Tag: COVID-19

Goodbye 2023

Images from across 2023


2023 will be done in a matter of hours. I can’t help but feel I’ve sort of blinked and missed it. And when I look back, I don’t really know where to begin. I can safely say that on 1 January 2023 I did not envisage going viral on social media, being in two national newspapers and a local newspaper because of my love for Jason Donovan, writing an article that would appear in another national newspaper, being attacked by the Easter Bunny, getting a tattoo, feeding a tiger, winning an award for my blog, braving a boudoir photoshoot or getting my middle out at Butlins. Amongst a myriad of other experiences that have happened this year. I guess this is why people say never tell me the odds. Because, quite simply, if someone had told me the odds of any of this happening, I’d never have believed them and placed a bet expecting to make a fortune.

So. Where to start? Probably at the very beginning, because it’s a very good place to start. I did what I always do when I write a blog summarising my year, read the one I wrote this time last year. I ended last year saying “bring on 2023… If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control because I wonder what I’m actually capable of. What comes next for Emma…” I think I felt ready for what was to come my way this year. I think I felt that I was the strongest I’d been for a long time.

But within a couple of weeks, change came my way. My daughter started a new chapter in her life and became a teenager. I was unprepared for just how this would make me feel. I cried a lot in the run up to it. I had to sit and write because it was the only way I knew how to articulate the feelings I had about her entering this phase without her dad. I think it was one of the very first blogs of mine that she read. It made her cry. I didn’t intend for this to happen, but apparently this is what my blogs do to people. But as we got through her birthday and I watched her at her birthday party, I couldn’t have been prouder. My baby became a beautiful teenager surrounded by a lovely group of friends and she smiled. My word did she have a big smile on her face. She looked happy and relaxed. I simply had no real way of knowing what was heading our way just a few weeks later.

Before writing this, I made sure she was comfortable with what I was going to write. Because it’s her story and not mine. This year essentially saw her hit rock bottom. No-one would have known or suspected if they’d seen her at that party. But a year to the day since I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown and a doctor signed me off sick, I had to take her to the doctor. It resulted in her being referred for counselling which she was then in for a number of months. As a mother, it’s the hardest thing watching your child go through something and not being able to fix it. To know how difficult it was for her to talk to a counsellor but knowing that she absolutely needed to do this. Knowing how difficult it was to make herself vulnerable. To talk about her anxiety with a stranger. But she persevered and did this. If you’d have told me after that doctor’s appointment that just a few months later she’d be painting herself green and performing as Elphaba in her dance school’s summer show, I’d never have believed you. I just wouldn’t have been able to envisage her having the confidence and self-belief to do this. But this is exactly what she did. She smashed it. It felt like the biggest win ever to see the progress she had made. For someone who has been told she’s loquacious (yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to Google the meaning of this word, trust me, I had to) I am pretty lost for words when it comes to describing just how proud of her I am and how far she’s come.

But equally, I’m proud of me and how far I’ve come. Yes. Broken Emma has been a part of my 2023 but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You have to experience and live through the bad to be able to appreciate the good. I haven’t achieved all I wanted to this year. But I’ve still achieved a heck of a lot. I changed my role at work in January. I built a balloon arch and hosted our first big gathering without Mr C for the coronation. We’ve been on a fabulous holiday with friends which saw me shockingly wear a bikini and take photos of myself in it. We’ve been able to go to the theatre. We’ve had adventures with friends.

And all of this against a backdrop of a year that hasn’t been without challenge. It was never going to be. While the sun always shines on TV (come on, I grew up watching Neighbours, falling in love with Jason and believing the Australian sunshine!) that’s not real life. This has been the year myself and my daughter have fallen ill for the first time since I was widowed. The year the perimenopause has taken hold. The year the UK Covid-19 Inquiry started with many revelations coming out. A number of which sent me down a “what if?” path. Watching the programme Partygate was tough but something I needed to do. It’s been the year my nan went into a care home. Initially just for respite, but 11 months later she’s still there. It was the right decision for her. Yet leaving her that first night broke my heart. Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is one of the toughest things you can do. Because you simply cannot explain to them what is going on. But she settled, there’s been some other health issues throughout the year but on the whole she’s been doing ok. And then, on 23 December, we got a call. She’d had a fall and was being taken by ambulance to A&E. I was on a train home from London having seen Harry Potter and the Cursed Child with my daughter. There’s talk of a magic train in that play, and by the time the night had finished I felt I’d been on a magic train on the way home that had taken me to a parallel universe! Because not only had Nan broken her wrist, but that night also saw me get stuck behind a car accident on my way home and needing the police to try to jump-start my car after the battery died resulting in me being awake for 24 hours straight. No sun shining on me that day!

