My story of becoming Emma whilst navigating the ups and downs of life. Including (but, not limited to!) being a mum, living with depression and anxiety and becoming a young widow at the age of 39. A real rollercoaster of a ride!
Wow. It’s taken me a few days to process what’s happened.
I am now a published author. I held a book launch for family and friends. My book is on sale worldwide.
And that’s why, despite being a writer, this is one the shortest blog posts I’ve ever written. Because I still don’t really have the words to explain what this means to me. They’ll come in time, I have no doubt about that. There’s so much I want to share about this whole process.
But for now. I just want to say thank you to the following:
All at Softwood Books for helping me with my vision and bringing this to life.
Sheryl Findlay for your guidance, love, and support during our life coaching sessions while I was writing this.
Everyone who has read my blogs, followed our story, and provided that virtual support.
Finally. My family, friends, colleagues, and all who have supported me and my daughter since 2020. There are far too many to name individually, but you know who you are.
For anyone who would like to buy a copy of Is Daddy Going to Be OK?, the links to various retailers are below:
Five and a half years ago today, on 19 April 2020, my husband died in a global pandemic.
I write that because when you’re living it, there’s an element that you just survive. You can’t sit and think about it too much because it’s simply too huge. It’s overwhelming.
When I went to bed on that fateful day, I had no idea what my future held. How I was meant to carry on. How I could raise my daughter without him. I’d never been an adult without him, how was I meant to start at the age of 39?
A month later, after one of my honest Facebook posts, someone suggested I start writing a blog. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But after launching that blog in March 2021, I realised the power of sharing my story.
Since that day, I’ve been asked countless times if I’m going to write a book. Again. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But at my team’s Christmas gathering in 2023, as we went round the group and spoke about what we were hoping to achieve in 2024, I told them I was going to write a book.
On 22 September 2024, after being away at the Widowed and Young AGM and while having a coffee in the castle my nan spent five years in when she was evacuated in World War II, I wrote the last words of that book.
I hadn’t quite anticipated what would follow. A return to therapy for me. A realisation of how much I hadn’t processed about my late husband’s death. Another bereavement which knocked me for six. A return to therapy for my daughter. My book felt like the least of my problems. It was written, if it never saw the light of day, did it really matter?
Except deep down inside, I knew it did matter to me. So. Eventually, I started the process of trying to get it published. I’ve learnt so much this year about just what it takes to get a book published. But for the last few months, I’ve been working intently on making it a reality. And on today’s pertinent date, I’m thrilled, honoured and just a teeny bit scared to reveal more details.
Is Daddy Going to Be OK? by Emma Charlesworth will be published in November.
Wow. That statement is almost as sobering as saying my husband died in a global pandemic.
I’ve done it. I’ve written a book. It’s going to be published. I wonder if I’ll look back in five and a half years and realise that today was the day that I finally took stock of what I’ve achieved? That I’ve spent so long writing, editing and making decisions about it, that I haven’t really reflected on just what it means to have not just written a book, but to have also published one.
I’m so conscious that this will not be an easy read for so many people. That it might be incredibly painful. As with my thoughts when I launched my blog, I don’t actually know if anyone will read it. But what I do know is that since 19 April 2020, my aim has always been simple. To create a legacy for both my daughter and my late husband to make sure he never becomes a statistic of the pandemic. I hope in some small way, that this book helps me achieve that.
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And so, we hit another one of those milestone dates. 20 years since I became a Charlesworth. I’d not really thought about the fact I’m always going to have ‘big’ milestones in the same year before today. Getting married in 2005 and Mr C dying in 2020 means I’m forever going to have anniversaries with five and zero in them in the same year.
It seems insane to me that our wedding was 20 years ago today. I’ve been joking at work that I was a child bride. But I wasn’t. I was 24. Which admittedly does seem incredibly young now. Especially when I consider my daughter will be that age in nine years. I can’t see her getting married then.
Yet I didn’t necessarily feel that young when we got married. We’d been apart while I was at university for the three months before I dropped out. We’d already lived through my late husband’s cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment. We’d split up for a few months. We’d bought a house. We’d been together for six years (bar the three months split). We’d faced things that some couples never face. And let’s not forget, while I was 24, my late husband was 31. A far more respectable age to get married.
I’ve been thinking back to that day a lot recently. Looking back at all the photos. Wondering where the heck my tiny waist went. Wondering how so many people who were there that day are no longer with us or a part of my life. Wondering how I ended up being widowed before I even hit my 15th wedding anniversary.
Because that’s the thing isn’t it? When you’re stood at the front of the church and say the words “till death do us part,” you don’t actually think it will happen before you’re old and grey. So given the amount of grey hair I’ve acquired since 2020, now would be a far more apt time for this to happen. But putting levity aside for a second, I simply didn’t expect my marriage to be over in the eyes of the law by the time I was 39. Mr C, however, always told me that he’d never be an old man so maybe he did have a sixth sense that this might happen. Maybe this is why he lived life to the full so much and put his heart and soul into everything. Because he knew that his time on earth wouldn’t be as long as most of us expect it to be. I wish I could ask him.
There’s a lot I wish I could ask him to be honest. I’m collating a list for that day when I can finally go through it with him. He might want to go into hiding when the inevitable happens for me! But this one of the things I’ve struggled with the most since he died. Not having that person to ask when you’re doubting yourself. That person to sanity check things with. That person who is by your side and loves you through the good times and the bad. I’ve said before that I’d never been an adult without him having begun our relationship just before my 18th birthday party, and it really did feel like this when he died. How the hell was I meant to do this adulting malarkey by myself?
If I’m honest, I still don’t really know how I’m doing it. Except I’m not really doing it by myself am I? I have a wealth of support around me and in that respect, I’m incredibly lucky. The love and support that have been afforded to me and our daughter is something he would be incredibly thankful for. I think he’d have been just as surprised as me at the people who have been there for us and the people who are no longer part of our lives, but I’ve learnt that’s just a part of this grief process. You lose people along the way. They don’t know how to respond to you so it’s easier to just back off. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy making sense of this, but the simple fact is this. I’m not the same person I was at the start of March 2020. Mrs Emma Charlesworth suddenly stopped filling in forms as “married” and had to start ticking “widowed.” How could she possibly stay the same? When something as fundamental as this happens to you, it changes you. You can’t be who you were before. You have been broken and damaged in a way that barely anyone could ever comprehend. It happened to a certain extent to Mr C when he fought cancer, it changed him. He’d been through something life changing and it made him reassess a lot.
But the wealth of support that my daughter and I have was evident at CharlieFest: Dress to Impress last weekend. The fundraising event I held to mark our 20th wedding anniversary. There was so much love in the room for Mr C as well as for my daughter and me. I knew that. The moment I stood behind the microphone and did a speech, I looked out at my family and our friends and could see it. It was particularly special to me that both our best man and matron of honour were there. The friend who did a reading at the wedding. The friend who sang at the wedding. I might not have had my husband there, but I did have people there who were an integral part of that day on 10th September 2005. That meant a heck of a lot.
I recently wrote about how this event felt more personal to me than the previous ones I’d run. It wasn’t just celebrating him; it was celebrating our marriage. And I think fittingly, it probably represented all aspects of our marriage. In the run up to it, I felt broken and teary. I felt that I was letting him down. These were emotions I’d felt at times throughout our marriage too, because of all the pressure I put on myself. Because of the real life getting in the way. There was no idyllic, happily ever after marriage for us. We had to work at it. As so many people do. There were times we both felt like giving up. Again, I felt like that in the run up to the event, I felt like giving up and cancelling it. But I didn’t. I’d love to say it was dogged determination, but the truth is, I didn’t cancel it because of our daughter. She kept faith that it would be a good event and became my glamorous assistant at getting everything done.
One of the aspects I struggled with the most was the numbers, again slightly reminiscent of our wedding when we had to chase for RSVPs! But when my daughter and I had this conversation for the umpteenth time recently, she simply said “What matters is that it’s the right people. You don’t need lots of people to have fun, just the right people who want to be there.” Saturday night proved she was right. The right people were there, and a lot of fun was had. There were nods to him throughout the entire evening, we had stars from CBeebies and our local pantomime there (which he would have loved!), his influence was felt in the music that was played, and it was simply everything it needed to be. We’ve raised money again for the Intensive Care Unit who did so much for him in the last three weeks of his life. It’s a heck of a legacy he’s left.
