-one can come near you, they won’t smell your breath” was her response. We both laughed. A lighthearted moment on such a sombre day. I needed it. Because just a few hours later the hearse was arriving. My final chance to say goodbye to my husband was fast approaching.

The drive to the crematorium felt like the longest drive in the world. Family and friends lined our street. I was unprepared for how many people would be there. I’d diligently put notes in each of the houses on our street to let them know the timings and that people would be socially distancing to pay their respects. My next door but one neighbour, who I’d never spoken to, organised the traffic, neighbours sent cards and offered driveways. Everyone was just so kind. People stood along the route. And then we approached the crematorium. I cried then. Because his Sunday League Football Team had done him so proud. They were all in their training kits. Their uniform. “The lads want to produce a flag for him if you don’t mind?” was something I’d been asked and promptly forgotten about until that moment. It was quite something seeing it hanging opposite the crematorium. It took my breath away. I know there were other family, friends and colleagues stood there too. I have no real recollection of who though. In years to come, it’ll probably crop up in conversation that people were there. I’ll never be able to thank them and all those who were on our street enough. We felt so very loved. We felt the love for Mr C.

But the actual service was where the unenviable decisions I’d made would be seen. My final act as Stuart Charlesworth’s wife. Would I do him justice? I’d never felt pressure like it. I’d told people I’d send them a copy of the order of service in advance. And then I got twitchy. I didn’t want people knowing the music in advance. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t happen, so why should it today? So, I scheduled an email send for shortly before the service started. The control freak in me was still there! But the service was everything I could have hoped for. My daughter and I read “He is Gone” by David Harkins. There were choral versions of hymns we’d had at our wedding. Our wonderful friend conducted the service for us and did so with such aplomb despite the painfully difficult circumstances. Two amazing friends stepped in at short notice to read the eulogy after circumstances meant our best man couldn’t attend to read it. But his words were perfect. Spot on. And then for the final decision I’d made about music choice. For Mr C’s voice to be heard as we said goodbye to him. How would people feel about it? No-one knew this was going to happen. No-one expected it. But it was just perfect and so fitting. He’d have liked the fact he sang at his own funeral. He’d have liked the fact that he (almost) got to have the last word.

Leaving the crematorium felt surreal. Again, there was no hugging. No real comforting of one another. We had to take the flowers home, they weren’t allowed to stay or be donated anywhere. I think back now and can’t remember if I cried during the service. I know my daughter didn’t, but did I? I think I probably did, but it’s another one of those memories that’s a blur. Because that’s the thing with funerals, they’re over with so quickly, you don’t get the chance to absorb what’s really happening. It’s why I’m so grateful I made the decision to have a DVD copy made of it, I’ve watched it back (needed to make sure I had the right funeral!) and it was comforting to do so. It means whenever I need to, I won’t need to remember what was said. I can watch and listen.

Because as time passes, memories of that day and the planning of it will fade. I know this. But what will always stay with me is the memory of how so many came together for Family Charlesworth that day. To pay their respects to him. To show their support for us. I won’t ever forget that kindness. That evening I received a text from a mutual friend “You and Rebekah are amazing. You two, with Charlie’s memory as your inspiration will be fine.” I doubt they remember sending it. But it’s one I remember. I didn’t see it until the the next morning but when I read it, it was just what I needed. It’s one that I find and re-read when I’m having tough days and doubting myself. It just gives me a boost. Because do you know what? They’re right. We will be fine. Yes. There are tough days. There are days when everything feels too hard. There are days when we hide away and cry. There are days when an unexpected Facebook post or memory sideswipes me. But despite this, I know eventually we’ll be fine. How do I know this? Because of Mr C. Because of the chorus of the song that played as we entered the crematorium a year ago today:

‘Cause when I look to the sky something tells me you’re here with me
And you make everything alright
And when I feel like I’m lost something tells me you’re here with me
And I can always find my way when you are here

When the flowers stop

In August last year, an incredibly lovely person told me her mum had said to her at the beginning of my journey that the hardest time may be some months later “when the flowers stopped coming.” It’s stuck with me ever since. Because it’s absolutely true.

To mark his anniversary, flowers came into our house again. The smell was beautiful, I was so grateful, and it got me thinking back to when Mr C died. We were inundated with flowers. At one point, I had 14 vases around my house. The smell was beautiful. I was so very, very grateful. Until they died. Because they made work for me by dying. I vividly remember standing on my driveway yelling at my mum and stepdad while trying to consolidate vases and get rid of the flowers that had now died on me too. A gust of wind knocked a vase over and it broke. I yelled some more. My husband had died and now I was having to deal with dead flowers and smashed glass, I had enough to do, I didn’t want to deal with this as well.

