Grief – Life is a rollercoaster

Till death do us part?

Images of Stuart Charlesworth and family

Four years ago today the words I said on my wedding day became a reality. My husband died. I became a widow.

But this phrase has been going round in my head a lot over the last few months. Yes, on 19 April 2020 death parted us physically, but when someone dies, are you ever really spiritually or mentally parted from them? Are they ever not a part of you? Do you ever reach a point where you no longer do things for them?

I almost feel more of a sense of a duty to my late husband as a widow than I did as a wife. I tried articulating this to a friend recently and it was hard to do. I don’t think until you go through this, you can actually understand it. But I’m going to do my best to explain it. When my late husband was alive, he was ultimately responsible for him. Whether he did things that made people smile or annoyed them. For making sure he was present in people’s lives. If he chose to shut himself away from the world that was on him. While I was his wife, I couldn’t do anything to change his behaviour or how people perceived him. It was entirely his responsibility.

Yet he can’t do this any longer. And if I don’t keep his memory alive and try to keep him a part of people’s lives then who does? One of his oldest friends said this Terry Pratchett quote at his Memorial Service “No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.” It’s what I mean about a sense of duty. I feel an inordinate responsibility to him to make sure he’s still thought about and is still in people’s minds. That he’s still causing ripples and isn’t finally dead. This isn’t a pressure that anyone has put on me, this is something that I inextricably feel. That I can’t escape, no matter how much time has passed. Although as time is passing, I’m finding it that little bit harder to do. I sometimes feel conflicted between my past, my present and my future. I think more about whether people would rather I stop banging on about him and talking about our story. Queen of Overthinking. That’s me.

But I do think about it. He crops up in conversations I have a lot of the time. It still feels perfectly natural to me. New people come into my life, and I talk about him with them. Recently, I put myself in check and asked if it was weird that I talk about him with them. These people never met him, is it strange for me to talk about someone they never knew with them? I’m always reassured that it isn’t and that he was such a huge part of my life that it would be weirder if I didn’t talk about him, but these thoughts didn’t cross my mind in the early days. I guess that’s what time does, it makes you more reflective and think about things differently. Equally, I find it weird when I’m around people who did know him, and they don’t talk about him. I recently went out for dinner with people who knew him really well and he wasn’t mentioned all night. It was one of the first things I thought about when I got home. I know it wasn’t done with any malice; it was just one of those things, it was how the conversation flowed but it still felt weird for me. Yet, this isn’t something I’d ever say to them. Because I don’t want to make others feel uncomfortable in my presence. I don’t want people changing who they are and doing or saying things that are unnatural. He wouldn’t want that either.

It’s just the way that life goes. The more time passes, the more his physical presence on this earth fades. It’s the same whenever anybody dies really. But it’s a part of death and grief that I hate. That causes me the most conflict. My life is moving forward, I’ve had brilliant opportunities come my way and I’ve met people who have become important to me. But none of these things would have happened if he was still alive. If I hadn’t gone through what I’ve gone through. It is the biggest juxtaposition of my life. That I still get to live and experience so many amazing things, while he doesn’t. I’m regularly torn between being grateful and being sad about it.

It’s one of the reasons that I do fundraising activities in his name. So that an impact can still be made because of him. But this can be a challenge at times. I’m no athlete, running a marathon is never going to be something I’ll do and nor would I want to do it, so I do what I do best. Organise events. Work with designers and printers to bring his photography to life in the form of calendars and greetings cards. We come back to that sense of duty. He’s not here to do anything with his photography and I feel it would be an utter waste for it to simply sit on a hard drive and not see the light of day. It takes a lot of effort and work to get all these things off the ground. And all the time I’m putting this effort in, this nagging voice at the back of mind queries what if no-one comes to the event? What if no-one buys the calendars or greetings cards? What if no-one really cares anymore? It’s been two years since I last did this, am I being ridiculous to do it again? As I say, I’m the Queen of Overthinking and I do know this, but the constant worry isn’t for me. It’s for him. It’s a fear of letting him down. It’s a fear of him being forgotten.

I feel this so strongly because of our daughter. She never spoke the words “till death us do part” but nonetheless, she has been parted from her father by death. And yet I try to make sure he still lives on for her too. I see it so often when I look at her, she has so many of his mannerisms or Charlie-isms if you prefer. I try to tell her stories about him as often as I can. I’m so, so scared of her not knowing things. Of something happening to me before I’ve had a chance to tell her as many stories about him as I can. We’re reaching a point now where I tell her something and she responds that she knows as I’ve already told her. She does this with a bit of an eye roll too if I’m being perfectly honest. Like I say. She reminds me so much of him. But this is all part of this sense of duty I feel to him. To make sure that his only child can remember him. That she’s able to talk about him. That he’s still able to be an integral part of her life. Again, this wasn’t something I needed to do when I was his wife because they were able to make memories together. He was able to do things with her himself. They were as thick as thieves.

