Tag: COVID-19

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

I’m struggling to get my head around today. Three years. Three years since the hope we’d all been clinging to was lost. Someone said to me during the three weeks Mr C was in ITU, “where there’s life, there’s hope.” But three years ago, our hope, and with it, his life were lost. I don’t really know why three years feels so much longer than two years, but it does, it really does. My daughter and I have found the thought of this one more of a challenge. It just feels like a really, really long time.

But it’s not really, is it? In the grand scheme of things, it’s still just a short amount of time. I remember being at the Widowed and Young AGM in September last year, and a fellow widow commented that I was still early in my journey. In my head, I couldn’t quite work out how two and a half years was early, after all, it felt like forever to me, but the reality is that it’s not that long at all. Not when I think about his, and my story.

A year ago, my blog “Learning to live with the unimaginable…” was inspired by Hamilton. I think, to a certain extent, this one is inspired by that musical too. I recently took our daughter to see it again (I rue the day we ever got her into musical theatre!) and this time my sobs were also at “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” This question feels a particularly pertinent and relevant one for me. I remember some of the very few calls I made on this day three years ago. “Please help me make sure he isn’t forgotten.” “Please help me make sure she doesn’t forget him.” “Please help me keep his memory alive.” I uttered all three of these phrases whilst telling people he had died. Welcome to the world of widowhood. Even just a few hours into this new life, the fear was there. I hadn’t realised then just how acquainted fear and I were going to become as my story continued.

Fear has definitely become one of my main drivers over the last three years. Fear of pain. Fear of losing others. Fear of him being forgotten. I think this latter point is what drives me most of all. Why I’ve chosen to tell his, and my story. I think that’s why these lyrics always make me take a sharp intake of breath and make those sobs just a little bit stronger:

“You could have done so much more if you only had time And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell your story?”

I know how much more he wanted to achieve in his life. I know how much more he was capable of. It’s why I simply cannot bear the concept of people not remembering or talking about him and his story. It really is that simple. His photos are still up around our house, I still talk about him regularly, I’m planning another charity event in his name in 2024 and I’ve got a few other plans up my sleeve as well. To be clear. I don’t do any of these things because I’m stuck in the past or struggling to “get over it.” I do this because it helps keep his memory alive, and helps me and others. He’d very much like the thought he’s still having an impact, despite no longer physically being here. I know if he’d have been given more time, or been able to prepare me for his death, that this is something he would have told me to do. “Do good. Help others.”

He’d have also told me to be happy, to find someone else and not to live my life in his shadow. I wonder if those close to me are starting to think more about this now too. And query why I haven’t. More and more this year, I’ve been asked if I’ve thought about starting a new relationship. It’s been a funny old year when it comes to that, I won’t lie. I do get a pang when I read or hear about other widows or widowers who have found love again. Or when my single friends start a new relationship. But that’s all it is, a fleeting pang because my overriding emotion is happiness. I feel pleased for them. Life is too short not to be happy. And what I’ve come to realise over the last few months, is that while part of the pang is jealousy because I wonder why no-one wants me, the stronger pain and feeling isn’t jealousy that I’m not in a relationship or dating. It’s actually my new best friend, fear. Fear at other people’s lives moving on, fear as to whether they’ll still be friends with me as their lives change but most of all, fear of being abandoned. Told you. Fear. It’s become an integral part of my life.

A few weeks after he died, I remember saying I’d never be in another relationship in the future because I couldn’t contemplate going through the pain of losing someone again. I was too fearful of it. Today, I still can’t help but feel I’ll be on my own forever. One of my closest friends cried when I told her this recently. Granted, I’m not a psychic and no-one can predict the future, but it’s just a feeling I have. But oddly enough it’s not because of the fear of the pain now. It’s because I’m now too fearful of change. Of upsetting the apple cart. I’m actually starting to feel at peace in my life again. Something that when I got that call from the hospital three years ago, I wasn’t sure I ever would.

I’m getting more comfortable not being part of a couple for the first time in my adult life. I’m getting more comfortable as a widow. And while it’s still a massive part of who I am, it’s not all I am. I’m getting used to the biggest plot twist in my story. I don’t necessarily view being on my own as a bad thing. It doesn’t keep me up at night worrying about it. I don’t cry myself to sleep because I’m on my own. My tears are for the man I lost. For his life being cut short. For what everyone has lost since he died. For everyone who is missing a man who played an important part in so many stories.

When I think about my own story, I think about my entire life. The many chapters which make it up. The phrase Chapter 2 is often used to describe the next relationship after a bereavement, but in my opinion, my new chapter began the day he died. I had chapters in my life before I met him and each one of them has shaped me into being who I am today. It’s why I found a certain irony when looking through photos and reminding myself of one he edited to say “Co-author of my story.” My story, like his, is not simply because we were part of a relationship, we were co-authors to each others stories but not the main writer. I’m not a strong-willed feminist in any way, but I simply don’t believe any of us should be defined by another person or relationship. Self-validation is way more important. I’ve spent the last three years learning who I am as a person in her own right, and I quite like her. Another one of the greatest learnings of widowhood. The need to get to know and understand yourself.

And I already know that getting more acquainted with myself and self-preservation is part of what this next year has in store for me. My next learning. Having to learn and get used to being on my own more. I’m watching my daughter grow into a beautiful teenager, with her own life, becoming more and more independent and with fabulous friends around her. Her dad would be so, so proud of her. But with this comes change for me. Last week, she had an impromptu sleepover with a friend. I was on my way home from the office when she messaged to ask if she could stay with her friend overnight, of course my answer was yes. But that little fear monkey was on my shoulder again. Because I wasn’t entirely sure what I was meant to do on my own for the evening. I panicked a little bit. An unplanned evening to myself. What the heck was I meant to do? The control freak couldn’t cope. The fear was there. The realisation that this is yet something else I have to adjust to.

But I did cope. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it might be. I had a meal for one, a glass of gin, sat on the sofa, did some writing, listened to music and just thought about my life for a bit.

I wouldn’t have chosen this to be my life and my story in a million years. If I had the power to go back and change it, I would without question, but I don’t have a bad life. All things considered.

I have my daughter, my dog, amazing family and friends, my health, my job, volunteering for WAY, my blog, holiday plans and other ambitions.

All of these are things I’d have been beyond grateful for three years ago. I didn’t know what would come next in my story. I didn’t know how I was meant to do this life without my husband by my side. I’m still not really sure how I’m doing it. But I am. And three years ago today, that simply didn’t seem possible. I was stood at the entrance to a very dark and long tunnel. Finding light at the end of it seemed impossible. But little by little that light is becoming easier to find. All these things are helping me find it. And one day when someone tells my story, they’ll make up an integral part of it. As will my late husband. Forever a part of my story.