And as I sit here now and reflect on this anniversary, it’s very bizarre for me. Overnight I went from being one half of Mr and Mrs Charlesworth to simply being Mrs Charlesworth. Trust me. Going to his cousin’s wedding and hearing lots of people toast Mr and Mrs Charlesworth in 2022 stung a bit. Hadn’t mentally prepared myself for that one. But now I don’t really think of myself as Mrs Charlesworth. I’m Emma Charlesworth. I’m a Charlesworth and despite everything that has happened, I’m proud to be one. My daughter is a Charlesworth. Today will always be the anniversary of the day that I became a Charlesworth and started a new chapter in my life. I will always fondly look back on the opening of the anniversary pig (all the small change coins we’d saved over the year) and seeing what we’d accumulated to pay for an anniversary celebration. I will always think about our 10th wedding anniversary when the boy did good and whisked me away to Brighton to a room with rose petals on the bed and a sauna in the room. I will always remember our fourth wedding anniversary when we had our 20-week scan of our daughter. We always celebrated this day. I will always continue to remember and mark it.
But today, as is often the case with grief and time moving forwards, I haven’t made a big thing of it. Today I’ve worked. I’ve done the school runs. I’ve done the dancing runs. I’ve dropped off some Vinted parcels. My daughter and I grabbed a spot of fast food. She then treated me to a McFlurry. It’s incredibly different to the day I should have had today. I know the boy would have done good again and booked something for us.
It’s why I wanted to do something good on Saturday. It was my turn to mark the turning of another decade since 10th September 2005. The love I still have for our marriage and for him. The love I have for all those chapters of my story that we wrote together.
And as I made my speech, thanked Mr C for everything he gave to me and the friends I now have because of him, I knew I was going to raise a toast. But this wasn’t going to be a toast to Emma and Charlie as it should have been for a gathering to mark a 20th wedding anniversary. No, the toast I raised was “To Charlie.” No-one in the room realised the significance of those words when then said them. They will shortly though. And it’s why I said them again this evening. I poured myself a gin in the Dartington Crystal gin glasses I treated myself to five years ago to mark our 15th, and my first, anniversary without him. I raised two toasts. One to Mr and Mrs Charlesworth to celebrate our marriage. The other, a repeat of those two words, because without it, I’m not convinced I’d have had the strength to keep going without him. Ironic really. Throughout our relationship, I doubt either of us really realised that somehow, he was helping me to prepare and learn to do the one thing that would have felt incomprehensible. To survive, live and thrive without him. I’ll be eternally grateful and love Mr Charlesworth for that. No two ways about it.
It’s probably no surprise that the title of this blog is linked to Les Misérables. For someone who at the start of 2024 said “I don’t really feel the need to see it again,” it’s somehow become part of my life. I didn’t envisage when I made this statement that I’d be seeing it in London, Aberdeen, Manchester and Abu Dhabi. I certainly didn’t envisage that I’d be watching my daughter in the one of the lead roles. And of course. None of the songs are triggering or make me cry. Nope. Not even one.
The local production which my daughter was in recently involved an intense two-week rehearsal schedule. The venue for these rehearsals was about a five-minute drive from where Mr C used to work. The irony was not lost on me. There was me getting up at 4:30am so that I could drive to a local train station, get an early train into work and leave the office early to pick her up. Meanwhile, my mum and stepdad had to drop her on those days so that she could get there. And then on the days I wasn’t in the office, I did both drop off and pick up. I don’t begrudge this in the slightest, I’m her mum and I knew that her anxiety wouldn’t cope with her getting the train, but it still felt like a military mission to organise. All the while knowing that if I wasn’t a widow, this wouldn’t have been the case. Mr C could have done the drop off and pick up on his way to and from work. Again. Pure conjecture and speculation because I don’t actually know where he’d be working, but the crux of the matter is this. It wouldn’t have been solely down to me to orchestrate all of the running around.
My daughter was phenomenal. No other word for it. Even if I wasn’t a particular fan of watching her be a prostitute. Or the moment when she died, and they covered her with a sheet. Her being cast as Fantine was never going to be an easy watch! But I don’t really have the words to articulate just how proud and emotional I felt watching her. Seeing her living her best life on that stage. I could only begin to imagine just what her dad would have felt seeing her up there. And I know he was playing heavily on her mind during the performances too. There was an issue with her microphone during one of the shows that I wasn’t watching, and I got a little voice note from her saying how much she wanted a dad hug. Our everyday lives continue to be impacted by his death. Her dad wasn’t there to scoop her up at the end of that show and give her that hug. Missing him at those really important moments.
And as well as missing him and running round like a loon, it was during this rehearsal schedule that I received my first ever speeding ticket. I knew I was running a little bit late that morning but hadn’t realised I was going fractionally over the speed limit. I completely own it. I was the one driving that morning and I must have just taken my eye off the ball for a split second. But as I sat there reading the letter that was sent out, it made me stop and think. Was this actually a metaphor for me to slow down a little bit in life more generally?
I’ve lost count recently of how many times I’ve heard “you’re doing too much” and “I don’t know how you do it.” But as I’ve felt so often since my late husband died, I don’t really feel I have a choice. I can’t sit back and do nothing just because he died. I still have to work and commute to an office three days a week, I have bills to pay. I still have to raise our child. I still have to do the housework, finances and all that comes with being a homeowner. Yes. I could just focus on these aspects of my life but why should I? Why shouldn’t I try to forge a life and map out a future for me?
You see, this is the other thought that is regularly crossing my mind. I’m rapidly approaching a time when I’m going to be on my own. Change is coming and I have to start thinking about my future as ‘Emma’ rather than ‘Mum’ and planning for it. My daughter starts Year 11 when she returns to school in September and will be taking GCSEs in 2026. If all goes to plan, she’ll be leaving school following this to go to college. After that, there’ll be the next phase in her life, and she’ll in theory be heading off to do a degree. And what happens to me then? If all I’ve done is work and raise her, what do I then do in 2028? Both of these would be a heck of an achievement in themselves given all we’ve been through; I don’t deny that; but I can’t help but feel I need to future proof my life too.
Granted. When it comes to futureproofing, there might have been an easier and less demanding way to do this. But I have to do it in a way that works for me and by doing something I’m passionate about. I was absolutely honoured to have been appointed as a Trustee for Widowed and Young in July and I’m looking forward to seeing what I can achieve in this role. In December 2023 I said I was going to write a book and that has now been written. I have been working with the team at Softwood Books to bring this to life and I’m excited to see what this brings. But both of these require my time and energy. Which is why I can see why people tell me I’m doing too much. In a way I no doubt am. But it’s easy to say that when you haven’t been through what I have. When you haven’t had your future completely decimated.
Becoming a widow at the age of 39 wasn’t on the future plan when I was growing up. And that’s why I push myself. I’ve had one future ripped away from me. I can’t bear the thought of not having a new one to look forward to. For such a long time, the future was overwhelming. It scared me to look beyond the next day. But now I have to think about it. Because as my daughter starts to enter the next phase of her life, she’ll no longer need me in the same way she has. And then what becomes of me? It’s a thought that crosses my mind on such a regular basis. What happens to me? Empty nest syndrome is such a common feeling for millions of people but for me it’s going to hit that little bit differently. I really will be on my own when that happens.
Because I’ve recently been thinking about whether she and I are too co-dependent on each other. The circumstances regarding our bereavement no doubt forced us to be. In the first year after Mr C died, she was only in school for four months. No-one stepped foot inside our house for nearly three months after he died and even then, it was very minimal. I didn’t have to commute to London. We didn’t really have to navigate a social life. We became quite insular. It did pretty much feel like it was Team Charlesworth against the world. I think the two of us supported each other and held each other up in ways that we didn’t even realise we were doing. She became my sole reason for getting out of bed each day. I became her one constant in life. We’d both lost our other one constant, it was instinctive to cling to the one remaining.
I guess I’ve found myself being a lot more reflective this August than I normally would be. I hadn’t really realised why until I broke a little bit at work last week. I was feeling the strain of being a solo parent. Of juggling so much. Of not having that one person who could step in to pick up the slack when needed. For the first time in a very long time, I felt like a widow. That might sound daft given I’ve been living this life for five years now, but when you’re just living your life and you’ve become accustomed to living with grief every day, you sometimes forget to give yourself a little bit of kindness. Of remembering the magnitude of everything you’ve gone through and what’s led you to where you are in your life. I was so lucky that a colleague accompanied me for a walk to help me clear my head but when I said to her “what would have been my 20th wedding anniversary is fast approaching,” I heard my voice crack.