Yet as hard as this night was and as much as the tears did come, it didn’t knock me as much as it might have done this time last year. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t cried in the hospital, not only because of what had happened to my nan but because I find being in A&E a challenge. It sends me down a path of wondering what Mr C’s experience in A&E was like. What machines beeped when he was there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wake up after some sleep on Christmas Eve and cry some more. But I looked for the humour in what had happened. I saw the funny side. The fact that you literally can’t write my life at times. I joked in a Facebook post that if anyone had the police trying to jump-start my car on their bingo card for what happens next in my life, to mark it off. I’ve learnt this year that levity is the best way for me to cope. It’s what gets me through. I doubt that will ever change.

But more than that. I’m proud of me because I know I have an air of confidence, self belief and a sparkle in my eye that wasn’t there a year ago. A lot of that has come from that boudoir photoshoot I won with Style Photography in August. Prior to this I’d have always said that in my experience there’s no such thing as luck, but I do feel exceptionally lucky for that win and the fact it gave me something I didn’t know I needed. I suspect there is a whole other blog coming about this and what it taught me. But when you look at a photo of yourself and query whether it’s been photoshopped, you realise you’ve been looking at yourself through the wrong eyes for a very long time. I’ll never know whether it was this that led to me wearing a two piece at Butlins. In 42 years, I’d never worn anything like this. I’m still absolutely staggered I did. Again. I’d have got good odds on this at the start of 2023! However. I did also learn something else very valuable during that trip. Don’t go to Butlins for a Halloween weekend. There are zombies, scary clowns and people in all sorts of masks for example, Michael Myers, who completely freak me out (masks terrify me). It’s why next year we’re going in September!

Yet all joking aside. That weekend was another example of confidence. The phrase “she’s leaking” took on a whole new meaning when I was just sat in the back of the car crying on the way. That weekend came at the end of a particularly griefy week and my hot water cylinder leaking. I toyed with not going. So, to have turned that around to be out in 80s fancy dress on the first night and with my middle out on the second isn’t something I think I could have done a year ago. I feel so lucky and privileged to have my girls in my life who got me through that weekend. Equally I feel so privileged and grateful for all the opportunities that have come my way this year. For the new people who have come into my life. For what they’ve taught me. For the friends and family who continue to be such a major part of my life and support me and my daughter. Who help me to be able to go to work and live my life. And above all else. I feel so grateful to everyone who donated so that my daughter and I were able to donate another £2,020 in Mr C’s memory from the sales of calendars featuring his photos between The Big Cat Sanctuary and Medway Hospital ICU.

As I wrote this listening to my daughter on karaoke with one of her closest friends and I looked ahead to 2024, I did so with a smile on my face. For the first time in nearly four years, I feel a real sense of contentment. 2024 is already shaping up to be a busy one and one filled with emotion. Star Wars Day is going to be pretty special. It’ll see me mark 20 years at PwC, 15 years since learning we were expecting Miss C and the day the next CharlieFest will take place to raise funds for Medway Hospital ICU. And while we have other adventures planned, we also have Mr C’s 50th birthday looming. There’s going to be a number of emotions and triggers associated with that. But my daughter and I will deal with them together. It’s simply what we do.

As for what else 2024 will bring, who knows. I’m not even going to try to guess. All I can do is ask one thing… never tell me the odds.

A different WAY forward

Wow, it’s been a heck of a week. It’s been a full on juggle this week. Early starts for work. Dancing runs. Sorting childcare. Sorting doggy care. Travel. Three nights away from home. And the Widowed and Young (WAY) AGM and Annual Get Together.