Happy birthday to me…?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Day of Reflection

Three years ago today, 23 March 2020, the UK was put into its first lockdown.

It is a day that will be forever imprinted on my mind. Just 24 hours prior to that, Mr C had noticed a raised temperature and our journey with covid had begun.

I was honoured to be asked to author a blog for Widowed and Young to tell my story and what it’s been like for so many people over the last three years and you can read this blog at this link.

I was then humbled when the Metro online also featured this article, it is slightly different but focusing on the same timeframe. You can read this article at this link.

Today is a day for reflecting. For thinking about those we’ve lost and my thoughts are with everyone that has experience of what it was like to be bereaved during the pandemic and to be widowed young.

Happy birthday Miss C

Family picture of The Charlesworths

To the most amazing person I know,

This week has felt hard for me. I’ve been teary most days. The realisation that you are entering a new phase of your life as you become a teenager and your dad is not here to see it has struck me this week. Of the three birthdays you’ve now had since he died, this is the one I’ve found the most challenging. But that’s grief and loss for you. Just odd.

But I don’t want that to detract from today. Because today is the day I get to celebrate the day you came into the world. The day you made me a mother. It is a day I hope I never forget. Meeting you for the first time, holding you for the first time and realising my life would never quite be the same again. We loved you before we even met you. Of course we did. Our very first scan when you started hitting with your fists because, quite frankly, you’d had enough of being prodded about! We should have known then what a feisty little character you’d turn out to be. The reality is though we loved you from the moment we first found out I was pregnant, you were a very longed for and wanted baby. Your dad had always, always wanted to be a father and finally he was going to get the chance to do just that.

As I sat wrapping your presents last night, I thought back to the night before you were born. It’s the weirdest thing in the world for me not having anyone to reminisce about that with now. There’s so much about that evening I remember, what we were watching, the timings of it all, the weather etc… I know it’s down to me to document that for your future. I feel untold pressure that I am the only one that can give you your history and answer your questions now, I want you to know everything. If the last few years have taught me anything it’s that we all need to know about our past, because when others have gone it’s all we have left. And none of us can promise to be here to share it at another point in time.

I vividly remember us bringing you home from the hospital and me looking at your dad and saying “what are we meant to do now?” Because nobody gave me a manual when I became a mother. Nobody told me what I was meant to do. Sure, I knew the basics. Feed you, clothe you, change you but there was so much more that I had no real concept of. It was a learning curve for both me and your dad. No matter how prepared we might have felt going into that pregnancy. I suspect it’s how most new parents feel, the phrase winging it which has become such a big part of our lives probably started right back then. That was the start of one of the most wonderful rollercoaster rides of my life, the rollercoaster of being your mother.

And my. What a rollercoaster it has been. That it will continue to be. Because that’s something I wasn’t really prepared for. The pride and love as you grow up and achieve new things, while at the same time wanting you to stay as you are forever. I loved having a newborn, I really did. Someone to just sit and cuddle, who didn’t argue with you… I still remember starting to doubt myself when you really started to develop your own personality around the age of two. I have never felt so unsure of anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I was “good enough” to be your mum. A phrase that has repeatedly been part of my life. I won’t lie because I did struggle at this time. I didn’t know how to be good enough for you. It’s something that I’ve always strived for, not to be the perfect mother because I don’t believe this is possible, but to be the good enough mother. If only I’d have known then, what I know now…

As when you were born, nobody gave me a manual when your dad died. Nobody could have ever told me how to parent a bereaved child. There is a part of me that would give absolutely anything to have changed what you’ve gone through. For you to never have experienced a fraction of what you have. I suspect I’ll feel this way forever. But the reality is that I can’t do this. Life doesn’t work like that. I mean, you reminded me of that one day when you were about four and I said you weren’t being very fair on me “mum, you always tell me life isn’t fair, so…” In that moment, I didn’t know whether to feel proud, laugh or tell you off for being cheeky! Like I say the scan should have taught me how feisty you would go on to become.

And that’s the simple truth isn’t it? Life isn’t fair. You know that more than most. But what you also know more than most is that surviving anything life throws at you is absolutely possible. Because you’re doing it. Right now, whether you think you are or not, you’re doing it. And I am so unbelievably proud of you. If you remember nothing else as you go through your life, I want you to remember that. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Your dad was so unbelievably proud of you. Remember that you are loved. I love you more than anything (even Jason. And that young lady is saying something!) Your dad loved you more than anything. If he’d have known what was going to happen to him and that you would grow up without him, it would have absolutely broken his heart. I’m so thankful he didn’t, I’d have hated to watch that and it would have changed the time the two of you had together. He fought so hard to beat COVID-19, he fought so hard to come home to you and I’m sure his final act of love for you was walking down the stairs to that waiting ambulance. I’m sure he didn’t want you to see him carried out of the house. He loved you, and even at that moment, you would have been his priority. There is no doubt in my mind about that.

I like to think of him now as your guardian angel. Your protector. I can fully imagine him rolling his eyes a little bit at you though. The sudden fascination with Marvel and in particular Spiderman… The dresses which don’t reach your ankles anymore… The heels… The make up… But I’m also sure that he’s also smiling at all of this. Because from afar he’s watching his baby grow up into an amazing, beautiful, thoughtful young lady. I know you think this is all nonsense, but I do like to think of him still watching over you.

He was always way more prepared for you growing up than I was. He always knew each of the phases of your life wouldn’t last for long. He’d probably be coping with this way better than I am. The video he did for you on your 10th birthday proved that. He always found a way of showing his love via creativity and music. Makes perfect sense really where you get it from. You’re so very much like him. It’s one of the many, many things I love about you.

Yet while I wish I could freeze time at times and keep you as you are, equally I am so excited at watching you grow up. At being privileged to physically see the person you are becoming. The person who binge watches programmes your dad and I used to watch together. The person who is my travel buddy. The person that takes control on the subway when I get slightly confused. The person who puts so much thought into gifts for me. The person with an entrepreneurial spirit. The person so determined to achieve her dreams. The person who 100% has not let her experiences in life define her but is instead using them to shape her. To teach her. The person who is becoming independent of me and needing me in a different way. It’s hard adjusting to that, I must admit, but it reassures me that we’ve done a good enough job in raising you. That you don’t need me in the same way you once did. And if I turn into the crazy cat lady you’re hoping for, I will do it with a smile on my face knowing that I can only do it because of who you are. The person your dad and I taught you to be.

So, here’s to you Miss Charlesworth. Here’s to the next little part of the rollercoaster of mother and daughter. Here’s to me getting more grey hairs now the teenage years are here! I genuinely can’t wait to see where life takes you now. I promise that for as long as I can, I will never let go of you, but I will let you go your own way, help you learn from your mistakes, never, ever judge you and be the biggest supporter you’ll ever have.