I haven’t really thought about just how significant this wedding anniversary was going to be. For the past few years, I’ve referred to the date as the anniversary of the day I became a Charlesworth. I’ve found it hard to refer to it as a wedding anniversary as I no longer feel married. I was. There is no denying it. I don’t want to. But I’m not married now. Every widow is different, but for me, I’m not married. I’m on my own. I’m widowed. Just writing that is hard. I battled with the phrase widow for a very long time. Now it’s a part of my identity.
This time 20 years ago I was just over two weeks away from getting married. While I didn’t know exactly what the future was going to look like, I had a pretty good idea. I never envisaged my husband dying in a global pandemic just over 14 years later. That being a widow would become a part of my identity. The Friday of the August Bank Holiday weekend in 2005 saw the start of my hen weekend celebrations. A night out in Maidstone before heading to Bournemouth for the rest of the weekend. Full of hope. Full of plans. Some realised. Others not.
I knew quite early on that I’d need to mark this anniversary. And so, I chose to think of a way to celebrate his life. To celebrate the marriage I did have. CharlieFest: Dress to Impress is how I decided to do that. To once again raise funds for the Intensive Care Unit at Medway Maritime Hospital. The unit who worked so tirelessly to care for him in the last three weeks of his life. Oh yes, did I forget to mention that I’m planning an event as well as working full time, becoming a Trustee and publishing a book? And I wonder why people tell me I do too much.
If I’m honest. This event has become like a second full time job. Even more so than the previous two I’ve held. Everything about this year has felt harder. The cost of living. The ticket sales. The raffle ticket sales. People not seeing my social media posts because of the algorithm. The posts in local Facebook groups which are left as pending. The organisation of it and unexpected changes. All of which take their toll. Those nagging thoughts that plague me have become a bit more prevalent over the past few weeks. Do people care less about what happened to us now? Are people sitting there thinking “dear god, is she still banging on about her dead husband?” I think back to the previous ones I’ve held and wonder if I asked for help more or if people offered their help more freely? Probably a combination of the two in all honesty. Lives move on. People are busy. With all I have going on, I just have to get things done when I can. And if I’m honest, there is something about this event that I feel even more responsible for. It feels even more personal. It’s not just a fundraising event in memory of my late husband. It’s also in memory of our marriage and everything we had.
I look at the current confirmed attendee list. It’s a very different list to the guest list for our wedding. People attending who never even met him. People not attending who were a huge part of his life and our married life. A sign of how times change. How lives move on. Again. I’ve wondered what the invite list would have looked like had we been hosting a 20th wedding anniversary party together. I’ll never know, but this is a prime example of something that affects me as a widow, and me alone. It comes back to that sentiment of being on my own. In so many ways, I am with my grief. I don’t for one second underestimate the impact of my late husband’s death on others, but how many other people are still having their day to day lives and routines impacted by it? How many others live with so many pertinent dates and reminders that only affect them? Who else said the words “til death do us part” only to have that become a reality far sooner than it should have been?
Yet as I have so many times since 2020, I can’t let myself dwell on thoughts like this. They don’t do me any favours. I had my moment last week. I didn’t ignore it or try to battle through it. I gave myself permission to feel how I was feeling. I joined a virtual Widowed and Young meeting to just vent with others who get it. It’s the first time for a while I’ve done that, be a member, be a widow and admit that this life is crap at times. I don’t have a bad life by any stretch of the imagination, but it is hard. And I knew that once I’d said out loud how I was feeling, I’d feel better. That’s exactly what happened.
So, for now, I’m going to focus on the positives. I’m going to look for the little glimmers. The memories of my hen do this weekend 20 years ago. The memories of my marriage. All we achieved during those 14 years.
The greatest achievement of all being our daughter. When I’ve had my moments questioning myself lately, she’s been the one to rationalise and talk sense into me. The one reminding me to focus on what we will achieve in two weeks to celebrate him and all that we had. All the donations made in his memory and the amount of money we’ve raised to help others in the last five years.
But above all else. She is the best reminder I have of the future. Because whatever my future entails, whatever I chose to do with it, however I choose to manage being on my own, the parenting and love we both gave her; and I’ve continued to do; has led her to the point of being able to plan her future and what comes next. She has so many exciting tomorrows ahead of her. And I hope I do too. As she herself sang in Les Misérables the other week:
“It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes.”
I cannot believe that somehow we’ve made it to five years of living without you. The memory of 19th April 2020 and the weeks leading up to it will never leave me. It still feels beyond surreal. I suspect it always will.
I want to start by saying I’m sorry I lost your wedding ring in 2023. To this day I don’t know how or where that happened. I certainly didn’t anticipate going viral on social media because of it though. But that’s what I’ve learnt these past five years. Expect the unexpected. Don’t try to plan too much. I live in hope that one day I might be reunited with the ring. You were always a blinking nightmare with it anyway, it’s a wonder you hadn’t lost it in the near 15 years you wore it! But I don’t feel losing it diminishes our marriage or the love we had. Your dad said “The ring is in your heart. The band is only a symbol” and he was right. I stopped wearing my engagement and wedding rings relatively soon after you died, there was no big ceremony about it. It was just my hands were so dry after all the washing and the anti-bac I was using. I wore your ashes ring on that finger for a long time, but gradually moved that too. It’s funny the things we do subconsciously.
Anyway. I don’t know the last time I wrote to you. I talk to you a lot of the time though. Heck. Sometimes I even shout at you. Usually at Christmas when I’m lugging the 4,000 boxes in and out of the loft. But throughout the year too. I’ll often pop to the Memorial Bench to get your opinion on things. Fortunate really that nobody can listen to those chats. And I’ve not yet been struck down by lightening so I’ll assume you’re ok with everything. But there’s some things that I’ve never said out loud. Or written. Today feels like the most apposite day to say them.
I know that we spoke to you via Skype on the day you died. I’ve always wondered if you could hear us on that day. I pray you could. I pray that you heard me telling you how much you were loved by so many people. How proud everyone was of you. That you heard me apologise that I couldn’t have kept you safe from the virus. Granted, as time has gone by I’ve accepted that I did all I could to get you the medical help and intervention that you needed. I wasn’t in control of you falling ill, to this day I have no idea where you contracted it from. How COVID-19 entered our world and stole you from us. I don’t think about it anymore, it ate away at me for so long but there really is nothing I could have done that would have changed it. I wish with everything I have that I could have done but this was out of my power.
When I made the announcements via message and on social media that you’d died, I said you’d lost your battle. But the truth is you didn’t lose a battle. You were fighting an enemy that didn’t play fair. Because that virus was indiscriminate with its victims. It just took whoever it wanted to. And I know that you battled so very, very hard Charlie. You fought it for four weeks from coming down with your temperature. You gave it everything you had. You tried to come home to us. But in the end, it was just too strong. One thing you weren’t though was weak. Not at all. I know you mustered all the strength you had to walk down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. I know you did this for our little girl. For her to not see you being carried out of our house. Thank you for doing this for her. I will be eternally grateful that her last image of seeing her father physically is of him having his head held high and showing strength. She needed that to help carry her through.
I’m so very proud of how she’s coped with losing you Charlie. I know you would be too. I’m not entirely sure where I would be without her. It’s dubious I’d still be standing. She’s been absolutely incredible. No 10-year-old child should have gone through what she has. She shouldn’t be growing up without her father. But she’s adjusted. Or should that be adjusting? I don’t know if she’ll ever really come to terms with it, how can she? You are going to miss so many special and important occasions, I know that she will be missing you and thinking of you on each and every one of them. As will I. As will so many other people.
It makes my heart swell at how loved you still are. How I still get messages from people that something they’ve done has made them think of you. Even people who may have only met you once or twice. Your impact and legacy on the world hasn’t been forgotten. I doubt it ever will be. I said I didn’t want you to be a number or statistic of the pandemic, it’s not been easy but somehow through my writing and all the fundraising we’ve done, you’re not. Five years on and people still talk about you. That’s pretty good going don’t you think?