That moment was the first time I’d really thought about the expectations, actions and support those left behind need when someone very close to them dies. I’ve nearly always sent flowers when people have lost a loved one, you are limited with the support you can show, and flowers are a nice way to do this. But not anymore. When one of my closest friends lost her partner to COVID in January, I didn’t send her flowers. I thought about what had been most useful to me and used that for ideas. One of the most memorable gifts I had was from a friend who said “don’t judge me” when she gave it to me. It was a bottle of gin, a bottle of tonic, a box of tissues, ready meals, bubble bath and hair dye. She thought I’d be stressing about my hair with hairdressers shut. She was right. That morning I’d sent my mum out to buy me hair dye ahead of the funeral.

When he died, we were inundated with messages. I spent almost every evening responding to them. We were inundated with support. We were inundated with people telling us they’d be there for us. Some of them have, some of them haven’t. We were inundated with people telling us to do what we needed to do. There was no expectation put upon us. We were just allowed to be. But as with the flowers stopping, the messages dwindled. It was unsustainable for such frequent contact to continue. I know that, everyone has their own lives to lead, the world didn’t stop because my husband died. But it doesn’t mean I need them any less. It doesn’t mean I need the support any less. Equally the lack of expectation also seemed to stop. Because when it comes to grief, everyone has expectations. Whether they know it or not.

When I returned to work, there was an element of surprise. It was too soon. Shouldn’t I give myself more time? Wasn’t I putting too much pressure on myself? Was I being fair on my daughter? Turns out I wasn’t conforming to the expectation people had. I absolutely know that people said this with the very best of intent and it was lovely to have such care shown towards me, but it started to show what I’d now be navigating as I walked along this new path.

I’ve been exposed to the expectation to move on when you’re widowed young. It was during one of my few visits out that I first came across it. I bumped into someone who knows my mum and was asked, “are you over it yet?” It took me a good few minutes to work out what they were referring to. I wasn’t expecting to be asked if I was over it six months after losing my husband. We chatted for a bit longer and they ended the conversation with “I wouldn’t worry about what’s happened, you’re a good-looking woman, you’ll find someone else. Don’t worry.” I was flabbergasted. Their attempt at comforting me I’m sure. And yes, while I totally acknowledge that I have no idea what my future holds, I do know that it won’t be a case of moving forward and not remembering or worrying. Irrespective of my future, part of me will always, always be Mrs C. Charlesworth. Charlingtonsworth. Or any of the other names that I’ve become accustomed to being called since I got married.

The hardest expectation though is about how I should behave. I’ve been told so often how strong I am, that it’s like there’s an expectation on me to be on my best behaviour and not show when I’m under pressure. That it’s not strong if I do that. I refuse to do this. I won’t put on a mask and pretend I’m ok. I did that once and learnt the hard way that it doesn’t work. But I sometimes wonder if I’m expected to. A perfect example took place in the run up to Christmas. I was openly struggling, life was the hardest it had been for a few months and beyond stressful, we were finding the third lockdown hard and I was dreading Christmas. This culminated in a conversation where I was short with someone. I used a tone. I was blunt. I admit it. I used a tone and was brutally honest in the conversation. I know it. But this resulted in me being told they were “not accustomed to being spoken to in the manner that I adopted.” It was used as a contributing reason for them distancing themselves not just from me, but from my daughter. And this stopped me in my tracks. To be told that hurt. It was a one off during a particularly stressful time. It was the first time over the nine months since losing Mr C that they’d seen me like this. Where was the support? Where was the understanding? Why wasn’t I allowed to have an off day? Why was this held against me? Against my daughter. As time has gone by and I’ve thought about it more, I think it’s because of the expectations and perceptions surrounding grief. When you’re perceived as strong and as time passes, you’re no longer meant to have off days. You’re not meant to need the support in the way you did at the start. The taboo of talking about grief means people don’t understand that off days and the need to be supported will be a way of life for me for an exceptionally long time.

But I’ve equally found myself having expectations. For people to treat us in the way that I’d treat them. I expect them to behave as I would. As Mr C would. He would, and I do, expect more from people for our daughter. Irrespective of what was usual before he died, I firmly believe, and expect, people should show up for her more because life is different now. It’s a new playing field. She was just 10 when her daddy died and the rules have changed. Maybe I’m wrong to feel like this. Maybe I’m wrong to expect things to change. Maybe it’s me that actually has unfair expectations. But when your life has been overwhelmingly changed beyond all recognition, your outlook and expectations change too. It’s inevitable. It’s why Mr C changed after his cancer battle. It’s why I know that if the roles were reversed, he’d feel and be having the same expectations that I do.