Happy birthday baby girl. I love you to the moon and back again. For always.

Mum xx

Be Thankful

Images of different sayings for Be Thankful and the original message from my niece

It was on this day three years ago, that a text message from a six-year-old changed my life. That might sound fairly dramatic, but that message really did have a massive impact on me and how I look at life. There isn’t a chance that she’d even remember it, but I do.

For those of you that follow my personal accounts on social media, you’ll know that every day I post something which includes this: #BeThankful. I try to find one thing a day that I’m thankful for, no matter what my day might have been like. It’s something that I started doing in 2019 and has now become a part of my everyday life.

In my previous blog on my mental health, I wrote about how 2018 was the lowest I’d ever been mentally. I was at rock bottom. It took me a lot of time and effort to claw my way back to feeling like I could survive and cope with life again. But the start of 2019 suddenly saw stress building again. Within the space of 24 hours my sister and I went from the euphoria of seeing Boyzone and me catching Ronan Keating’s hat to being in disarray at care for my nan. As my rollercoaster life started to dip and the stress started, I could feel myself slipping back into old ways. What I was most comfortable doing. It was so easy to focus on all the negative in my life.

But I knew that I couldn’t go back to how I’d felt in 2018. I knew that I had to do something that would stop me just focusing on the negative and try to change my mindset. I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do but then in amongst the stress, I mentioned to Mr C about something good that had happened that day. It was like an epiphany. In that moment, I decided that no matter how hard my day had been I would find one thing a day to “Be Thankful” for and share it on Twitter. I tagged in some of my work colleagues to let them know what I was doing with an image that said “Be thankful for what you have. Be fearless for what you want.” I sort of figured that if I’d publicly said I was going to do it, that I’d be accountable for doing it. It was almost like a pressure that I put on myself to do this. But a good pressure. Yet when I made that first post, I had no idea whether I’d even be able to stick to it. I had no idea whether it would actually make the blindest bit of difference.

But over the next few months, it did make a difference. I started to realise that even on those days when there were a number of stresses that I could find something. Some days it was small such as cooking a meal for Mr C and not giving him food poisoning (oh how that one has come back to haunt me now!) the washing basket being empty, a nice walk or a good day at work with brilliant colleagues. Other days it might be something fairly big such as seeing a show and being thankful for it. It was starting to change my mindset. It was starting to change the way I looked at the world.

And then I reached 18 June 2019. I vividly remember this day. It was a particularly tough day at work. I’d been going through a particularly tough few weeks and it all culminated on this day. I left the office in tears. I wasn’t in a great place. I got home and said to Mr C that I wasn’t going to do my Be Thankful’s anymore. That there was just no point. That they were a complete waste of time. I was fed up of trying to find the positive even on days when there really, really wasn’t anything. I suspect I also yelled or cried at my sister over the phone. Because a little while later I got a text message from my six-year-old niece. I’ve added it to the image at the top of this blog. When I received it, I cried. Because on that ridiculously tough day, she reminded me that I was loved. She made me smile with her innocence. And she taught me an incredibly valuable lesson that day. That even when you might not realise it initially or feel it, there really is always, always something to be thankful for. She became the inspiration I needed. She spurred me on.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the start of the next phase of the 2019 rollercoaster ride. I’d suspected that I was at a crossroads in my career at that point and that day in particular, cemented it for me. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to go or what to do next. I thought back to some advice that has always stuck with me shared by a previous line manager “it’s your life, it’s your career, the only person who can change it is you.” After a lot of soul searching and external coaching, I made the move to a new role. I joined a fabulous team. I felt I’d finally found where I was meant to be. It put me back on the upward trajectory of my rollercoaster. This was the start of September 2019, just six months before my rollercoaster would completely dip again in a somewhat spectacular fashion that none of us would have seen coming.

It actually scares me now to reflect on this. Because a few weeks after I started my new role, Mr C and I were having a conversation in the car. I remember it like it was yesterday. I have no doubt that I always will. My tweet for the day was this ““Life feels settled” I said to Mr C today. “It’s like I’m in the calm before the storm.” Who knows if or when that storm will come but on day 230 I’m going to #BeThankful for the calm and all that brings.” I shared it with an image that said, “Be thankful for all you have, because you never know what might happen next!” Wow. It’s sort of hard to remember and contemplate a time in my life when I didn’t feel like I was living in a storm. Two weeks after I posted that tweet, we learnt there was a chance he could be made redundant. Three months later, he was. Six months later his first symptom of COVID-19 showed. Seven months later he was dead. Seems I was fairly prophetic with my calm before the storm statement. I blinking wish I hadn’t been.

But even after we had the news that he might be made redundant, I continued doing my daily Be Thankful’s. I ended up doing them for an entire year. They sort of became ingrained in me. Other people started to tell me they looked forward to seeing them and reminding themselves to look for something in their day. I remember someone telling me that she had tried to do a daily “Be Happy” but all it had really served to do was show her that she wasn’t happy. It’s interesting isn’t it? Because when we try to force ourselves to feel something, it becomes incredibly difficult to do. When we allow ourselves to feel something no matter what else might have happened and to help us breathe a little bit, it becomes far more natural. I don’t in any way claim to be a psychologist, but these conversations do make me stop and think about people, how we respond to situations and what helps our mindset.

And of course, I do remember overthinking it and asking people what I should do when my year was up. I hadn’t really had an idea of how long I’d do them for when I started, but a year felt like a good time to finish. And of course. The marketer in me did a nice little word cloud when that year was up. I queried if I should do a daily “Be Brave” (my sister started giving me ideas such as jumping out of a plane). But again. Had I gone down that route, it probably would have been prophetic. Who knew what I was about to face in my life. But I didn’t. Shortly before Mr C fell ill and I was getting fed up with all the doom and gloom on my timeline, I started doing the Be Thankful’s again. I invited other people to join me. One of the Twitter family started doing it, I believe she’s on day 823 now. I love seeing her daily tweets and knowing that someone else does this as well.

After I started them again in March 2020, I carried on doing them for a little while after he fell ill and then I stopped. It was just something else I didn’t need to be doing or thinking about. I had enough on my plate. And to be honest, I was completely struggling coming up with things in those ridiculously early days. It was bleak. It was hard work. No two ways about it. But it recently popped up on my Facebook memories that I did start doing them again in June 2020. I’d had the weirdest day where grief was getting me in every which way. Of course it was. My husband hadn’t been dead for two months, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I was up. I was down. I was up. I was down again. And then I managed to build a computer chair. I felt I was going to carry them on this time.