By no means am I taking full credit for this. Family and friends continue to keep your memory alive. They, like me, go to your Memorial Bench for a chat. They leave you cans of beer (I do wonder if this is why a bin was mysteriously put up next to the bench last year!) They still share photos and memories of you. The community that came together at last year’s CharlieFest said it all. The people in that room were there because of you. I might have organised it, but they were there because of you. I doubt you’d have ever expected it. If anyone could have told you what was going to happen following your death, I’m pretty sure you’d have said “give over” and rolled your eyes. You always were so humble and unassuming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not turning you into a saint and saying you were perfect, I’ve not gone delusional in my grief, but you were a good man. A decent human being.
It’s why I struggled for so long with why you were chosen as a victim of that virus. Why so many good people lost their lives as a result of it. I know you’d have said that it was your time (yes, I do remember that heated discussion just a few weeks before you fell ill about losing people ahead of their time!) but it still didn’t make sense. But that’s the thing with death isn’t it? I think of some of the other losses I’ve experienced since you died, none of them have really made sense. Another COVID-19 death, a tragic accident, a symptomless condition. All young people. All people taken too soon. Yes, you may eye roll at that statement, but to my mind they were. I like to think that you’re up there having a beer or a glass of red with them. Probably despairing at me a tad with one of them. But I also hope that you’ve managed to have a cuddle with your nanny. Family and friends were always so important to you, I can’t imagine that has changed.
You’d have been so grateful and appreciative for the family and friends who have helped hold us up since your death. The kindness that has been shown to us. I suspect you’d have been as surprised as I was at the people who did show up for us, the people who didn’t know how to support us, the people who are no longer in our lives as predominantly and the new people who have come in. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep all the relationships the same as when you were alive. But this was something else that was outside of my control. I know people needed me to be but I was never the villain in this story, I was simply heartbroken and lost. A woman trying to find her way in her new life, one that she should never have been living. A woman simply trying to do the right thing by you and her daughter. I had no energy to give to other people. I had no fight left in me. It became easier to let people go than have to explain myself or fight for them to stay.
You see for so long Charlie, I was simply trying to survive. I had to focus on our daughter. Not even me so much. Her. She was and is my number one priority. We didn’t really live. We just went through the motions. We had to put all our efforts into survival. It sounds remarkably simple to put that in words. To say all we had to do was survive. But it wasn’t. It really bloody wasn’t. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I wish someone could have given me a manual. Who knows whether I’d have believed it or paid attention to it, however. You know me. Always know best right?
Yet I haven’t really known best. I haven’t really known how to climb and survive this insurmountable grief mountain. I’d never been an adult without you. I hadn’t anticipated needing to become one at the age of 39. I don’t know whether I’ve done everything right these past five years. Yet I know I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done though. Because every decision I’ve made, l’ve done so with the emotions and information I had available at the time. Overthinking has probably become my trademark, but sometimes I have just had to trust my gut. Without overthinking. I did it the day you died when I was given the heartbreaking decision of saying goodbye to you in person but only if I then isolated away from our daughter. That was a split second gut decision. I know you’d have agreed it was the right one to stay with her and not see you. So I have tried to remember that. I regularly ask myself “what would Charlie say?” and “what would Charlie do?” when I face tricky situations. I try to listen to you still, you’ve become that voice in my head now that I look to for guidance.
As I write this, I can see the look on your face and the sarcastic “hmmm, really?” Okay. I admit. I didn’t ask myself what you would do when I chose the kitchen and conservatory floors, I know you’d have hated them! I also didn’t ask myself what you’d have done when booking six Jason Donovan gigs on the same tour. “It’s the same setlist Em, it’s the same show, what is the point?” might have been the polite version of what you’d have said. But I’ve very much needed these dates these past few months, I underestimated just how hard the fifth anniversary was going to hit me. I hope you don’t begrudge me the things that make me smile and bring me joy, it’s all part of discovering me and who I am. I feel the same about the people who are in my life now, I hope you don’t begrudge me moving forwards and making new friends. That you appreciate what they’ve offered me, what they’ve taught me and introduced me to. The juxtaposition that people have come into my life only because you’re no longer in it messes with my head at times. I often wonder what you would think of them. I’m sure you’d approve. But most of all, I hope you don’t begrudge me living again. It’s taken me such a long time to be able to do so. I truly do feel that you’d want me to do this. You wouldn’t have wanted your death to be the thing that destroyed me or our daughter, of that I’m sure.
It’s why I’ve tried to be brave and push myself out of my comfort zone. Our trip to the West Coast of the USA last year is a prime example of that and also showed how much of a part of our lives you continue to be. You and I had always planned that trip for my 40th and so we finally did it. The guide on the boat when whale watching asked who had good karma because of the incredible pods of orcas we were seeing. I don’t believe it was karma. I believe it was you. To show how proud of us you were for making that trip. The trip to Crystal River and swimming with the manatees when we went to Florida in 2022 that you’d always wanted to do. I owe it to you to do these things. To do the things you’d always wanted to do (within reason though obviously!)
But just on the living again. I’m sorry that I haven’t been as frugal as you probably would have wanted me to be. That I’ve made crazy decisions. But Charlie, for such a long time, I was so scared. Scared to not do things. Scared to not seize opportunities. Scared of my life ending too. Scared to say no to things. Scared to say no to people in case something happened to them. But my fear is slowly abating now. I don’t know if it will ever completely go, but it’s definitely abating. For the first time in about five years, I feel as though I’m on an even keel again. That I’m actually in control. I can’t promise there won’t still be the odd crazy decision, but I think I’m likely to be more measured about things now. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.
I don’t really know what is going to come next. At times the scriptwriters seem to be having a bit of a laugh when it comes to my story. But I think you’d like the person I’m becoming. The version of Emma in her 40s is very different to the version of her in her 20s and 30s. She’s probably the person you always wanted her to be. It’s ironic that I’ve probably only become this person because of all I’ve gone through these past five years. Of what I’ve learnt about me. But I think you’d quite like that in a way, it shows the impact you’re still having. And I hope you’ll continue to watch over us. That you’ll continue to make your presence felt. For everyone who knew and loved you. I’m not the only one who has felt you still around, an energy and a soul as great as yours was always going to leave a mark on this world.
What I do know is that we’re entering a period of change. Her first lead role in a show. GCSEs. Leaving school. Where we’ll live. Possibly moving house. My career. It all feels pretty daunting to be making these decisions without you. To be second guessing myself that I’m doing “the right thing.” But we’re back to that trusting of the gut again aren’t we? I have to trust myself that I know what is best for Team Charlesworth. Both as individuals and as a team. And if I get it wrong? Well, then we’ll just learn. You once found a quote you liked that included the line “you will never lose, you will either win or learn.” That’s how I have to look at life now. We’ve already lost so much, something good and positive has got to come out of it for both her and I now. We need to start winning. So, I need to grasp life with both hands and learn from it. It’s simply all I can do. It’s all any of us can do really.
I don’t know when I’ll next write to you Charlie. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking of you. That you won’t still be a massive part of my life. Of our daughter’s life. Photos of you are still up at home. That won’t ever change. I promise you that. But I do need to continue being just Emma now. I need to not be Charlie and Emma. It’s time. You understand that. I know you do. I know how proud of me you are for all I’ve done to get me to this point. The hours I’ve spent in therapy. The tears I’ve shed. The trauma I’ve processed. The clawing myself back from rock bottom. Thank you for loving me and giving me the strength I needed to be able to do all of this without you. To work out a way of living as a young widow and solo parent. I wouldn’t be the woman I am now without all you taught me and the love you gave me for two decades.
Right now, it doesn’t feel like your birthday. You’re living in the middle of a global pandemic. Your husband was taken by ambulance after a panic 999 call in the early hours of this morning. Your 10-year-old daughter asked you if her daddy was going to be ok and you honestly couldn’t tell her yes. Because he has fallen prey to this pandemic which isn’t selective with its victims. You’re trying to juggle 1,001 things right now and don’t know which way is up. You’re going through a vast array of emotions.
But. It is still your birthday. You need to cling to that. Later today your daughter is going to save your birthday for you. She is going to make you open your cards and presents. She is going to put 39 candles in your cake. She is going to do a video call with members of your family to get them to sing Happy Birthday to you. And don’t forget. This morning you fried an egg for the first time in your life and cooked a bacon and egg sandwich because it’s your birthday. That sandwich represented hope, and you need to remember that. Because hope is everything. It is the one thing that is going to get you through what lies ahead.