I know I’ve changed since he fell ill. I know there are people I’m far closer to now than I was then. There are people in my life now who are only in it because of what’s happened. There are people I’m not as close with. Partly I’m to blame. I know I don’t make as much effort with people as I used to. I don’t organise in the way I used to. I have far less tolerance for seeing other people’s mundane or first world problems. But I’m just so tired. I’m juggling being a solo parent while working full-time and running a household and all that that entails. Oh, and just the small matter of grieving for my partner of 21 years. The father of my child. Sometimes messaging or ringing people is just one more thing that I don’t need to be doing. Or I simply forget to. I suspect there are some who are uncomfortable with my honesty and talking about what’s happened. I suspect there are some who find it difficult to know what to say to me. I suspect for some it is easier to walk away because it’s too hard to walk this path with me. Because I’m a different person now. And there are some living with their own challenges who just don’t need mine on top of them.

But I’ll always be so grateful to those who have been there for me since the flowers stopped. They are the ones without expectation. They are the ones who have become my scaffolding, holding me up on this rollercoaster. They are the people who will help me get through whatever the future brings. I can honestly say I don’t know what it looks like. These people and the expectations on me could all change. As with 2020, I know the flowers will stop again. But the hard times won’t. The challenges won’t. But it’s knowing that there will always, always be people giving me the support I need during the hardest of times which is so invaluable.

Goodbye Mr C

I guess if I’m honest, I’d been expecting the call I received on the morning of 19 April for a few days. Expecting, yes. Prepared for, no. But then, I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for the call to confirm that my husband of 14 years and partner of 21 years was going to die. I vividly remember where I was when the call came, I was helping my daughter tidy her bedroom. I sat on the floor in her room and tried to process what was being said to me. Did I want to go into hospital to say goodbye? The offer was made, but if I’d said yes, I’d have had to self-isolate away from our daughter for seven days. It wasn’t really a choice; I couldn’t be away from her and she couldn’t be away from me in the seven days after losing him.

Almost at the same time as the phone rang, our doorbell rang. Our daughter went downstairs to answer it and it was my mum on her daily walk just checking in. As I sat on the floor on the phone to the amazing ITU staff, I knew as soon as I hung up the phone, I’d have to go downstairs and tell our beautiful, brave little girl that her daddy was never going to come home. It took everything I had to get up off the floor and do that. I remember telling her that her daddy was going to be the brightest star in the sky. What else I said to her, I have no recollection of. I just hugged her. I didn’t know what else to do. My mum, standing on my driveway, had no option but to watch as her eldest daughter and granddaughter fell apart.

But we composed ourselves. Because we had to say goodbye to him. Thanks to Mel and Sharon, our amazing “Skype Angels” we’d been speaking to him every day for a week. That day, I was asked if we wanted to do it again. I didn’t hesitate to say yes. There was so much I needed to say, despite not knowing how to say it. So, for the very last time, we dialled in. For the very last time, I saw my husband. For the very last time, she saw her daddy. Family photos and her get well card were laid around him. I told him how proud we all were of him for fighting for so long. I apologised for the fact I hadn’t been able to protect him from this. I told him how much everyone loved him. I said thank you for everything. But it still didn’t feel real. After 21 years which had seen a cancer battle, a break-up, losing a baby, living with my depression and anxiety, was this really how our story was going to end? Via an iPad and Skype call? This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t how our story was supposed to end. We had so many plans. He hadn’t had a cough. He’d walked to the ambulance. How was he not coming home? But a couple of hours after our Skype call ended, the ITU team rang to tell me he’d died. My life with Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth was over.

I didn’t know what I was meant to do next. I didn’t know how to tell people he’d died. So, I didn’t for a while. My daughter and I finished the film we were watching. Because I knew that even when I told people, no-one could do anything. No-one could come around and look after us. In my head there was no rush. I didn’t know when, or if, people would be ready to find out they needed to say goodbye to Mr C. But slowly over the course of the next few hours, I made the calls. I sent the messages. I watched as the notifications on my phone started mounting. As the kindness shown towards us began to escalate. The food voucher that was sent to save me having to think about cooking. The next day the first shepherd’s pie arrived courtesy of my friend. The first sympathy card arrived. I looked at it and put it back in the envelope. What use was this to me? I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted my husband home.