Except I know I didn’t. At some point I stopped doing them. I can’t tell you when and I can’t really tell you why, because I don’t actually know. Until 1 December 2021. I remember it because it was a day that felt like someone had flicked a switch. I spent a lot of the day in tears. Mr C absolutely loved Christmas and just seeing December on the calendar and knowing we were about to do our second Christmas without him tipped me over the edge. It felt that it was going to be harder than the one the previous year. I could feel the potential for me to spiral. So, I decided that I was going to return to an old faithful just for a month and see where it took me… I’m now on day 201 of this round of Be Thankful.

I’m so incredibly glad I started doing it again. Yes, there are days when it feels like a stretch to find something. But I always do. People always tell me that I’m so positive. I disagree. I don’t think I’m positive. I don’t pretend the tough times don’t happen. I don’t try to turn them into a positive. But what I am is a realist. And I try to find just the tiniest shred of hope and something to appreciate even on those tough days. About a month ago, that same niece of mine said “I’m proud of you” when I was talking about being nominated for an award for my blog. Again. Something so small at the end of a really long day, but the impact it had was immeasurable. Finding one thing that is good in a day is just something I have to do to help my mindset and help me survive the madness.

Because as the prints around my house remind me. There is always, always something to be thankful for. I don’t know why I ever forgot that really. The kindest and sweetest six-year-old taught me that three years ago. And I will forever be thankful to her that she did.

Learning to live with the unimaginable…

Last Tuesday, I took my daughter to see Hamilton in the West End. It was her birthday present from me, it was going to be the first theatre trip we’d done just the two of us since Mr C died. But for a variety of reasons, it ended up being the third one! And as I sat there watching it, I was struck with the overwhelming realisation of how much life has changed since 2020. The same date two years ago, I was told to prepare for my husband to never come home. I spent a week praying and hoping that the hospital was wrong. My life at that point seemed unimaginable if he was to die. The day he died my entire life and my future seemed unimaginable. But as the cast sang “It’s Quiet Uptown” and I watched them sing the lyrics “learn to live with the unimaginable,” my tears started. My daughter’s tears started. It felt too close to the mark. Because that is absolutely what we’re doing. Learning to live with the unimaginable.

When I wrote a year ago about the day my late husband died and the immediate aftermath, I actually think I was still in shock. I don’t think I appreciated it at the time, but looking back now, I think I was still in shock. I was still learning to live with and process what had happened to my family. The immediate aftermath of our entire world imploding. The country was still living under restrictions. I still hadn’t hugged so many of my friends and family. My daughter and I were, to a certain extent, still living in a protective bubble, trying to just survive. We hadn’t really had to return to our old life and adjust to life without him. This second year, we’ve had to do it. This second year has therefore been much harder.

I’ll openly admit I’ve struggled more. I look at photos of him on our wall. I watch videos of him singing. I still struggle to comprehend how someone who was so full of life just isn’t physically here anymore. And never will be. I’ve had moments where I’ve forgotten myself. Where I’ve gone to ring him. Where I’ve expected him to walk through our front door. These are the real reality check moments. That this is forever. And that he will never, ever be here again. It’s utter madness. I don’t think it will ever make any sense to me. I’ve watched my daughter transition to secondary school without him by my side. I’ve done my first parent’s evening without him. The whole time I was doing it, I was hopeful that all her teachers knew what had happened to him. I didn’t want them judging him that he wasn’t there for parent’s evening. Because without question, he would never have missed it if he had been alive. All the time, thoughts of him are ever present. I know how much it would have broken his heart if he’d have known that our daughter was going to grow up without him. I know how remarkably proud he’d be of her for how well she’s survived these last two years.

I’ve been back to the crematorium where his funeral was held for the first time. I went for his Nan’s funeral. It was without question one of the hardest things I’ve had to do over the last couple of years. To stand there and watch the same funeral director talk to the family. To watch our daughter break down during the eulogy where the loss of him was mentioned. To be around everyone who should have been at his funeral. But I did it for him. It’s still such a huge part of my life. Making sure that I do things for him. I knew he’d have wanted me to go. To represent him. To pay respects. To show support to his family. It was the right thing to do. He always believed in doing the right thing no matter how hard it might be.

I’ve spent so much of this last year making renovations to our house. I hope he approves and likes what I’ve done to it. I have no doubt that he’d be rolling his eyes at my choice of flooring for the kitchen and the conservatory, and my decision to put Jason pictures up, but let’s face it. I have to rebel a little bit! I hope more than anything I’m making him proud. I hope I’m honouring his legacy in a way he’d approve of. But the last few months have also showed me that I’m getting to a point where I need to look after me a bit more though. Where I need to stop keeping busy and just learn to sit. If he was here now, he’d tell you that I’ve never really been any good at just sitting, but I think now he’d want me to put some energy into me. Not “Charlie’s widow,” but Emma. I know I need to do that really, but in all honesty, I’m scared to. Because I don’t know if I’m really ready to stop doing things for him. It’ll make it just that bit more real that he’s really gone if I do. But in a bizarre way, stopping would also be honouring his legacy, it’s something he’d want for me. To slow down a bit.

And I’ve tried to think if there’s been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about him or spoken his name. I don’t think there has been. Because I still need to. I still want to. It’s all part of me learning to live with the unimaginable. The only way I can even begin to process what has happened is to still talk about him. To still think about him. I can’t just wipe his existence from my life. I don’t want to. Yet, the periods between the gut-wrenching sobbing are longer. I don’t sob every day anymore. In fact, I don’t even cry every day anymore. But I still cry incredibly more frequently than I used to. The first time I went to see Jason Donovan and realised that Mr C would never again roll his eyes at me or wind me up about the obsession. When my sister and I went to see Ronan Keating and he sang “If Tomorrow Never Comes.” In the theatre. When a random song comes on a playlist (music is absolutely my kryptonite). When I watch my daughter do the washing up and inspect the dirty items as he used to. When friends send me pictures or videos of him that I might not have seen before. When a text message comes at a time I need it the most. I could go on. Because all these things and many, many more make me cry. I strongly suspect they always will. I’m a heck of a lot more vulnerable than I was before this happened to me.

But as time goes on, I still refuse to see myself as a victim. I still refuse to see my daughter as a victim. I don’t want to let the pain win. I don’t want to stop living. Believe me, it would be very easy to curl up in a ball and do this. It would be the easier option, because learning to live with the unimaginable is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There are no two ways about it. Even the small things hurt. I can no longer have a family organiser calendar up in my house, because the missing column is just too painful. So, when I did my calendar for 2022, I filled it with photos from 2021 to remind us that we had had good times during that year. To remind us that we survived. But in selecting these photos, there was also an element of guilt. There was an element of sadness. That we had had good times. That we had smiled. That we had laughed. That we were still able to live our lives despite what had happened to us. That he is missing out on so, so much. I can’t help but wonder if the tinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the good times will ever fully dissipate.