The next three weeks are going to be some of the most challenging and difficult weeks of your life. The rollercoaster you’re now on is going to be a heck of a ride. But the theme of a rollercoaster is going to play a huge part in your life. Keep it in mind. You’re going to be reliant on phone calls for updates about your husband. You’re only going to be able to see him via Skype calls. You’re going to have some of the most heartbreaking conversations with your daughter. You’re going to face impossible decisions. I simply can’t pretend any of this is going to be easy. It’s not. But. You’re also going to smile during the next three weeks. Tomorrow Jason Donovan is going to be on Gary Barlow’s Crooner Sessions. He’ll start following you on Twitter. You’re going to be the recipient of so much kindness from so many people. You’ll feel overwhelmed by it all.
And then. On 19th April, your entire life as you know it will be over. You won’t start using the term on this day, but you’ll become a 39-year-old widow. Your husband will die without you by his side and with the amazing NHS staff holding his hand. You and your daughter will be watching a film when you get the call to say this has happened, but you’ll never be able to agree on which film it was. Shock, quite probably. You’ll very quickly go into survival mode. You’ll think about everyone else because it’s too painful to actually think about what this means for you. The pain is merely too great for you to process. You can’t. And you won’t be able to for a very long time.
You’ll physically and metaphorically need picking up. You’ll struggle to get up off the sofa. You’ll fall apart on the kitchen floor when you realise you’ve got food in the cupboard you won’t eat. You’ll shed more tears than you physically thought possibly. You’ll plan a funeral in a pandemic and be asked questions about it that you simply have no answer to. You’ll struggle with the concept of how to return to work, be a mother and juggle your life. You won’t really think about what you as Emma will need. As an individual and person in her own right. You’ve never been an adult on your own. Who even are you without him? Again, you’ll hide from this because you don’t have the answer.
Your mental health is going to suffer in a way you’d have never thought possible. You’re going to find yourself hitting rock bottom on more than one occasion. Sadly, this isn’t the only shock bereavement you’re going to face. I can’t bear to tell you the other person you’re going to lose, mainly because I’m still trying to make sense of it. There is genuinely no logic as to who lives and who dies. But when that day does come, take advantage of the people who are now able to hold you. Who can wrap you in their arms, make you feel safe and just let you cry. You’re going to understand just how important physical contact is in grief. It’s not something you’re going to be able to receive when your husband first dies. Or for a number of months. The world isn’t allowing it. But when you can get those hugs again, soak them up. They are going to help you. More than you realise.
The trauma you’re experiencing today and over the next few weeks isn’t going to be something you can keep buried forever. You’re going to spend a huge amount of time in therapy. And while I don’t want to scare you, this isn’t going to be in the first year or so. You’ll have some later this year, then in 2022 which will last for just over a year and then you’ll start having EMDR towards the end of 2024 going into 2025. The latter will scare you when you first make the call and are told you need it. You’ll feel you’re a failure. You’ll feel you’re letting people down. You won’t tell many people. You’ll have spent just over four years with everyone telling you how brave and strong you’re. That you’re an inspiration. To admit you still need help will feel alien. But, let me promise you this now. That bout of therapy is going to completely change things for you. It is going to help you process so very much. Not just to do with the trauma of losing your husband, but parts of your life you’ve just learnt to live with and accepted as being your life. You’ll start to feel like a different person. Your mindset will shift. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to, but my goodness Emma, it’s going to be beyond worth it.
This all sounds very doom and gloom doesn’t it? If you’re still reading at this point, I imagine there is a sense of trepidation. Wondering whether you’re ever going to really laugh, smile or be happy again. Hand on my heart, you will. You’ll feel guilty to begin with, because how you can possibly enjoy life given what’s happened? You’re going to have amazing opportunities that are only afforded to you because of what’s happened. That will make you feel guilty. New people are going to come into your life. People who are currently part of your life will no longer be so. Or if they are, it will be on a different footing. Please don’t worry about this. Life and your experiences will change you. But you have to survive this however you can. For you. For your daughter. Don’t be afraid to trust your gut instinct. Do you.
Because you’re pretty phenomenal. It’s going to take you just under five years to reach this conclusion, but without question you are. Those people that call you brave and strong? They’re right. You are. You won’t ever accept that you’re brave, after all, you haven’t chosen this life have you? But my word are you strong. You’ve had to be. You’ve shown so much strength. You’ll get out of bed every single day. You’ll continue to show up. Even on those days when you don’t want to.
But more than that. You’re going to achieve a heck of a lot in his memory and that will help others. For a long time, you’re going to tell people that you’re just doing what anyone would do in this situation. But not everyone would. Because not everyone is you. You’re going to install a Memorial Bench so that your husband can continue to be a part of your daughter’s birthday traditions. You’re going to sort out renovations on the house and finally get it finished. You’re going to come up with initiatives that will see you raise over £15,000 for various charities (and that’s only up to March 2025). You’re going to launch a blog called Life is a rollercoaster (told you not to forget about a rollercoaster, didn’t I?) It will go on to win an award in 2023. You’re going to write a book and start investigating the best way to get this published. You’re going to appear on various podcasts, TV programmes, in magazines and newspapers. You’re going to become an Ambassador for the charity Widowed and Young.
Yet the biggest achievement from your perspective won’t be any of this. It is going to be the moment you look at photos and see the twinkle and sparkle in your eyes again. It will take years to return. But it does return. Some might call them giddy eyes. More than ever, your eyes are going to be the window to your soul. And until you’re you again, they are going to show your pain. You will look at photos over the next couple of years and think you’re looking better. You are in a way. But it will only be as you approach your fifth birthday since your world fell apart, that you’ll be able to see just how much the grief and pain affected you physically. Not just mentally. Grief and pain will change you. But you’re going to learn to walk alongside them. In a way, they’re going to become your friends. Because they’re a constant reminder of the love you had. The love you still have.
And while I don’t want to give too many spoilers, mainly because you won’t believe some of them anyway, I do want to give you a little sneak peek into some of the other things that are going to come your way over the next five years. You’re going to have so much fun and laughter with a variety of people. You’re going to meet incredible people through the charity Widowed and Young. You’re going to watch your daughter receive coaching from Jac Yarrow (yes, that guy you saw play Joseph last year). You’re going to get a marriage proposal from Jason Donovan. You’re going to travel across the country to meet a random woman off Twitter because of that Aussie who is going to become one of the best people in your life. You’re going to be adopted by a Northern family. You’re going to get your middle out with a two-piece outfit, on more than one occasion. You’re going to go viral on social media. You’re going to get a dog. You’re going to take your daughter on holidays overseas. You’re going to fluke a free business class upgrade the first time you take her abroad. You’re going to brave driving abroad and find that you quite like it, even if you’re given a scary American muscle car. You’re going to grow your hair and go blonde. You’re going to change your role and teams at work.
I know being told this about your future sounds completely and utterly unthinkable right now. But please believe me when I say you did everything you could in this unimaginable situation you’ve found yourself in over the last week or so. There is nothing more you could have done or that would have changed the outcome. I know right now you can only really focus on today. And maybe even only the next hour. Anything beyond that and especially the future is unfathomable. That’s ok. Just focus on that for now. It’s the right thing to do. Stay in your pyjamas. Eat cake and brownies for breakfast. Just do what you need to do each day. For you. For your daughter. She ultimately is going to save you. She’s incredible. She’s the reason you’ll fight as hard as you do. Without her, it would have been very easy for you to give up. But she needs you. She loves you. And while you’re going to clash and have exceptionally tough times, the bond and relationship that you’re going to have is going to be unbreakable. Team Charlesworth is about to become pretty formidable.
As I sit here and think about the fact the world is still turning, that you’re lucky enough to be celebrating another birthday and you’re privileged to be growing older, I’ve realised something.
Pretty phenomenal? Scrap that.
Emma Charlesworth you are phenomenal.
Simple as that. I’m so exceptionally proud of you. I didn’t know you had it in you to be able to survive this on 30th March 2020. I didn’t have the self-belief. You’re going to watch a film in February 2025 that contains the line “it’s not enough to survive, you’ve got to live.” And that’s what you’re going to do over the next five years Emma. You’re going to live again. Not just survive, you’re going to live. You’re going to thrive. Against all the odds. Against the most unimaginable backdrop.
These words are the best present I can give you today. The reassurance, knowledge and encouragement that you need. That I wish someone could have given me on this day five years ago.
Emma Charlesworth, you will be ok. I promise. Focus on these four words. Please.