This was the second one I’ve attended. Both times I’ve met some wonderful people with some heart-breaking and incredible stories. I felt more comfortable and confident this year. I knew a lot more people. I knew what to expect. It didn’t feel quite as scary to be walking into the room. And of course. I had my comfort blanket and angel there with me. The gorgeous other Emma, the brains behind Rainbow Hunting.

Over the past two years I think we’ve become each other’s biggest cheerleaders. We’ve become a bit of a dynamic duo and double act. Neither one of us really know which one is Emma 1 and Emma 2. We just kind of roll with it. We’re always there at the end of the phone for one another. And have so much fun whenever we’re together.

Emma was encouraging and championing me so much yesterday. You see, at the AGM the winner of the Helen Bailey blog award for best WAY blogger is announced. For the second year in a row, I was nominated. There are so many great bloggers who are part of WAY that I find it incredibly humbling to even be nominated. When I first started writing, I didn’t expect anyone to read my words. I don’t really write for others. I don’t sit down at the start of the month and plan what I’m going to write. I only really write when I have something to say. But I have grown to find it so incredibly cathartic. I often write before I go to sleep because it helps me get thoughts out of my head. It helps me to try to get a bit of clarity in my life.

Yesterday was triggering and emotional for a number of us in the room. When you have a room full of people who have been widowed before their 51st birthday, it’s inevitable that emotion will be high.

As we headed towards the end of the day, Emma was cheerleading and encouraging me about the nomination. It was so, so lovely. But I kept managing her expectations. “It won’t be me” I said. And I wholeheartedly believed that. Because despite what everyone tells me, I struggle to believe I’m actually good at this. That I’m good at writing. I went to university to study journalism but dropped out after three months because it wasn’t for me. Life took over and my path and way forward changed. The irony that I’ve now started writing and had an article published in the Metro online this year doesn’t escape me.

My friends and family always comment on my writing. They tell me how amazing it is. But the low self esteem and confidence that has plagued me for a lot of my life has often led me to wonder whether they say that because they feel they “have” to. After all, they’ve pretty much seen me at my worst, they must worry that if they told me my blogs were rubbish, whether they might tip me over the edge.

It’s why the nominations the last two years have meant so much. Because the nominations are made by WAY members. The winner is voted for by WAY members. These are people who get it. These are people who might have very, very different circumstances to me, but people who know the range of emotions to go through as a young widow. How utterly, utterly different your life becomes. In every single aspect. Everything about your life changes. Everything. So, when other widows tell me that they value what I write and it resonates, I always get choked. I just find it so humbling.

As the shortlist for the award yesterday was announced, Emma was holding my hand. As I had done to her just a few hours before when she was emotional following one of our speakers. And then the winner was announced. It was me. I had won it. The 2023 WAY Helen Bailey award for best blogger went to me and Life is a rollercoaster. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t an element of disbelief. As I walked up to collect the award, the emotion hit. I could feel the tears coming. “Please don’t make me say anything” I said to Jo Sedley-Burke, the Chair of WAY. I knew that I simply wouldn’t be able to do this. Fortunately, she didn’t make me. She just gave me a really big squeeze and the actual award. Emma was next in line with the squeezes. I could tell how proud of me she was. And that also meant the world. Having someone champion you in this new world is beyond invaluable.

As I went back to my room to get ready for the evening, the tears were a bit more free flowing. There were people I knew that I needed to tell before it went public on social media. Certain family and friends needed to hear it from me. I wanted them to know and to tell them first. One of them was someone who has only become a friend because of this blog. That is the power of writing. That is the power of WAY. It brings people into your world who wouldn’t be otherwise. And my word. I feel so exceptionally lucky to have them into my world.

Last night, I danced the night away with Emma. With people I’d met at the AGM last year. With people I met this year. It’s one of the most uplifting and positive evenings. So much heartache and tragedy in the room, yet so much positivity and smiling. And then I went back to my room and reflected. I reflected on the win all the way home. Which was quite a lot given it was a four-hour drive. Before picking my daughter up, I headed to Mr C’s Memorial Bench. I sat there with the award for a little bit. It might be my name on the award, but the win is very much for him and our daughter too. For everything the three of us have gone through and will continue to go through.