Yet I think I know what he would say to me if he could. I think I know what he would have said if he’d been able to speak and say goodbye when he was in hospital. I think it would have been something along the lines of “It’s my time Em, but it’s not yours. You need to keep living. Enjoy your life. Make the most of every day. Live for the moment. Stop overthinking. Make memories with our little girl. Bring her up in the way we always wanted to. Don’t let this destroy her. Don’t let this destroy you.”

That little voice that is always at the back of mind is what has kept me going this past year. That little voice has spurred me on every single day. Yes, without question this second year has been more challenging for me. Because I’ve had to face a reality that I really didn’t want to. Because I’ve had to begin to learn how to live my life without him. Because I’ve had to acknowledge the trauma that I went through. Because I’ve had to spend so much time working on me. The cast of Hamilton sang these lines last Tuesday:

“There are moments that the words don’t reach

There’s a grace too powerful to name

We push away what we can never understand

We push away the unimaginable”

These lines are why I found that song so hard to watch. Because I’ve not been able to push away the pain. I haven’t been able to push away what I can’t really understand. I haven’t been able to push away the unimaginable. I have had to confront it head-on. My life became unimaginable two years ago. It’s why it’s been so incredibly hard for me. Because I wasn’t given a choice as to whether I learnt to live with the unimaginable. I haven’t always got it “right.” I know that. But show me anyone in my position that has. Quite simply, we all do what we have to do to survive. Because until you feel in a position to choose life and start living again, that’s what you do. Survive. One minute, one hour or one day at a time.

And that’s why as I reflect on the second anniversary of his death, I know that the next year will bring new challenges. It’s the way my life will be forever now. I am the mother of a child who lost her father aged 10. I am a young widow. I will always be both of these things. That means that whatever my future holds, I will face challenges and uncertainties that most people my age wouldn’t even have to think about. But I also know that I’ll survive them. I’ll embrace them. It’s all part of learning to live with the unimaginable. And it’s exactly what my late husband would have done if the roles had been reversed. If he had been the one left behind. It’s why we made such a good team. Because we both understood the value in living.

So, today I’ll no doubt shed some tears. And tonight I’ll raise a glass to Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. Two years gone. But never, ever forgotten. Because I will always tell his story. That I promise.

One tip run at a time…

My world as I’ve come to know it came to an abrupt stop on 10 February 2022. After a complete reality check and some brutal home truths from my counsellor during my appointment, I went to see my doctor. And was promptly signed off work…

I messaged one of my friends to tell him what had happened. His response? “Surprised it took this long…” But for me it felt bizarre. The thought of not working for more than just a few days or being a full-time mum during the day just felt alien to me. Because it’s what I’ve been doing for two years to help give me back some control. To help me try to navigate this horrendous situation I’ve found myself in.

Let me give some context. I am, quite simply, a control freak. I’m the person who goes to Florida with a laminated itinerary. I can’t tell you how happy my laminator makes me! I’m the person who goes to Florida with a folder with different sections resulting in the car hire man saying, “bet she’s fun to go on holiday with.” (And yes, Mr C did laugh just a bit too much about this comment). I’m the person who organises. I’m the person who plans months in advance. I’m the person in control.

But on 16 March 2020, that stopped. No, that isn’t when my late husband fell ill or died, but when the advice came to work from home. Because in the blink of an eye, the control and the life that I’d known for so long vanished. Over the next few days, further announcements came. Schools were to shut. The UK was being placed in lockdown. My world was shifting and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And let’s not forget, by the time the UK was put in lockdown, my late husband was displaying signs of COVID-19 and gradually getting more and more sick. My ability to stay in control was being taken from me. There was absolutely nothing I could control about this situation. I hadn’t realised that this was going to be the way my life would feel for at least the next two years.

When he was in hospital, I wasn’t in control. I had to wait for them to ring me with updates. My life turned into just sitting by the phone waiting for news about the man I was meant to grow old with. And then he died. I pitifully began trying to claw back some control. I decided not to tell friends for hours so that they’d be able to find out when their children had gone to bed. I woke at 6:30am the next day and went downstairs to make a list of the people I needed to tell such as banks, insurances and pensions. I was trying to do anything I could to be in control. Because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I needed some sort of order in my life. I really wanted this back.

But the pandemic had other ideas for me. I don’t think any of us anticipated quite how long we’d be living under restrictions. I’d arranged house renovations, but they got halted by COVID-19. I lived with boxes in my bedroom for just over nine months because I couldn’t keep moving them to different rooms. It frustrated the hell out of me. I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything. Every time I tried to make plans to decorate, to make my house nicer or to take my daughter to the theatre, delays happened. We couldn’t see friends or family which we really needed. I couldn’t plan anything. My brain couldn’t take it. I was angry. I wanted a chance to help us adjust to our new life. I wanted to be able to have a shot at moving forward. But every single time, it got halted. And just as we got into a rhythm of me going back to the office one day a week and started talking about me doing more days post-Christmas, Omicron hit. The advice was given to work from home again. At the same time, things were changing at work, people were leaving my team (I obviously have no control over this), and it felt like everything was changing again. The stability that I’d managed to create for just a little while dissipated.

But I kept going. Until that day in February. When I finally had to acknowledge that I couldn’t keep going any longer. I couldn’t keep calm and carry on. I actually had to stop. I had to focus on me for a change. Nobody else. Just me. I’d been trying for two years to give us “normality” but when this feels like pushing water up a hill, it’s incredibly hard to do. The same friend who I’d messaged about being signed off gave me some advice, “use this time for a little mini reset, not to think “how can I use this time productively.”” He was 100% right. But actually, what he didn’t realise was how much I did need to use some of this time productively. Because to do that would help put me back in control of my life.

I have had a mini reset. I’ve stopped. I’ve not just kept going. In all honesty, I’ve probably done what I should have done when Mr C died. But it simply wasn’t possible for me to do then. The world didn’t allow it. I will always stand by my decision to start working again three weeks after his funeral, because it helped me feel a little more in control and if I hadn’t, I strongly suspect I’d have gone stir crazy. But I’ve sat and watched TV or just thought more times since February than in the last two years. I’ve spent time doing lengthy dog walks. I’ve spent time sitting at my late husband’s memorial bench. I’ve managed to do some exercise classes. I’ve spent time having coffee or lunch with friends, in my view, the best form of therapy. I’ve done some writing. I’ve shed many tears. I’ve breathed. I’ve put me first. I’ve stopped trying to do everything and be everything to everyone all the time.