Cast your mind back to this date five years ago. Can you remember what you were doing? Probably not. It’s a pretty insignificant date really. 9 March 2020. It means so little to so many people. I can’t really remember what I was doing other than knowing I’d have been at work. I went back and looked at my work calendar as I started writing this. I started out in one office, travelled to another office to have a lunch with a member of Alumni network and a colleague and then worked from a different office for the rest of the afternoon. No doubt I then went home, did some bits with my daughter, had dinner with my husband and probably did some chores. Before I got up and did it all again the following day (with the exception of the lunch).
Except. I do remember one of the topics of conversation over that lunch. I remember talking about a conversation I’d had with my husband two days previously in our local supermarket regarding buying some chocolate. “I really fancy some chocolate,” he said, and I merely responded with “Go for it. Pop it in the trolley. If coronavirus doesn’t get us, the asteroid that my colleague told me about will.” This was the topic of that conversation at lunch and a number of conversations with family, friends and colleagues. Coronavirus. Pandemic. COVID-19.
Did any of us really anticipate quite how long we’d be talking about this for when we first started discussing it in early 2020? The impact and devastation that it would cause? The complete and utter changes to our lives as we knew them? I, for one, didn’t. Maybe I was naïve. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I was just clinging to hope. It definitely wasn’t down to the fact that I wasn’t taking it seriously, it’s just because it felt impossible that the UK was going to be hit hard. I didn’t understand and couldn’t really begin to process and fathom living through a pandemic in my lifetime.
The following week, on 16 March 2020, I was on a call with work on my way home, planning how we were going to organise our team to avoid us all being in the office at the same time, when the then Prime Minister of the UK, Boris Johnson made the announcement that, if people could, they should work from home with immediate effect. I sat on the train, almost dumbfounded. This was really happening. The pandemic was beginning to affect my day-to-day life. It was going to affect my family. I worried about the impact on my daughter and her mental health.
Over the course of that week, it was confirmed that her dance lessons and summer show were to be cancelled and that she would not be going to school as of Friday, 20 March, I couldn’t tell her how long this would last. I had no idea just how serious and horrible it was going to get. And I vividly remember her looking at me with the innocence of a 10-year-old and asking a question that I couldn’t really answer. “Why did this have to happen?”
Were similar conversations going on in my friends’ houses? In my family’s houses? Across the country? Across the world? We weren’t special, I was pretty sure of that. But by the end of that weekend, we did become special in a way. Because on 22 March 2020, my husband started sporting a temperature. He updated his Facebook status with an image of Mickey Flanagan and the words “So…….. I appear to be running a temperature. Have not been out in days but I guess I am now In In. Take care of yourselves and I’ll see you on the other side.”
Reading that back still sends chills down my spines. Whenever people use the phrase “I’ll see you on the other side” my stomach drops. I have to ask them not to. Because little did we know how significant his post would become.
We became special on that day because this was the day when we suspected COVID-19 had entered our house. I didn’t know of anyone else going through this experience. Family. Friends. Colleagues. No-one else was suspecting it was in their house. If we weren’t living with it, I might have struggled to believe that what I was seeing on the news was actually real. Just watching the news reports, seeing the headlines, hearing the numbers of people in hospital, the numbers of people dying and knowing we were living through a pandemic, did, and still does feel surreal.
My daughter asked me why this had to happen. I kept asking myself how this had happened. The UK is an island. How on earth had we allowed this airborne virus to enter our country? To begin spreading like wildfire. Why had more not be done to stop it? How? Why? Two words that would repeat themselves in my mind over and over again. They still do in a way. I’m not a vituperative person by any means, but five years on, I still cannot fathom how and why the UK was allowed to be affected as much as it was. I openly admit I don’t do politics in my writing, but I do have incredibly strong views on what I believe are the answers to these questions. The UK COVID-19 inquiry has shed an awful amount of light on the answers to these questions. None of which should really have come as a surprise to anyone. Even the COVID-19 conspiracy and hoax brigade would be hard pushed to deny the facts that have been presented.
The next week saw my husband steadily deteriorate. It saw me trying to juggle working full time while caring for him, looking after our daughter who was now at home full time and trying to process what the hell was happening in the world. 30 March 2020, my 39th birthday, saw me dial 999 after his deterioration had reached a level that I felt he needed medical intervention. That was the last day my daughter and I ever physically saw him. He walked down the stairs to the waiting ambulance and that was that. Two hours later I learnt he’d been taken to ITU, sedated and ventilated. For two long weeks, the only information I was able to glean from the hospital about his condition was via phone calls.
On 13 April 2020, less than 24 hours after I’d been told to prepare for him to never come home, I had my first Skype call with him. He was unconscious. I don’t know if he could hear me. Over the course of that week my daughter and I did a Skype call with him every single day. And then. On 19 April 2020 I got the call that I was almost expecting. Not prepared for. But expecting. He was going to die. All hope had gone. Just a few hours later we did our final call to say goodbye. A few hours after that, I got the call to say he had died. The pandemic that had seemed so surreal just six weeks previously had now robbed me of my husband and my daughter of her father. Our lives irrevocably changed.
It’s no coincidence that I’m telling this story today. Because today is the 2025 Day of Reflection. The fourth one of these and according to the Marie Curie website, it’s an opportunity to come together to remember those who have lost their lives since the pandemic began and to honour the tireless work and acts of kindness shown during this unprecedented time. In essence, it’s a day to reflect. To think about all those who were lost. But. And forgive me for sounding slightly cynical, just how many people in the UK are aware that this day exists? Of the significance of today’s date this year? How many people will be reflecting? Thinking about the impact of the pandemic?
I say this with the greatest respect, but it is something that I have been thinking about more and more recently. Have we already consigned the COVID-19 pandemic to the history books? Filed it in our memories and moved on? Have we learnt anything from the first pandemic in living memory?
Sadly, I can’t help but feel that the answer to that isn’t an emphatic yes. The political unrest the world is seeing. The cost-of-living crisis. The inability to make decisions quickly and responding to the world at large. The organisations requiring their employees to return to working in an office. Mandating it. Monitoring it. The era of working from home and hybrid working for those who can feels like it’s coming to an end. I see it on my commute. The trains are once again rammed. Sometimes I’m lucky to get a seat either on the way into the office or the way home and I’m an hour’s train journey from London. I see people on the train, the tube or in the office coughing and spluttering. No longer as mindful of the fact they’re spreading germs, or not feeling able to stay at home.
I see some people wearing masks, but these are exceptionally few and far between. I’ll be honest. I no longer wear a mask. But I did pay to have a COVID-19 vaccine last year. The headlines about the new strain were making me uncomfortable. Colleagues and friends knew of people who had been very ill with it. I can’t afford to be ill. And certainly not with this virus. The one and only time I did have it, I was fortunate not to be overly ill, but looking at my daughter and telling her that we needed to change our plans because I’d contracted the same virus that had killed her father wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve had to do. And believe me, there’s been a multitude of things that haven’t been easy to do since 2020. But this was one of the hardest ones.
I think back and remember the real sense of community and kindness in 2020. Remember Thursday nights standing outside your front day clapping for carers? Remember making more of a conscious effort to check in on friends and family because you couldn’t see them? Remember enjoying the slower pace of life because everything was shut? I don’t want to sound like I’m trivialising the pandemic, I am painfully aware of what life was like for those who watched someone die during that time. Of all those people who lived alone and felt beyond isolated. Of all those people who were living with mental health challenges that were exacerbated by the pandemic and the effects of which are still felt today. I don’t honestly know how many people can say they came away from the pandemic unscathed in one way or another.
I always wanted kindness to be my abiding memory of the pandemic. Because I really did experience so much of it. The tweet from Jason Donovan sending love and strength the day after I was told to prepare for my husband to never come home. The food packages that kept arriving. The cards. The surprise and thoughtful gifts. The care packages. The video calls. The people on my doorstep just talking to me. The WAY Widowed and Young members who let me vent when I needed to. The phone calls, the legacy of which still continue to this day at 9pm on a Wednesday night. Please don’t try to get hold of me at this time, I’m busy talking to one of my oldest friends after she decided that just because the pandemic wasn’t affecting our lives in the same way and we could meet up again, it didn’t mean we should stop speaking once a week.
