Tag: Birthday

The big 5-0

Various images of Stuart Charlesworth

So, there we have it Mr C. The big 5-0. This date has been looming over me for quite some time now. It’s nearly 25 years since I met your family for the first time at your dad’s 50th birthday celebrations in 1999. How on earth is it possible that it is now 50 years since you were born? We’ve also reached the day I’d always said would be the day I traded you in for a younger model because to be married to a 50-year-old would make me old.

Except. This is your first ‘Big Birthday’ in over 20 years that I won’t actually be celebrating it with you. I no longer have the option to trade you in for a younger model. You will forever be 45.

Today is another one of those dates that is a milestone. Just last month, I realised that we have now done five Fathers’ Days without you. Our daughter was only able to celebrate 10 with you and so we’ve now reached the halfway point. And it feels like this has happened in the blink of an eye. Today is now the fifth birthday of yours that we’re marking without you physically being here for it. Again, it feels like this has happened in the blink of an eye.

We went to Howletts Wild Animal Park on your birthday in 2020 and spent the day wandering looking at the animals, taking photos and smiling when thinking about you. We were the recipient of lovely, thoughtful gifts because people knew how hard it would be for us. But we survived it. As we did so much in 2020. Your birthday in 2021 was the first time I’d been properly drunk since you died. It was the day we held your Memorial Service and Celebration of Life. There were so many people there who loved you. You’d have been overwhelmed at it all. And would no doubt have rolled your eyes at all the fuss. What I hadn’t seen coming at your birthday in 2021 was that it would cause me to fall apart and to take me right back to feeling like I’d just lost you. The Memorial Service, the hugging, the emotions, and the people in the room was something I didn’t experience in 2020, it made it real that you’d gone. It stung. It hurt. I couldn’t keep going anymore. I needed to grieve.

But somehow, I survived this and did keep going. With some more falling apart and a near nervous breakdown on the way. We made it to your 48th birthday in 2022. We didn’t specifically have anything planned for this day. I was having to go with the flow a bit more in life and so we had a relaxed day, we went to see your entry in the Book of Remembrance at the crematorium and we had a drink at your Memorial Bench at Hearts Delight. The difference from the previous year was beyond notable. Nothing planned. No falling apart. Just being and remembering.

Last year, for the first time since 2019 I worked. Admittedly only from home, it would have been a step too far to go to the office, but I did work. Yet I struggled. Facebook memories cropped up of you entering the last year of your 30s and me winding you up about this. I knew I’d have been doing the same about you entering the last year of your 40s. I made it through the day at work and then wanted to take our daughter to your bench with me. But she didn’t want to go. She didn’t feel that she needed to. I don’t know why, but this made me angry. I’m simply so scared of people not wanting to mark this day anymore. Of you being forgotten. It’s been a fear of mine for years now. It’s inherent in me and I can’t see a day when I ever don’t feel this way. So, I went to the bench on my own. Sat there with a cocktail in a can, I’m still as classy as ever, and sobbed for a bit. I made a call to get someone to come and keep me company and give me a hug. I survived the day. But it was a struggle.

And ever since, I’ve been so acutely aware that today has been rapidly approaching. I’ve wondered what we would have been doing to celebrate. Clearly, I wouldn’t have traded you in on your actual birthday, I’m not completely heartless after all. Would you have had a large gathering with family and friends? Your 30th birthday weekend was a celebratory one, we had your birthday party on the Saturday night and then our engagement party on the Sunday. I’ve allowed myself to go back and watch the DVD of this day recently. I’ve watched you open cards and presents in bed and then the footage of your party. It’s crazy to think how many people who were at that party are no longer here. It seems inconceivable to think that you’re one of them. 10 years ago, we went to see Robbie Williams at The O2 because I’d not really made the association that this was your 40th birthday weekend when I booked the tickets! But we then had a gathering at The Tav on the Saturday evening. You went to the driving range during the day, and I lovingly decorated the pub with pictures of you through the years. The following day we took over an Indian restaurant, granted, some people were too hungover from the night before to make it, but it was a lovely afternoon. The first ‘Big Birthday’ that our daughter got to spend to with you. We couldn’t possibly have envisaged that it would go on to be the only one.

But as much as these two dates were celebrated, I wonder if this one would have been a little more muted. It’s a Wednesday and you’d have no doubt said there was no point taking the day off work for it. Would we have gone out for dinner? Gone to a show? Gone to the cinema? I suspect if we had booked something you’d have been quite affronted and wanted to change it, given the Euro 2024 England semi-final tonight. That would have been what you wanted to watch. But I genuinely have no idea as to what we’d have been doing. Four years can do a lot to a person, would you have changed? Would you actually have changed your opinion of birthdays and have wanted to make a bigger fuss than you did for your 30th and your 40th?

I try not to let myself think these thoughts too often. Because they still hurt. It’s painful to wonder what life would be like now had the pandemic not happened. It’s like when we lost the baby and would often wonder who they would have been. For such a long time they were the biggest what if in my life. But now, you’ve joined them. What if you hadn’t have fallen ill? Who would you be now? What job would you be doing? Would your photography have taken off? Would you still be singing? And if so, what band would you be in? Would you have become a grumpy old man? Would you still believe that life is for living and be doing it to the best of your ability? What if… what if… what if… The question that should never really be asked.

It’s been bittersweet watching our friends celebrate their 50th birthdays. Knowing that there’s more of them to come. That handsome millionaire that’s going to come and sweep me off my feet better have already celebrated his 50th (granted, this does put me at odds with the whole trading you in for a younger model stance). Because all these things are just reminders that I’ll never get to celebrate your 50th with you. Yes, I know that you strongly believed that when it was your time, it was your time, but it still feels like your time was cut short. I still believe you had so much more to give. But I console myself that your legacy is living on through us. We’ve now raised over £15,000 for charity in your memory and have plans to do more. Something good must come out of this nightmare and your loss, and this is one of the best ways I can think of to honour you. To help others.

We’ve done our very best to keep living over the last four years. To celebrate you by continuing to live and not letting your death be the thing that destroyed us. But it’s hard. It’s bittersweet. My life is tinged with an element of sadness at how much you’re missing out on. Although. I suspect you’d be slightly despairing of just how much time we’ve spent in theatres watching musicals. But you’d also be secretly fine with it. Knowing that every time we’re in a theatre, your daughter is studying the cast on stage (as she has done for a decade now) and researching the Performing Arts Colleges in the programmes. You told her that she could be anything she wanted to be, and she’s still very much intent on doing exactly what she wants to do. She’s her father’s daughter. Of course, she’s intent and stubborn. Doesn’t get any of that from me. Not at all.

But while it’s me that’s with her today and not you, you will still very much be a part of our day. We haven’t made any plans; life has been a bit too hectic lately and juggling it all has taken its toll. I gave in on Monday and admitted defeat. That I just needed to reset for a little bit. It’s just all been a bit hard and today hit me harder than I anticipated it would. But irrespective of what we end up doing today, I know one thing. 10th July will forever be the day that we celebrate your birthday.

So, here’s to you Mr C. 50 years since you first made your mark on the world. And I have a sneaky suspicion that you’ll be continuing to make a mark on this world for many years to come. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

Happy birthday to me…?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.