Yet, I have also found it incredibly cathartic and beneficial to be productive too. I’ve put up shelves. I’ve built radiator covers. I’ve emptied Mr C’s wardrobe and sorted his clothes. I’ve sorted through cupboards and got rid of things we don’t need. I’ve been exceptionally ruthless because I have to live for today. There is no point keeping something I might need in the future because I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve got rid of glasses we were bought for our wedding nearly 17 years ago that we’d never used. Not all of them and not our wedding china, because I’m not ready for that, but anything we don’t “need” has gone. I’ve bought new furniture because we’d wanted to do this since we moved into our house nearly six years ago. I’ve been able to do things on my to-do list. I’ve smashed old furniture that we no longer need. I have done numerous trips to charity shops. I have done numerous tip runs. All of which have helped me feel more in control. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel in charge of my own life again.

Until the week leading up to my belated 40th party. I spent most of that week throwing myself a pity party. You see, I’d decided the Sunday night before that I was going for self-preservation that week. I was absolutely going to do nothing and focus on me. 12 hours later, the universe had other ideas for me. A carpenter I’d had booked since April last year cancelled on me. I discovered that there had been a leak and my kitchen flooring which had only been down for six months needed to be ripped up. The floor had to dry out. Over the course of that week people pulled out of coming to my party. They were double booked, they’d tested positive for COVID-19, they weren’t well and while testing negative didn’t want to risk it, rising case numbers were worrying them… I absolutely respect all of this. I completely appreciate people’s decisions. But from a completely selfish perspective it wasn’t doing anything to help me. Once again, I started to feel out of control. Not helped by the issues in my kitchen, but mainly because I was feeling that COVID-19 was taking control away from me again and was going to ruin my third birthday in a row. I couldn’t get excited about it. I just didn’t care.

It took me until about half hour before the party started to get over this. At this point I realised that I wasn’t in control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I would just enjoy myself and have fun with those people who were able to be there. And that’s what I did. I just stopped stressing and caring. I went with the flow. A slightly novel experience for me. But one that without question paid off. Because it was absolutely perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be (I’d been planning it since 2018 so you’d like to think this would be the case). I danced. I smiled. I had one of the biggest surprises of my life (probably deserves a blog in its own right). I just let go. I woke up the next morning feeling that my heart was full. Feeling content. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. I knew it was something that I needed to hang onto.

And I’m trying really hard to do that. I know it’s not always going to be easy. I know that for me to survive, I do need my life to be a combination of being in control and learning to just let go and go with the flow. Because I’ve come to realise that as much as I’d like to be, I simply can’t be in control all the time. Life doesn’t really work like that. Yet, for the first time since March 2020, I honestly feel like I can begin to plan again. I can start to think about my future. I can book things for us to do which (all things crossed) won’t be cancelled or rescheduled. I recently went on a night out to celebrate my birthday. The same friend who had sent me that message in February was there and the next day he sent me this message. “You looked happy. You looked like “Emma.” Carefree. Was really nice to see.”

It’s nice to get messages like that. They make me smile. Because my mind is feeling clearer. I’ve got some annual leave next week and then I’m going back to work. I’m looking forward to it. I’m feeling a world away from the start of this year. But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them. And I also look around and know that there’s still things in the house that need sorting. There are still shelves that need to go up. Pictures that need to go up. There are still things that need to be got rid of. And I know that each time I do this, it will help me. I will gradually take back the right amount of control that I need. One tip run at a time…

Angels on my side

I’ve spoken a lot about the amazing support I’ve had from my friends, family and colleagues. The people who know me. It’s something that I have never, and will never, take for granted. I’m exceptionally lucky. I know that. You’ll often hear me call my friends and family angels. Or tell them in a message that they’re an angel. I’m also confident that my daughter and I have a guardian angel watching over us. But what has really taken me by surprise is the strangers who are angels and have come into my life when I least expected it but really needed them. I should have guessed that I was going to come across a lot of angels when the two women who provided a lifeline to my husband when he was in ITU were called the ‘Skype Angels’. But their impact and story deserves much more than a paragraph in this blog, one day I’ll tell it. But for now, I want to talk about what I’ve learnt about the impact that it’s possible for anyone to have on your life when you need it the most.

Oddly enough, the way I feel about this is nicely summed up by the lyrics of a Rick Astley song. And for those of you who have read previous blogs or follow me on social media, you’ll know I’m just a teeny bit of a Jason Donovan fan. So, it almost feels unfaithful to Jason to be featuring Rick Astley in a blog! But still, his song “Angels on my side” feels beyond pertinent for many reasons. If you don’t know it, it opens with the lines:

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like waking up

Wanna stay inside my dreams

Sometimes I feel like I am breaking up

Do you know just how that feels.”

I’ve felt this way. Not wanting to wake up and face the reality of my situation. Not wanting to get out of bed. I’ve felt that I’ve been breaking up. I’ve felt that no-one knows how that feels. On more than one occasion. It’s one of the reasons I joined the charity Widowed and Young (WAY). I feed off and get my strength from having people around me, so I knew that to help me survive the madness of widowhood, I was going to need to connect with people who would understand some of the emotions and feelings I was having. Who could empathise with me. Who could reassure me that I wasn’t going mad. And it’s thanks to WAY, that a very important angel came into my life as I headed to Carfest last August. Ironically enough, a festival that saw Rick Astley headline on the Saturday night.

As a family, we’d been to Carfest twice while Mr C was alive. We really enjoyed it, there is something just so freeing about dancing in a field of strangers without a care in the world. My daughter loves it and so, in 2021, I booked to go again with some exceptionally good friends of ours. I was really looking forward to it, and while I knew that it would be difficult, it was something that I felt we needed to do. Until the day before. Then the magnitude of what I was about to do hit me. It felt utterly impossible. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go back and manage this without him. I even messaged my friends to tell them that I thought it was unlikely that we were going to be able to go. I quickly received a phone call from them to talk to me about it and try to convince me it would be ok. But even my wonderful friend couldn’t do it. To the point, he left that phone call convinced that they were going without us. His view was that if he couldn’t talk me round, nobody could (he’d been able to calm me down and talk me round on numerous other occasions over the previous 18 months).

But as I’ve done repeatedly, I put an honest Instagram post out about how I was feeling. And that’s when an angel appeared. Emma, another Widowed and Young Ambassador happened to see that post and tell me she was going to Carfest. The following morning, her and I exchanged some private messages about it. She told me that she’d done it when her husband was alive and had subsequently done it without him. It gave me hope. It made me feel that if someone who had gone through a similar experience and emotions could do it, so could I. To this day, I’m utterly convinced that without these messages, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have felt that I’d have the strength to do it. But she made me feel it was possible, no matter how hard it was going to be. It’s thanks to her that I rang our friends, told them we’d be going but still asked them to completely bear with me. They’re without question angels themselves so they understood. We agreed that I’d literally take it hour by hour. And that’s exactly what I did.