I’m still very lucky to be experiencing kindness. My life as a solo parent is a constant juggle. I have to ask for help and call in favours constantly just be able to work. And then I have to add in living and having a social life. My mum and stepdad didn’t sign up to still be doing the school and dancing run in their mid-60s. My friends didn’t sign up to be looking after my daughter for me so I can go out for nights or weekends away (amusingly she is saved as “R lodger” in one of my friend’s phones. I don’t abandon her that much. I promise.) My friends didn’t sign up to feeding her once a week and taking her to her dance lessons for me. Yet they do it. And I am so exceptionally thankful for every single person who still extends kindness to us. In whatever capacity. I couldn’t do my life without it. I will never, ever take it for granted.
It is all of this that means I will never be able to consign the pandemic to the history books. Mine and my daughter’s life changed forever on 19 April 2020. The ripples are still affecting our daily lives five years on. The tension and the arguments because the grief and anxiety it caused are still a massive part of our lives. The therapy we’ve both needed to help us process the trauma of it all. We live with it, and we move forwards, yes, but we will never, ever move on.
When I’ve written blogs on this Day of Reflection in previous years, I’ve asked readers to reflect, to think about all those who were lost and for those whose lives were never the same again. But this year, I’m asking you to do something else too. Think about what you learnt during that time. Whether you’ve remembered any of it. Send a message to someone you haven’t heard from in a while. Pick up the phone to a friend and check in. Say no to something if it puts you under too much pressure. Let that be the legacy of the pandemic. Change.
As for me. 2020 will always be the year that my world fell apart. I can’t pretend otherwise. My husband died. I’ve since lost friendships. Relationships have changed. I’ve experienced further gut-wrenching bereavement. I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve had to claw my way back on more than one occasion. 2020 caused all of this. But I refuse to let it just be a negative memory. I’ve learnt too much about the world since then – kindness, friendship and most importantly about myself. It was the catalyst for so much. That doesn’t mean I’m glad it happened – far, far from it. But I’m not the sort of person to experience something like this and not learn from it.
2020 might have been five years ago. I might have become a widow nearly five years ago. I might have been a solo parent and been watching my beautiful daughter grow up without her father for nearly five years. But time has become the biggest juxtaposition of my life. Because to me it’s not five years ago. It’s forever and no time at all.
It’s been a while since I wrote a blog on the “half anniversary.” I think the last time I did this was in 2021 after a pretty tumultuous few months when I was reflecting on 18 months as a widow. But there’s something about this one that’s making me reflect as well. It’s the last one I have before the anniversary (or Dad’s Death Day as my daughter prefers) that already feels like it’s looming over me. Five years. The fact we are rapidly hurtling towards this one is something I am struggling to get my head around. And probably will be for the next six months. It just doesn’t feel real that in 2025 I’ll have been a widow for five years.
I first started thinking about it on Father’s Day this year. The realisation hit me a few days beforehand that my daughter was about to do her fifth Father’s Day without her father. There is something about the number five that just feels huge. I think in part it’s because my daughter was 10-years-old when he died. Five is exactly half of that. It scares me how quickly time is going and how much she is achieving without him. Fast forward a few weeks and we then had our fifth birthday without him. Which also happened be his 50th birthday. It hit me a lot harder than I anticipated it would, and I think this is what I’m still coming to terms with. How much of a part of my life grief is. How much of a part of my life it always will be.
I know that on the surface people don’t see this in the same way about me as they would have done in the early days. And that’s completely right, because I’m not as physically broken by it as I was in 2020. What staggers me is how much grief changed me not just mentally by physically too. I look back at pictures now and see how ill I looked. I’ve questioned my family on this, I’ve asked them why no-one told me that I looked ill or broken, and the response is always the same. “You didn’t need to know.” They are of course right; I didn’t need to know this because I would have just stressed about it and probably made myself more ill. But when I look back now, it makes me really emotional. Because I do know now. And I can see it.
Yet a couple of weeks ago when I was out, I had a comment that really took me aback. I was speaking with someone I’d never met before and the subject of what had happened came up. “Well, you look quite happy about it” was the response. I stood there, slightly unsure of what to say. What am I meant to do? Sit in a corner, wear black, have a veil over my face and weep until the end of my days? Or be like Miss Havisham and wear my wedding dress (granted, I probably wouldn’t fit in it) until the end of my days? I flustered a little bit and made a comment about how it was nearly five years, and I was learning to live with it, but I know I it was just waffle.
Because this is the thing, isn’t it? There is such a lack of understanding or knowledge about grief. I think this is the main thing I’ve learnt in the last four and a half years. To the majority of people I’m living my life, am happy and am moving on. But these people don’t see me behind closed doors. They don’t see me crying in a theatre, cinema or while watching TV because the music or storyline has triggered me. They don’t see the anger I feel at all the coverage the release of Boris Johnson’s new book has been getting. They don’t see me bristle at the term covid fatigue. They don’t see me exhausted at having to do absolutely everything. They don’t see me worrying that my late husband is going to be forgotten. The inane fear I have that people are over it and wish I’d stop banging on about it. They don’t see the constant juggle of being a solo parent, a full-time employee, perimenopausal, a friend, a family member and not to mention Emma. Me as an individual. Someone trying to forge a life for herself because she’s well aware that her daughter is just getting older, gaining more independence and building her own life.
I’m having to retrain my brain to adjust to this. I’m having to get used to time on my own. This should have been the time of life when my late husband and I had a bit more freedom, were able to take advantage of this and enjoy being a couple. I’ve spent a lot of time writing this year, and now I’ve finished that project, I’ve been at a bit of a loss as to what I’m meant to do with my time. Again. People don’t see me wandering round my house wondering how to fill time when my daughter is with friends or at dancing. They don’t see me coming up with oodles of jobs that probably don’t need doing because it still feels weird to me to be at home on my own without him. Even now. There are times when I still struggle with the fact he isn’t here, and I have to do it all. That’s the life of a widow though. The side swipes are still very much a part of my everyday life.
It’s this that I’ve found most interesting since he died. The expectation anyone in my situation puts on themselves. “It’s been X amount of years, I should feel different by now.” Not wanting to scare people who are newly widowed that the grief doesn’t ever go. When I talk with fellow members of Widowed and Young, this is a topic of conversation that crops up time and time again. People apologising because they’re further along and don’t want to cause worry to newer members that they’re still sad or struggling. Newer members feeling guilty because they’ve had a positive few weeks and feel they should be sadder. The guilt when you’re a few years in and have a bad day because you should be better by now. The crushing pain that can appear when you least expect it to. The complexity of emotions is vast. Navigating them has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Trying to understand my emotions and my needs is at times beyond me. I messaged my sister a few months back and told her I was having an existential crisis. “Why now?” was her blunt response.
Because this is the thing. There is a lot in my life that feels tougher to deal with now and causes me to have a crisis more than it once would have done. Because I have to deal with it on my own. I recently had a leak in my house that resulted in the floorboards needing to be lifted up. I asked our plumber if he could stay for a cup of tea and help me rationalise it because it felt overwhelming to me to have to work it out by myself. It was the fourth leak I’d had in a year and each one had elicited a different response from me. Because each one came when my mental state and resilience were different.
And while it might sound daft. These leaks feel like a perfect metaphor for grief. The first one sent me into a bit of a spiral as I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go away with the girls the following day and needed a friend to come to my rescue. The second one I just dealt with, very matter of fact and didn’t even cry. The third one was the straw that broke the camel’s back after a full-on couple of weeks and caused me to capitulate. And the most recent one saw me having to rationalise it all out by talking to someone. Every single one of those reactions have been how I’ve dealt with my grief since becoming a widow. How I’ve dealt with the fact I’m a solo parent and no longer part of a couple anymore. It’s relentless. It’s exhausting.
Yet I’d be lying if I said that the people who only see the superficial side of me are entirely wrong. I cannot sit here and say I have a bad life. To do that would be disingenuous. I am moving forward. I am able to enjoy aspects of my life again. I have been able to have some amazing adventures. I know when I write my end of year blog this year it’s going to be one that I’m incredibly proud of. I’ve conquered a lot this year both emotionally and physically. I’ve achieved objectives that I set for myself at the start of 2024. So far, neither my daughter or I have needed therapy this year. The first year since 2019 when neither of us have been in therapy. Life feels settled. But this is equally hard. Because I don’t trust it. I find it very hard to relax into it. There is always this nagging little voice at the back of my mind telling me not to get to used to it. That something bad will come my way very soon.