Friends and family just needed to see us. But we were living in lockdown, it wasn’t that simple. Some did ring our doorbell. Some ended up leaving with ginger and cherry Pepsi Max! Why? Because I don’t like it, he wasn’t coming home to drink it, so what was the point of keeping it? They so very graciously took it from me, but at the same time must have thought I was losing my mind. My husband had died 24 hours ago, why on earth was I worrying about getting soft drinks out of my house? But it was the only way I could begin to take control, to begin to try to accept what was happening. He really was never coming home.

Three days after he died, I went to the hospital to collect the few belongings he’d taken in with him. For the first time in over three weeks, he and I were in the same building. Just for a few minutes. I felt numb. Even though I couldn’t see him, something in me just needed to be there. I needed to be in the same building as him. Later that day, the call came from the funeral directors to tell me he was now with them, but due to the restrictions in place, it didn’t mean a thing to me. I wasn’t able to see him. I wasn’t able to give them clothes to dress him in. Was he really there? Had he really died? Or was this all some nightmare I was going to wake up from in just a few minutes?

But as the days went by, I didn’t wake up from a nightmare. Because this was real. I really had said goodbye to Mr C via a Skype call. People kept talking to me about a funeral. I didn’t care. I didn’t want one. I was 39, I didn’t want to be planning my husband’s funeral. I wanted him to come home. I wasn’t ready to say another goodbye. But I had to, and I did.

Yet as I sit here now, a year on from that fateful call and fateful day, I realise that we’ll never really say goodbye to him. Mr C will always be part of who we are. He will always be a part of our lives. I think back to the situations over the past year where I’ve had to make a tough decision. Every time I’ve faced these, I’ve asked myself what would he do? And every time, I’ve landed that he would be doing exactly what I’m doing. I watch our daughter load Spotify to listen to Train, Tenille Arts or the Kris Barras Band (among many others) knowing that it’s his influence that makes her to do this. There’s not many 11-year-olds who would know these artists. She does. She sings the lyrics with as much passion as Mr C did. I watch our daughter make statements or pull facial expressions which are just like him. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve said, “she’s her father’s daughter”. I don’t know if I see it more because he’s not here, but she really is. He’d be so incredibly proud of her. She will never, ever be allowed to forget whose daughter she is.

And as for me? My first year as an adult without him is now complete. I wish every single day with everything I have that he was still here. Telling me about another board game on Kickstarter. Twiddling our photos. Cooking my dinner. Doing nothing with me. Rolling his eyes at me. Despairing at my love of Jason Donovan. Yet while he’s not physically here, his influence and his legacy are. Living on in us. I know I’ve been able to get through this past year because of him. I know I’ll be able to get through the next year because of him. Because of the love he gave us. Because of everything he taught me. It hit me when our daughter was singing a song from Wicked at the top of her voice. The lyrics say it all.

I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives
For a reason, bringing something we must learn
And we are led to those
Who help us most to grow if we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you

So, thank you Mr C. I’m so grateful you chose to spend your life with me. Because as Winnie the Pooh says “how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” He really is a wise old bear.

A year of firsts

A couple of weeks before my birthday, a friend of mine said to me “you’ve almost done it now, your year of firsts, only a couple more to go.” In so many ways, he was right. Yes, I’ve done the first Father’s Day, Mr C’s birthday, wedding anniversary, Christmas and Mother’s Day. Yet in so many ways, he was wrong. There are a whole host of other firsts that I would “normally” have done in this year that I’ve not been able to. I, like so many others who have lost a loved one during this pandemic, have had their grief essentially put on hold.

For there is still so much I haven’t done without him. There is still so much as a family we haven’t done without him. A year ago today I was told for the first time to prepare for him to never come home. I made the calls to friends and family to tell them the next 24-48 hours were critical. That night was the first time I’d ever really thought about what my life might look like without him. But I still didn’t try to think about it too much. He could beat this. Whatever it would take for him to beat this and however long it would take for the recuperation, we could do it together. We always did. But of course, this wasn’t to happen. Navigating life without him would shortly begin.

Yet it didn’t begin in a way that is usually associated with grieving a loved one because of COVID restrictions. The standout one being it was nearly three months before I was hugged by someone other than my daughter. The first hug after the loss of my husband came nearly three months after he died. That’s not normal. Whether you’re a hugger or not, physical contact is so important when you’re grieving. I have not hugged my best friends. I have not hugged my mum. It wasn’t until nearly three months after he died that family and friends were allowed into our house for the first time.