Yet on the third day, the emotions all got a bit much for me. I just felt overwhelmed. And as I stood waiting for my daughter who was in a queue for food, I listened to James Blunt sing “Goodbye My Lover.” Music is like kryptonite to me, and I couldn’t keep the emotion in any longer. I stood there and just broke. I sobbed. In the middle of a field surrounded by strangers, I just stood there sobbing. I couldn’t keep it in. A complete stranger came up to me, touched my arm and said “I don’t want to intrude, but I just felt I needed to come over and check you’re ok.” The kindness she showed humbled me. I explained what had happened and that I was just having a moment. She listened, gave my arm a reassuring squeeze and then went on her way. I’ve no idea who she was, I’ll never see her again but I know I won’t ever forget her and how that kindness made me feel. Another angel. Rick Astley closed that evening and sang “Angels on my side.” He’ll never know just how much that song resonated with me at that moment and felt unbelievably apt. But it really did.

As I look back at Carfest now, I know it was so important for my daughter and I to do it. I’m so proud of us that we did. We needed to do something we’d done as a family as a twosome. We needed to make new memories. But crucially, and despite there being over 20,000 people at Carfest, Emma and I also managed to meet and chat. As soon I started talking to her, I knew she was going to be someone that was going to continue to be in my life. We’ve continued to message and keep in touch since then. Despite only meeting her once, I absolutely consider her a friend. She was the person I turned to and messaged when I was having a wobble at the first wedding I went to after Mr C died. I know she’ll always be at the end of the phone if I need her.

And this weekend, I’ve seen her for the first time since Carfest. It honestly felt like I was meeting an old friend. But it also saw me meet other angels who I know are on my side. Who know just how it feels to be breaking up. Because this weekend, I travelled to Cardiff for the launch of the 25th Anniversary Year for Widowed and Young. Other than Emma, I’ve never physically met any of the people who were there before. Yes, there’s been Zoom calls but that’s it. I chose to wear my Mutha Hood “Fearless Female” t-shirt, but this was my way of hiding my true emotions. Because I was a little fearful of walking into that room. A friend of mine told me she thought I was exceptionally brave to be going, and while on my way, I did feel a mixture of nervousness and excitement, but I knew I didn’t need to worry really. If it was going to be like the Friday night WAY quiz I join, I knew I’d be walking into a room full of angels.

But I can’t lie. Doing this is something that is completely out of my comfort zone. For the most part of my life, walking into a room of people who are essentially strangers is not something I would ever have done. When I was younger and people would meet me for the first time, they would think I was really rude because I just couldn’t engage in conversation. I suspect I had what might be known as a resting bitch face! But it’s not that I was rude. It was just that I needed to sit and observe people before I felt comfortable enough to talk to them. To get the measure of the situation. And once I’d done this, I’d be able to talk to them. This continued for many, many years. In fact, I didn’t attend the first postnatal group I could have with my daughter because I was too apprehensive. I didn’t want to be judged for being a working mother. I didn’t want to talk to people that the only thing I’d have in common with was the fact we’d had a baby. I’ll always be so grateful for that decision though. Because a few months later I relented and went to another class. I’d started to wonder if it might be an opportunity to meet people that would end up being friends for me and my daughter. I did. I’m still very close with members of that “Baby Group.” Nearly 12 years on, we still regularly catch up. And friends I met there looked after my daughter this weekend so I’d be able to go away. More angels on my side.

And as Emma and I checked into our hotel yesterday, another WAY Ambassador was also checking in. “Are you here for the WAY event?” she asked. “Yes” was our response, and that was it. An instant connection was formed, we chatted and all walked to the event together stopping off for a chat in the grounds of Cardiff Castle, the location of the very first WAY event 25 years ago. When I walked into the event room, people I’ve seen on Zoom calls or have connected with on Twitter were all there. It felt like I’d known them forever. I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, the angels on my side were going to come through for me. Because as odd as it might sound to someone who hasn’t experienced the power of peer support either in person, virtually or via social media, it is one of the most invaluable forms of support you will ever experience. I have regularly felt comfort, solidarity and love from people I’ve never met (and may never meet) but have connected with because of our shared experiences. I feel incredibly privileged to be able to both benefit from, and, help others. It is not something I would have ever expected when I was first widowed. For anyone who might feel nervous about reaching out or joining WAY, I’d encourage you to do so when the time is right for you. It is without a question, a lifeline for so many.

This was reinforced as I sat listening to all the speeches about how WAY was founded and the impact it has had on so many. It was both inspirational and humbling. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Hearing how many people in the UK are eligible to benefit from the charity is simply heartbreaking. It’s estimated that close to 100,000 people in the UK have been widowed before their 51st birthday. I still find it hard to comprehend that I’m one of them. I probably always will. But chatting with people who have also gone through this, meeting people who I feel a connection with and know will continue to play a part in my life is beyond comforting. As I travelled home today, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Because despite all the tough days that I know are still ahead of me and the ongoing rollercoaster that I’m on, I know I’m going to be ok. And on those days where I might feel a bit of doubt about this, I just need to remember the chorus of that Rick Astley song:

“’Cause I got angels on my side

I got angels flying high

And everything gonna be alright

‘Cause I got angels on my side.”

Goodbye 2021

If 2020 was the year of shock, numbness and surrealness, then 2021 was the year of reality. The year of trying to adjust to our “new now” (I don’t like the phrase “new normal” as who is to say what is normal anyway?) I should have been writing this blog in New York. Our first overseas trip just the two of us, the prospect was both terrifying and exciting. But just over three weeks ago I made the decision to cancel, the reality was that everything about it was adding additional stress and worry, rising case numbers, change in testing regulations, closure of activities in New York. Need I go on? Because this is reality. I am still trying to adjust to widowhood and solo parenting while living in a pandemic. COVID-19 hasn’t gone away.

But what is different about the end of 2021 compared to the end of 2020 is that I consciously made a decision to avoid stress. I just don’t need it. I don’t need to be putting myself through it. I think back to this time last year. I crashed on 27 December, it was all I could do to get up each morning and when I did, I pretty much just laid on the sofa. Mr C’s Memorial Bench was installed on 29 December and I had to summon the energy to get off the sofa to see it. Because I’d run and run and run to get to Christmas. I’d done so much. I’d tried to do very personal keepsake gifts for his immediate family. I’d tried to make everything perfect for our daughter. I’d tried to honour him in every way I could. But do you know what? It didn’t make him come back. I didn’t get to Christmas Day, get a pat on the back and get told “well done, he can come home now.” Reality hit. I’d got to Christmas, put myself under so much pressure and for what? I was quite simply mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t go back to work. I had nothing left to give.