I know as I head towards Christmas, my daughter’s birthday and the upcoming anniversary, life might not feel as settled. There’s going to be a lot of reminders. It’s not going to be easy. But I’m going to try to focus on a quote I heard at the Widowed and Young AGM last month to get me through. Because it feels like the perfect summation of my life as a widow.
It’s been a few months since I last wrote a blog. Life has been busy lately, we’ve had a fab summer and while I have been busy writing, it’s been for something completely different to my blog. And I always said I’d only write when I had something to say, I never had the intention of blogging just for the sake of it.
But a lot has been whirring in my mind since last weekend. You see, last weekend was the 2024 Widowed and Young AGM. This was the third AGM I have attended and once again, I trekked across the country to be there, this time to Crewe. It’s always a bit daunting getting in the car and driving quite a way by yourself, Mr C was always the one out of the two of us who did most of the driving, but there is always something reassuring about knowing you’re driving to spend the weekend with people who “get it.”
Yet, this was the first AGM where I headed off feeling slightly nervous about it. You see, I knew that Emma, my comfort blanket at these events wasn’t going to be able to make it until late on the Friday evening. So, I was going to have to go to the Volunteer’s Meeting and dinner without her. It might sound odd, I’ve been volunteering and an Ambassador for WAY for three and a half years now, have met numerous other volunteers and members of WAY at various events, but that thought of walking into a room by myself still feels me with a little bit of dread. I’m still not really used to being on my own.
Traffic delays meant I was slightly late to the Volunteer’s Meeting. Fortunately, Emma was on hand for me to ring to ask her to let them know! But being late also meant that I didn’t have a chance to get nervous and scared about walking in on my own, the meeting had already started when I arrived and so I just had to thrown myself into it and the initial icebreaker challenge. Within moments, I was wondering why I’d been feeling nervous. There were familiar faces for me to talk to and also new faces who I quickly got to know. It’s one of the weirdest situations really, we’re only in that room together because of one commonality, we have all experienced the loss of a partner before our 51st birthday yet somehow that almost feels secondary once you start talking to others. My team won one of the other challenges and we were presented with a bag of Heroes, an apt prize if I ever saw one! I then joined other members for a history tour of Crewe Hall Hotel and Spa, the hotel we were staying in, a really beautiful and fascinating place and then I trundled back to my room to get ready for dinner.
Once again, the nerves kicked in. Dinner was at 8pm and while there were messages on the Facebook page about meeting for a drink earlier, I started feeling apprehensive again. What if I went down and wouldn’t have anyone to talk to? What if people I didn’t know started to talk to me about my widowhood experience, did I really want to talk about it? What if, what if, what if…? The question that we really shouldn’t ask ourselves, but we always do. Worst case scenario planning, and I am very, very good at it! I snuck into dinner just before 8pm, not revealing to anyone the feelings I was having and instantly started talking to people. Again, some I’d met before but others I hadn’t. Conversation was easy and free flowing. If I’m honest, I knew it would be and I was berating myself in my head for the fears I’d been having leading up to it.
Emma had messaged to tell me the time she would be arriving and despite feeling tired, I knew I needed to wait up to see her. I suspected both of us would need the reassuring hug from each other, her because of the long drive and to help quell a number of anxieties she was feeling, me because I was also experiencing anxieties and just wanted a hug from someone who knows me well. I think we both clung on a little bit too tight when she did arrive. But that’s the power of connection through tragedy, sometimes you don’t even need to say how you’re feeling for someone else to just instinctively know.
The following morning was the AGM itself. A chance for us to learn more about the work of the charity over the previous year and plans going forward. But it always kicks off with an icebreaker challenge, there was a lot at stake with this one, I’d been on the winning table in 2023 and felt I had a title to protect! This year we needed to build the tallest swan, the swan being synonymous with WAY. There were other people on our table who had been on the same table and therefore victorious last year, but there were also some people who were new faces. Straight away we all got to work and after some potentially contentious entries, I’m delighted to report that my table was once again victorious. The winning sashes were instantly put on. The prosecco opened a short while later (it was early after all). The smiles and the laughter evident for all to see.
That continued throughout the day. Yes. There were some challenging moments. Hearing from a speaker who is also a member of WAY and hearing her story can’t help but make you reflect on your own experience and how you’ve come to be in a room full of people who have faced similar heartbreak. But as we all went off to the breakout sessions, me experiencing my first Soundbath and then candle making, I couldn’t help but think about just how important weekends and occasions like this have become to me.
Those thoughts continued as we headed to the spa for a swim and time in the sauna and steam room. Emma and I chatting and putting the world to rights. Catching up with others and making plans for the evening dinner dance. It was just so ridiculously easy and comfortable. As we headed to dinner, posh frock on (any excuse to wear a posh frock!) I knew I’d be in for a fab evening. I was proven right. I was once again victorious in a game of Heads and Tails and another box of Heroes came my way. I introduced someone I had met the day before and someone I had met last year to Tequila Rose, I’m nothing if not generous. We tried to see how many of us we could squeeze into a Photo Booth to take a photo of the victorious winning icebreaker challenge table (the answer is eight people). Some of us crying with laughter at the most ridiculous and surreal conversations we were having. Some of us crying because the emotion had got a bit much being relatively new to WAY and widowhood. I instinctively went over and gave a hug to someone because I could just see that they needed it and if I’ve learnt anything, it’s just how powerful a hug can be at the right time. Some of us catching up and chatting, I spent a lot of time talking to someone I had met last year, we’ve continued to message over the past year but despite the fact we’ve now only seen each other twice in a year, it felt so normal and like old friends talking. At one point I and another volunteer were asked how long we’d known each other, I looked at my watch, did the maths and responded “about 29 hours” to be promptly told that it was as though we’d known each other a lot longer than that. I think a lot of that came down to the very warped sense of humour we both have!
And I noticed that while I was having these conversations, I wasn’t as solely reliant on Emma as I had been in previous years. Yes, I was so relieved to have my comfort blanket back and to know she was there, but we both were having conversations with others and finding our way. Together but also on our own. As I’ve had to do with the rest of my life since becoming eligible to join WAY almost four and a half years ago. Emma runs courses and is passionate about talking about growing around your grief, and I truly believe that this is what so many of us in the room have done or are in the process of doing. It’s different timing for everyone, no grief journey is the same, but we are all doing it. Anyone walking past that room and seeing the smiles, laughter and dancing wouldn’t have had a clue behind the heartbreaking reason that has brought us all together. They’d have just seen a group of people having a good evening. And after all the heartbreak and tears we’ve experienced, that can only be a good thing.
As we checked out of the hotel the next morning, I knew there was one more than I needed to do before I headed home. I needed to brave doing something else on my own. Finding my way to revisit a special place. Just me. Not with Emma or my WAY friends. Not my family. Just me. I was a short drive away from the castle that my nan spent five years living in while she was evacuated. The last time I visited it my family were all together. My grandad and my late husband were still alive. Alzheimer’s hadn’t taken hold of my nan. As I walked around taking photos and videos to show her when I next see her, I couldn’t help but think about how much my life has changed since that last visit. I sat on my own, had a coffee, did some writing and just spent time as me, as Emma.
It hit me that the same day four and half years ago was the day that Mr C experienced his first symptom of COVID-19. The tears fell and I found myself crying for a lot of the journey home. For what I’ve lost. The pain I’ve gone through. The hurt that has come into my life. But I also cried for the good in my life. The people who are only in it because of what I’ve gone through. Everything my daughter and I have been able to achieve in the face of such adversity. The hope we have for the future. The plans we have. It’s the most bittersweet of situations. I’d give everything I have for my late husband to still be here, but I know that’s impossible. And so, I just have to focus on what I do have.
Those of us who formed a close bond last weekend are now part of a WhatsApp group. It’s been quite active this week. Plans being made. Support being given. Conversations that one might say are classic examples of levity. I’ve had to find a new life and a new way since the pandemic turned my world upside down in 2020, but I just know that there is still a future for me, good times ahead and new friends to be made. I owe a lot of that to WAY. It’s one of the reasons my latest fundraising is raising money for the charity. It’s my way of both showcasing Mr C’s photography while also giving back to the charity that has done so much for me.
Because what WAY has shown me most of all is that it is possible to find your way in this new life I’ve found myself in and that you can go on. It’s why I intend to live my life to the full as the best way of honouring my late husband. As the quote on the candle I made last weekend from Elvis Presley says “What’s the good of reaching 90, if you waste 89?”
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.
Life is a rollercoaster 