This new world and this new path are not ones I would ever have chosen. I would give anything to swap them. But, without wanting to sound blunt, I can’t. This is my new world. My new now. My new way. I am beyond grateful and thankful to every single person who has taken the time to read my words. To every single person who took the time to nominate me. To every single person who took the time to vote for me. It might sound trite, but it genuinely, genuinely means the absolute world to me. I don’t and won’t ever take it for granted. Thank you. A million times thank you. By doing this, you have also helped me.

I sit here tonight, not only thankful, but also proud. Proud of everything this blog has achieved. Proud of every person it has helped, whether directly or indirectly. Proud that my words have been able to do this. I am now finally comfortable to say, “I’m good at this” and “I can write.” I have plans for my writing. I have things up my sleeve. My life has taken a very different WAY forward, but it’s taking me on a new and exciting path. The win yesterday was just the beginning. I have no doubt of that. And I know with the WAY crew, as well as my family and friends in my corner, I’m capable of achieving anything I put my mind to.

Have you noticed if I was wearing a ring on my thumb today?

Today I did something I haven’t done in a very long time. I tried to put a brave face on and chair meetings. I cried in the office. I cried on the tube. I cried on the train. And why? Because at just after 1pm today, I looked down at my thumb and couldn’t see my late husband’s wedding ring on it. It’s where I’ve been wearing his ring for a couple of years now. Admittedly, not every day, but more often than not.

Logic dictated that it had to be at home and that I’d just been so busy this morning that I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing it from the off. I logged a Lost Property claim with the train company. I retraced all my steps in the office. I emailed Security at work to see if it had been handed in. I asked my colleagues the most stupid question “have you noticed if I was wearing a ring on my thumb today?” Of course, they hadn’t, we’ve all been busy, in meetings or on calls and it wasn’t like I was asking them something obvious like what colour dress I was wearing when I came into the office. But immediately they started rallying around me. I was reminded once again of just how lucky I am to have this support and care at work. To the point that one utterly amazing human even went through bins for me while I went on calls. Other colleagues brought me tissues, a glass of water and tried to persuade me to go home to look for it.

But what I couldn’t properly articulate to them though was that a part of me just needed to be there and to do calls. Because to go home and discover it wasn’t there would have made this real. I needed to cling to that one word that’s kept me going through the last three years. Hope. All the while I could maybe pretend my mind was playing tricks on me and I simply hadn’t put it on this morning, I could try to rationalise that it must be at home. Hope with everything I had that it was at home.

As I walked out of the office I was crying. I knew I was edging ever closer to finding out once and for all if it was gone. I messaged on the Widowed and Young WhatsApp group what had happened. I just needed people who “get it” to empathise. Their messages of support and understanding helped. They knew what this would mean if it was lost. I messaged my sister who also tried to calm me down. I corrected her grammar as I’m known to do, I felt I could be let off, I was trying to keep myself busy after all, but I knew I wasn’t really feeling it anymore. This pain was real. Absurdly real. And raw.

It absolutely blindsided me. I kept trying to keep myself calm and tell myself it must be at home but all I really wanted to do was sit and sob. Yet I couldn’t really understand why. The ring isn’t him. If I’m perfectly honest, he was a complete nightmare with it when he was alive. He’d fiddle with it, take it off, not wear it and forget where he’d put it. So much so that when the Funeral Director asked if he was going to be buried with jewellery I said no, I simply didn’t see the point of him having it. I felt like I’d probably end up wearing it more in the future than he had over our 14-year marriage!

Today though I realised it was much, much more than that. This ring was proof of our relationship and our marriage. Now, that may sound silly to some people but one of the more random things that has happened to me since being widowed is this bizarre feeling that I dreamt him. That I dreamt it all. And that none of it was real. It’s beyond difficult to explain, mainly because I don’t really understand it myself. I know he was real. I know our relationship spanned over two decades. I know we had a child together. I know we owned different houses together. I know we made a gazillion memories. But how much of that is tangible? How much of that is real? And outside of my head?