Ironically enough, it was the first time we went to friends for afternoon tea that I ended up facing another first. My daughter fell off her scooter and I had to take her to minor injuries. As the nurse went through the questions she had to ask, she came to ask for her father’s details. I responded with “he passed away in April, do I still need to tell you?”. She looked so apologetic, I felt for her. She was just doing her job but for me it was much more than that. We went and sat in the waiting room for an x-ray and I cried. I cried because my daughter might have a broken bone. I cried because I’d just had to tell someone else in an official capacity that my husband was dead. A first that I hadn’t really thought about that would happen, but one that hit me so very hard.

And then I think of all the other firsts that I know I’ll have to do over the coming weeks and months. Just with my daughter there are a number: parents evening, dance shows, starting secondary school, swimming lessons, a theatre trip, a holiday, the ‘baby group’ Christmas Party. And for me, there are several things I’ve not been able to do and will need to do for the first time. Since my husband died, I’ve not been in a room with both my sister in laws and my father in law. I don’t know when or if that will happen for the first time, but I know his presence will be so dreadfully missed. I’ve not been in a room with the wider family. I’ve not been able to get together and reminisce with his Sunday League football team. I’ve not been for a big night out with friends. I’ve not had to deal with a hangover and my daughter by myself! I’ve not been in a large group of people sharing memories and smiling or crying at them. I’ve not hosted an Easter or fireworks party at our house, something we used to do every year. To be perfectly honest, the thought of doing all these things for the first time feels me with fear. Because I’ve become quite adept at being in my house, being with my daughter, only speaking to people via screens. How will I cope when I start to see more people? What will happen when people can hug me? Will I feel comforted? Will I break? Will I want to run away and hide from it all?

It was C.S. Lewis who famously said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” And not only do I feel fear at the future, but I’ve felt it over the past year of grief and firsts. Fear as to what happens to my daughter if something happens to me. I felt it when the UK raised the terror alert last Autumn. How can I possibly go to London for work if the terror threat is raised? What if something happens to me? I can’t have my daughter being an orphan, I need to wrap myself in cotton wool. But again, this isn’t possible. This is something I need to work through. And again, fear was so present when I had to take our puppy to an emergency vet late one evening last week. He’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, and they had to make him be sick to prevent it getting stuck. “There’s a risk of asphyxiation with doing this” the vet told me. My stomach dropped. I felt sick. I felt fearful. I wanted to cry. How could I possibly drive home and tell my daughter that our puppy had died? The main thing is that the puppy is absolutely fine and was far less traumatised by the experience than I was! But as I went and waited in the car for him last week, I realised for the first time how quickly I now jump to the worst-case scenario. If someone tells me the worst that could happen, I immediately assume it will. Because it has. My husband died; he didn’t come home. Other than losing my daughter, I can’t think of anything worse than that.

As I sit here now, a week out from my final first date, I don’t know how I’ll manage all the firsts that will come after this milestone. I don’t know how different year two will be. How different it will feel. I wonder in a bizarre way whether it will actually be harder. Because there is a greater chance with lockdowns easing that I’ll have to start living my life without him. I do know that no matter how fearful I am, that I can’t continue to hide away in my house. I need to be with people who are also grieving the loss of Mr C. Because it’s all part of keeping him part of our lives in the future.

Life begins…

So that’s it. The end of my first week as a 40-year-old. And as the saying goes, life begins at 40…

I always used to joke with Mr C that I wasn’t going to turn 40. You see every time I’d turned a different decade, something had gone wrong. My 20th birthday was spent with him in hospital having his first chemotherapy session. Shortly before my 30th birthday, he’d been made redundant scuppering all our plans, I ended up with food poisoning over the birthday weekend and my mum received a health diagnosis just after my birthday. So, when I had to dial 999 in the early hours of my 39th birthday, I joked with Mr C that he was a year early. I joked with him and the paramedics that he was going to extremes to get out of buying me a birthday card. I didn’t for one second think he’d never be here for my 40th. We’d been together since my 18th birthday party, how could he not be here for my next big birthday?

But sadly, my 40th was to be my first big birthday without him. And the penultimate of the first dates in this rollercoaster year. People rallied round me in the run up to it. People were concerned how I was going to cope. I couldn’t have asked for more. But the reality was, the hardest moment came the day before my birthday. My daughter went out with my mum and stepdad “to do things” and I was on my own for a little while. It hit me at this point. Mr C really wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming back. My daughter was having to enlist the help of other family members to help surprise me and buy me gifts. I sat and reflected. I cried. But then as I’ve had to do so many times, I had to take a deep breath and tell myself I could do this. For at that time, some friends popped round to see me. Because 29 March saw the first lockdown easing meaning people could meet in gardens again. Living in Kent, this hadn’t been able to happen since November. Life was beginning again. Just in time for my 40th.