This was how I went into January 2021. Exhausted. And then reality give me a real slap in the face. One of my most loyal, closest friends who had done so much for me after Mr C died lost her partner to COVID-19 on 2 January. Two days into the New Year. I felt helpless. I couldn’t bear to see her. Because to see her would make this real. To see her would be to see the tears in her eyes and know that there was absolutely nothing I could do to take her pain away. This wasn’t meant to happen. Nobody else I loved was meant to go through this pain. I had to tell my daughter that once again the pandemic had taken someone from our lives. Someone who had made such a difference to my friend’s life. Who had put the sparkle back in her eyes.

And then reality and the unthinkable happened again a couple of weeks later. I received a text asking me to give my colleague a call. It was a little odd as I’d only spoken to her that morning and wasn’t working, but I still did it. She had to break the news to me that one of my colleagues had been killed in a road accident. He was just 29. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with him after I returned to work following Mr C’s death and the compassion and kindness he had shown me. How on earth could he have died in such a senseless way? His partner is in my immediate team at work. She is one of the most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. Simply lovely. Again. I felt helpless. I remember walking into my lounge after the call and my daughter asking me why I was crying again. I wanted to make something up. I couldn’t bear to tell her the reality that yet again somebody else I knew had died young. All you want to do as a mother is protect your child from hurt and pain, and here I was again telling her just how unfathomable life can be at times. How reality really can suck at times. But we had the conversation. Because this is what reality is. I can’t shield her from it. I can’t shield her from pain.

It’s why we have such an honest relationship. Because I’ve worked out that she deserves honesty. For a child of 11, she has been exposed to so very much. It breaks my heart. And while I don’t tell her everything, we do talk about so much. Because our reality has meant we’ve had to, we can’t shy away from pain, hurt and suffering. We talk about the fact I have counselling. Because over the past 21 months, I’ve spent 11 of them in counselling. It’s made me look at myself. It’s made me question a lot. And it’s also given me answers and helped me begin to come to terms with my reality. But nearly a year in therapy? I’d never have expected this. Even though I know how beneficial it is, the reality is that it’s still hard to come to terms with needing it in the way I have. To help me survive and be able to live a daily life. And despite the dialogue on mental health changing, it can at times be slightly taboo to talk about it and be open about being in counselling. To the point the fact I was having it was used against me at the start of the year.

I don’t hold it against the person who said it to me, because the reality I’ve come to accept in 2021 is that there is still a lot that society doesn’t understand about grief, mental health and life in general. I had a conversation at work recently about how society as a whole tends to focus on the negative, what you haven’t done, what you could do better etc… You hear the phrase “can I give you some feedback?” and instantly bristle because you assume it’ll be bad. To say “I’m having counselling” can, in some instances, cause judgement. The perception is you’re not right. You’re not good enough.  

But do you know what? 2021 has seen me become ok with that. I’ve come to accept that I will never be good enough for everyone. I’ve come to accept that there will be things I do that people can’t understand. Because that’s reality. But equally, I judge and do it to myself. I will automatically talk about everything that I’ve not been able to do since Mr C died. Because isn’t that what we’ve been taught to do? Focus on the negative? I’ll tell you I’m not as efficient as I once was. My brain doesn’t work in the same way. I’ll walk away rather than fight for what I believe in because I can’t handle stress. I don’t have as much patience or tolerance. I forget things. I buy presents for birthdays and Christmas and worry that they’re not good enough, but the truth is I’ve simply run out of energy at trying to get everything right. I have mum guilt like never before. I haven’t achieved as much at work as I’d have liked. I don’t call or message people enough. I haven’t been as good a friend as I might have been before because I don’t put as much effort in.

Yet this is where the counselling has helped and the Emma at the end of 2021 compared to the Emma at the end of 2020 tells herself to wind her neck in. Because I need to acknowledge that I’ve achieved a hell of a lot this year. I deserve to feel proud of myself. Whatever anyone else thinks or says. That is the reality. I have launched my own blog that has not only helped me but has also helped others. I organised my late husband’s Memorial Service which gave so many people the chance to say goodbye to him. I’ve learnt how to show my vulnerability. I’ve continued to work. I’ve kept a roof over our heads. I’ve organised home improvements. I’ve pretty much done everything we used to do as part of a partnership single-handedly. I can now go into supermarkets again. I’ve become an ambassador for Widowed and Young. I’ve taken my daughter away, to friends, to festivals, to theatres. I’ve given her new memories. But more than that. I’ve somehow got out of bed on days when I don’t want to. I’ve still put one foot in front of the other. Every single day. My daughter has not gone without love. There has not been a single day she hasn’t felt my love even when I’m in the pit of despair. This is my reality that I need to focus on more. What I have done. There will always be people who are quick enough to tell me what I haven’t done or should have done differently. But I need to have more faith and belief in myself. To remember what I have done. What I have achieved.

I’ve been reminded so much of this throughout this month. In the run up to Christmas, my daughter said “I just don’t understand why this Christmas is so much harder than last year.” We spoke about how last year we were in shock and survival mode. Whereas now we’ve spent the whole year coming to terms with the reality that her daddy really is gone. He’s never coming home. We will never spend another Christmas with him again. And that’s why it’s so much harder. Because it’s real. As each day passes, our reality and life without him crystallises. I listened to her repeatedly tell me she was over Christmas. I watched her sit on the sofa and refuse to move. I’ve just had to cuddle her because there was nothing else I could do to help her. But Christmas Day came and the punt of an idea I had for her present changed everything. She smiled again. She laughed. She sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Yes, Christmas Day resulted in me being absolutely exhausted again because of the energy I’d needed to put into helping my little girl, but seeing her happy made everything worthwhile. I achieved that. I helped her get through it. And this just reinforced the reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in 2021. The ability to accept the rough with the smooth.

I can’t lie. I have very mixed emotions saying goodbye to 2021. The first year since 1974 that Stuart Charlesworth hasn’t been alive for any of it. Since 1996 that he’s not physically been a part of my life. A year which has caused so much new heartache and pain. A year which has seen relationships break down. A year which has seen me fall apart repeatedly. Yet it’s also been a year which has seen me smile, laugh, dance and hug more. It’s been a year that has seen me start to think about my future and my new reality. For the first time in such a long time, I can answer “I’m ok” and mean it when people ask me how I am. That’s not to say I’m of the view that life has become all cupcakes and rainbows. It hasn’t. I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to. Because I’m going to make sure I remember one thing in 2022…

I am good enough.

18 months a widow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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