I think in part this is down to the circumstances of his death. The fact that none of it seemed real. It was two weeks before I even saw him on a screen and could verify that they had the right person. I didn’t get to physically see him in hospital. I didn’t get to see him in the Chapel of Rest. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. Everything just felt so, so surreal. So, I cling to anything now that proves he was real.

It’s probably why it’s been so important to me to have memory items made. We’ve had Memory Bears and Blankets made out of his clothes. Again. In the same way as the ring isn’t him, neither are they. But I can look at them and know that he did wear them. I can show them to family and friends who also remember him wearing them and we can talk about him. I’ve also had a ring made with his ashes in and my daughter and I both have a decoration for the tree made out of his ashes. It keeps him part of our future.

I’m also fairly sure that this upcoming Sunday was subconsciously playing on my mind today too. Sunday marks 18 years since we got married. My fourth as a widow. That’s another funny thing I’ve noticed the longer I’ve been widowed, I refer to things that I previously would have said plural as singular now. My daughter. My wedding anniversary. My house. I don’t actually know when I started doing this, but I’ve recently become conscious of the fact I’m doing it. And I don’t really know why. I guess as time goes by and our lives move forward, his absence feels more and more pronounced. That I feel even more on my own and without him than I did at the start of widowhood. The all-consuming pain and grief kept him very much part of me back then. And while I’m still relatively early on in the widowhood journey, I do know that I’m so much further along than I was. The pain and grief don’t consume me in the same way. But today, losing the ring, that pain and grief was strong. Because losing the ring simply felt like another loss. Another loss that I was unprepared for. In the same way I was unprepared for losing him. All of this going through my mind on the train on the way home. My brain working overtime.

Then the inevitable. I got home. And if I’m perfectly honest, I knew what was going to happen next. It wasn’t there. The ring wasn’t there. And while I did empty my handbag and laptop bag for the gazillionth time again and look in all the very obvious places, I didn’t turn the house upside down. But that’s because I didn’t need to. I know where I put the ring when I got home last night. It was with all the other ones I was wearing today. I know where I’d have picked it up from this morning. It wasn’t there. Or anywhere obvious. That gut feeling I had at 1:15pm was right. I knew the second I noticed that it was no longer on my thumb that I’d lost it since leaving home. I was just clinging to hope. The tears didn’t stop then. I just felt numb. Completely and utterly numb. I went into autopilot. I started cooking dinner. I started sorting things out. Because it’s my default. Rather than having to think about how I feel, I keep busy.

It’s why I then wrote a Facebook and Twitter post (sorry, can’t call it X). To stay busy. Ironically I tried to find a photo of the ring, but we didn’t get the obligatory one at our wedding of the hands. And in almost every photo I found of him, he wasn’t wearing it. Told you, he was a fiddler with it. I did find one though. But it’s not the clearest. But I also wanted to write these posts on the off chance that it might help find it. What I was unprepared for, however, was how quickly my phone would start going mental. How quickly my daughter would be saying to me “Mum, your phone is really annoying me.” And despite how rubbish, emotional and numb I felt about the lost ring, I was taken right back to when he fell ill and to when all I had was virtual support. I’d forgotten what it was like to have strangers sending good wishes your way. I haven’t actually been able to keep up with all the comments yet. It’s all a little overwhelming.

I feel exhausted right now. My brain still feels scrambled at what’s happened today. I don’t really know how I feel. Other than numb. People say things happen for a reason. I don’t always believe that; let’s face it, I’ve still not and doubt I ever will, work out what the reason for a global pandemic was. But if I’m going to take anything from today, it’s a reminder that there really is a lot of kindness in this world. That people care. That if you ask a friend to send you something to make you smile, there are hilarious videos on the internet to be sent. Which against all odds do make you smile.

Maybe this was a sign from Mr C to remind me of all this. Maybe this was a sign from him to tell me something else. I don’t know. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll work it out and I will know. And in the meantime, I’m going to pray for a miracle and hope that somehow it comes to back to me.

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…