When I woke up the following morning, I was under strict instructions not to go downstairs until my daughter gave me permission. She’d been worried about how she could decorate the house and lay my presents out for me as I go to bed after her. It was something she hadn’t really thought of until that moment and said to me “it’s hard doing this with only one parent. How am I meant to do this on my own?” Another reminder that it’s just the two of us now. But decorate and lay out presents she did. She’d thought so carefully about what to buy me, one of the gifts being a London Lego set because she knows how much I’m missing going to London and wanted me to have a reminder in my home office. As I drove her to school, she asked what my plans were for the day. She’s a little worrier and when I told her I was working; her worries were alleviated. “That’s ok then, they’ll look after you” was her response.

She was right. My first call of the morning saw people join with balloons and banners in their backgrounds. Messages were sent throughout the day.  A birthday call in the afternoon with my amazing team even saw a goat called Lulu join from Cronkshaw Fold Farm. I can honestly say that in my 40 years I’ve never had a goat wish me a happy birthday! It was such a lovely touch. And of course, Jason Donovan played a part. Dressed in a birthday hat and banners, he was part of all the conference calls throughout the day, moving to the garden as family visited.

Again, life was beginning. The weather was glorious. Daffodils and tulips were blooming. Family and friends came and sat in the garden. I had lunch with one of my closest friends. My nephew ran around with our puppy for the first time. My daughter and her cousins played football with their grandparents. All things that 18 months ago, we’d have taken for granted.

On Thursday, two more friends came to the garden armed with prosecco and cake. The weather wasn’t quite as glorious, we all had to wrap up in coats and blankets (I forgot I owned a firepit which could have given us some heat), but it felt like another new beginning. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed sitting and talking with friends. I’ve missed hearing about what’s going on in other people’s lives. But above all else, I’ve missed human interaction not via a screen. Admittedly, I drank the most prosecco I had in a very long time, had a hot bath to warm up when I came in from the garden and ended up dozing off quickly. After all. I’m 40 now, I can’t stay up too late!

It’s also felt fitting that the Easter weekend has come at the end of this first week. Another reminder of new beginnings. Easter Sunday saw us do a 6k walk with friends. Seeing my daughter laughing, running and just being a child with her BFF was so uplifting. She’s craved this normality. She needs her life to begin again.

So, as I sit here now, I can’t help but be thankful. For anyone who follows me on Twitter and Instagram, you’ll know how important this is to me and why it’s such a huge part of my life. I’m thankful for the continued amazing support from our family and friends. I’m thankful for my amazing team and colleagues who have essentially been my scaffolding holding me up for the last year (shiny and thin!). I’m thankful for the weather turning and the sun starting to appear more.

But, after the most turbulent year as a 39-year-old, I’m thankful for starting to feel a bit more like me again. The pre COVID me will never return. I know that. She’s gone forever. But there are elements of her that are still there. A friend said to me last week that she hoped I didn’t mind her saying it, but she wanted to tell me she’d seen a bit of a sparkle in me again on my birthday. It meant the world to me. Because she’s right. I felt it too. Who knows whether it was turning 40 that did it, the change in weather, the ability to see people in person again, the first birthday without Mr C being out of the way or a mixture of all of these? But whatever it was, this spark and the people around me will see me through.

Life begins at 40. Who knows whether this is true? For while I don’t know what the next decade will bring for me, I do know that it’s begun with hope and the ability to look forward. I can’t ask for more that.

Widowed and Young

I can still remember the first time I was called a widow. It was 22 April 2020 and I’d just registered my husband’s death. While he was entered as my husband, as the informant I was listed as his widow. I felt indignant at being called that. Why couldn’t I still be called his wife? Widow. I was 39 years old. Aren’t widows supposed to be in their 80s?

But no. I was now officially a widow. When I had to renew my car and home insurance a few months later, I had another slap in the face. For no longer was my marital status “married”, it was “widowed.” There it was, once again in black and white. Widowed. I didn’t want to click that button. I didn’t want to have it being official. Same again with completing the census last week. Always there now.

It’s hard to articulate what it feels like to be widowed young. Everything about my life suddenly changed. Everything. Yes, I’d felt grief before when my grandad died but despite the pain of losing him, my day to day life was still the same. When Mr C died, everything about my life changed. I had to start cooking every single day. I hadn’t cooked in 21 years and it was a running joke that if he was away, we’d either have takeaway or people would take pity on me and feed me and my daughter! But now, every single day I must cook. I don’t eat the same food any more as my daughter doesn’t like spicy food and it feels pointless to cook two meals. I don’t watch the same TV programmes because we used to watch them together and I don’t want to watch them without him. I haven’t been to a supermarket since 20 March 2020 because we always did the shopping together. I don’t want to wander round without him. I don’t want to bump into people that might ask me how I am because I don’t want to run the risk of crying over the fruit and vegetables.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m no longer part of a couple. In the eyes of the law I’m not married so is it possible to still have in-laws? What should I call them? When a friend introduced me as “Charlie’s wife” a few months after he died, I found it odd. It completely took me off guard. Am I his wife? Am I his widow? Who am I? What am I? I just have an overriding sense of being on my own. Because no matter how many times people tell me I’m not alone (which I’m not, I’m incredibly lucky to have a strong support network), the simple truth is, I am on my own. There is no playing good cop, bad cop when it comes to parenting any more. There is no “you empty the dishwasher, I’ll put the bins out” trade off. When I eventually go back to the office, spontaneity will no longer exist. I’ll no longer be able to ring him and say, “I’m just going for a quick drink, are you ok to pick her up?” Everything related to our daughter will have to be planned. I’m the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for her. I’m now the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for us. It’s overwhelming. It’s isolating. And it’s tiring. It’s oh so tiring.

But around the time I was looking for insurance, I remembered Widowed and Young (WAY), a charity someone had mentioned to me on Twitter shortly after Mr C died. When it was first mentioned I didn’t understand what use it would be to me, but I now started to research it. I needed it. Because no matter how supportive my friends, family and colleagues were being, I just didn’t know anyone that actually got it. After spending time on the website and discovering just how many people lose a spouse or partner under the age of 50, I suddenly felt that maybe there might be people out there that understood. I joined a virtual quiz that one of the Kent groups* had organised. I was so nervous as I dialled in (I’m not sure what I was expecting) but everyone was just so normal and friendly. Yes, we’re now all part of a club that no-one wants to be part of, but fundamentally, we’re all normal people. It’s invaluable to have support like this. And more recently, a WAY from COVID group* has been set up for anyone who has lost a partner throughout any of the lockdowns (be it to COVID or another reason). Our first virtual gathering was again just so very comforting. It’s so reassuring to know people have had the same thoughts and emotions that you have.

So, when WAY advertised for ambassadors I applied. I wanted to be able to help others going through this experience to feel less isolated. To know that there are people who understand what this horrendous journey is like. To help people know that support is out there. I feel incredibly proud and privileged to have been successful in this application. A year ago, I didn’t know anything about this charity and never dreamed I’d be in this position. To be honest, I still don’t want to be and wish I didn’t have a need for WAY. But now I am, and I do, I’ll do all I can to share our story and help others to know that they’re not alone.

If you missed my Talk aWAY session with Jess Haslem-Bantoft , you can catch up here.

If you’d like to find out more about Widowed and Young and the support offered, please visit the website.

* To join these groups you must have a current WAY membership.

What it means to me to be a mother

“Is daddy going to be ok?”

“I don’t know. I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you that the doctors and nurses will do everything they can to try to make him ok.” 

This is a conversation that took place at 4:30am shortly after my husband had walked down the stairs to a waiting ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. The severity of that moment will stay with me for the rest of my life. I had a choice with how I responded to her. Lie and pretend everything was going to be ok or admit that I didn’t know what was going to happen. In the split second it took me to make that decision, I opted for honesty. For whatever we were going to face over the coming days, weeks or even months, honesty would get us through.

I won’t lie. There’s been a lot since I became a mother that I’ve not been prepared for. But that conversation was hard. No-one prepared me for that conversation. No-one then gave me a manual to help me prepare for having to tell our beautiful little girl that her daddy was going to die. No-one prepared me for helping her through her grief. No-one prepared me for how much of a fierce mama bear I would become in the weeks and months that followed.   

Because since I became a mother I’ve always tried to protect her in whatever way I can. I’ve always tried to stop her feeling hurt and to try to put a smile on her face. Yet since Mr C came down with his temperature on 22 March (Mother’s Day) last year, I’ve seen how broken she can be. Yes, she’s been phenomenal. I am reminded on a daily basis of just how phenomenal she is. I simply wouldn’t still be standing without her by my side.

But she’s also a little girl who has gone through the most excruciating loss. I’ve seen her eyes lose their sparkle. I’ve watched her fall apart. And when you’ve watched your child go through this pain and all she has gone through, you want to do everything in your power to stop them ever feeling hurt again. You’re prepared to take on anyone and anything that causes them disappointment or angst.

I know it will be impossible for me to do that totally. Because I’m acutely aware that she will feel hurt. One day it’s inevitable that someone will break her heart. It’s almost a rite of passage and something she will need to go through in life. All I will be able to do will be to pick up the pieces and hold her until the hurt subsides a little.  

And so today, on Mother’s Day, I’m pausing to reflect on my role as a mother. To reflect on the promises I made to myself the day my husband died. That I would continue doing my best for our daughter. That I would try to protect her as best I could. That I would fight her corner for her whenever needed. That I would teach her self-worth. That I would teach her to never give up.

It’s been my hardest year as a mother since Mother’s Day 2020. It’s been the steepest learning curve of my entire life. But it’s been a year that’s taught me so very, very much about just what it means and what it takes to be one.

COVID-19 and me

This is a post which was written in October 2020, six months after the death of my husband. It was originally shared internally at work and then after a number of people asked if I would share this externally, I published it on LinkedIn. The response was overwhelming and just one of the many reasons I decided to start my own blog.

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7 March

“I really fancy some chocolate”

“Go for it. Pop it in the trolley. If coronavirus doesn’t get us, the asteroid that my colleague told me about will.”

30 March

“999, which service do you require?”

“Ambulance, I need help. I think my husband’s having a panic attack. 111 also suspect he may have COVID-19. But he’s not got a cough. He’s never had a cough.”

Two conversations. Three weeks apart. All it took to turn my entire world upside down.

When I joked with my husband about the chocolate, it’s because it felt impossible that the UK was going to be hit hard. We argued about sending our daughter to school. Even when the announcement came to work from home, it felt surreal.

So, when he started sporting a temperature, I didn’t worry too much. COVID-19 couldn’t be in our house. It was happening on the news. It couldn’t happen to my family. We’d followed all the advice, he must just have a bit a cold.

But as he steadily deteriorated, my fears grew, and we spoke to 111 twice in the week leading up to needing to ring 999. And as the three paramedics got ready to take him to hospital and we watched him walk to the ambulance, I made our daughter tell him she loved him. Two hours later, I learnt he’d been taken to ITU, immediately sedated and put on a ventilator. For three weeks he battled so very hard and our amazing NHS tried everything they possibly could to save him. But late afternoon on 19 April he lost his battle. A new life for my 10-year-old daughter and me had begun.

Because for the first time in my adult life, I was without Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. I used to joke that we only got together because I needed a date for my 18th birthday party and I liked his surname, but for over 20 years we’d been navigating life together. A life that saw Charlie be diagnosed with and beat testicular cancer at the age of 27. It was this that led him to adopt a philosophy that life was too short and to just enjoy it. And I think it’s testament to him and how loved he was, that over £4,000 was raised in his memory for The Oddballs Foundation, a charity which raises awareness of Testicular Cancer. He was pragmatic yet vivacious. He loved Christmas and for the entire month of December would wear a Christmas t-shirt, jumper or shirt! Quite simply Charlie was one of life’s good guys and without a shadow of a doubt, the person you wanted in your squad!

But above all else, he was beyond devoted to our daughter. He was so unbelievably proud of her and all she’s accomplished in her life so far, I simply know that hearing her voice on the Skype calls for the last week he was in ITU would have been the spur for him to keep on fighting. And while it breaks my heart that I can’t fix this situation for her, she continues to amaze me every single day and just like her daddy, I couldn’t be more proud.

At a time that has seen all of us living through challenging situations, adjusting to the new rules and restrictions, getting used to a new physical distancing world (Charlie didn’t like the phrase social distancing), my daughter and I have seen an abundance of kindness and support from so many people since that fateful 999 call. It’s why despite all we’ve gone through, I truly believe that it is kindness that will be my abiding memory from 2020. On my last evening out before lockdown I wore a t-shirt that said “In a world where you can be anything… Be Kind”. It really does cost nothing but it means so very much.

I can’t lie and say this whole experience hasn’t irrevocably changed our lives. It has and it will continue to do so.

But a month after he died, I said I wouldn’t let our experience define us or who we become. I stand by that. If we’ve learnt anything these last six months, it’s to be kinder, stronger and to refocus our priorities. And I know he’d approve of that.