For all these reasons, this last year leading up to this anniversary (or Dad’s Death Day as my daughter calls it) has been one that has seen the worries and concerns I feel increase a lot more than in previous years. There is something about four years that just feels it’s now a bit “too long” since he died. The world seems to be putting the pandemic into the history books. Life for the majority of people has gone back to “normal” (I use this term loosely because who’s to say what is normal anyway). His loss isn’t front and centre any more. And neither should it be. Because that’s the way with loss and grief. We learn to grow around it. We learn to live with it. We learn that we have to move forward, or risk being sucked into a horrible abyss. But it’s just so, so hard. And I wouldn’t be doing myself any favours to pretend it’s not.

My daughter and I recently did the holiday that my late husband and I had planned to do for my 40^th birthday. We just needed to reset this time of year a little bit. To stop the “this time four years ago” thoughts, to not focus on the looming anniversary. And it did just that. Both of us this week have been shocked that it was coming round so soon. That we haven’t been as aware of it as in previous years.

It’s proof that doing a trip at this time of year does us the power of good. We’ll probably always try to go away for a bit each year now. It was an amazing trip. No two ways about it. But there were tears. There were disagreements. I think with such a bittersweet and poignant trip there was always going to be. But there were also a number of little signs of him throughout the whole holiday. Again. I get a bit of an eye roll from my daughter when I say “that’s dad doing that” but it gives me so much comfort. These signs mean the world to me. I genuinely believe and feel that he was watching over us the entire time we were away. Because while he might have also said “till death do us part” and isn’t able to be with us physically, if it is at all possible for him to be with us in spirit, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he will be. With those signs and me still talking about him, it’ll be possible to keep those ripples going. And it’ll be a long time, if at all, until he’s finally dead. And death truly parts us.

I am the one thing in life I can control

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth taken during a photoshoot

So. The control freak is writing about control again. But this time it’s with a different perspective. Because she’s starting to realise that she can’t control and plan for everything. That she needs to just live life in the moment and stop the planning for all eventualities. Although, please don’t worry dear reader, I was still sat down writing a holiday itinerary the other evening!

I also want to mention that for the last two years we’ve seen Hamilton shortly before the anniversary of my late husband’s death and the blogs I’ve written for those anniversaries have been inspired by songs from it. But we were fortunate to win TodayTix lottery tickets so saw it in December last year too. The song “Wait for it” is the inspiration for this blog and title. It’s been going round in my head since we saw it then. Because it’s true. I am the one thing in life I can control. And on days like today I think about this even more.

You see, today is a particularly poignant day for me. It marks two years since I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown if I didn’t stop. It marks one year since I took my daughter to the doctor because of her anxiety. February is also full of reminders and flashbacks to this time four years ago. What was to become our final full normal month as a family of three. I don’t believe things like this will ever leave me.

I last wrote about being in control in April 2022. Two months after the nervous breakdown comment was made. Two months after I was signed off work and was approaching the day I would return. At a time when I was trying to regain the control that I’d lost on 16 March 2020 when we were suddenly all told to work from home and my world felt like it had been flipped on its head. I felt like I was starting to take back control “one tip run at a time.” I said at the time “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.” This last week has shown me that on that point, I’m making great inroads.

Just over a week ago, I received some disappointing news. Something that had been hanging over my head for just under two months hadn’t worked out the way I’d wanted it to. It hurt. It was triggering. Because it brought to the fore the feeling that I try to bury a lot of the time. That I am on my own. That I am the sole person responsible for mine and my daughter’s financial security and future. Almost as soon as I’d had the news I dropped my daughter off to go to the theatre for her birthday and then I came home to an empty house. The silence was deafening. The lack of anyone to put the kettle on for me. The lack of anyone to put their arms around me and reassure me that everything was going to be ok. I broke down on a phone call. It all felt too much for me. I took the dog for a walk to get out of the house. I just needed air and to breathe. To take stock a little bit.

But then I was reminded that while I am on my own, I’m not alone. Supportive messages started. Offers to come and keep me company came in. The amazing people that I’m so fortunate to have around me were there for me once again. I know just how lucky I am to have them. And I don’t take any of them for granted. I allowed myself the opportunity to wallow for a little bit, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, but then I started to look for the positives. I put myself in control. Truth be told it actually scared me a little bit how quickly I was able to do this. Because it’s not who I am. It’s not what I do. I’ve never been that person that bounces back ridiculously quickly. I overthink. I try to plan ahead for problems that are years away. A prime example happened when my stepdad was making the Father of the Bride speech at the first wedding we’d been to since my late husband died. I ran out of the hall having a panic attack because I didn’t know who was going to give my daughter away. “She’s 11, I don’t think we really need to worry about it just yet” was my sister’s brutally honest response. Which, to be fair, I needed. She was right. My daughter might not get married, yet here I was trying to take control and plan for something that might never happen. Because it’s what I do.

Or rather. It’s what I did. I think I first noticed the change in me during that period in 2022. When I booked our “F**k It week” because life is too short and we were just going to do things because we could. I booked activities with a few days’ notice. I lived for the moment and for enjoyment. But, if I’m being honest, it probably just was for a week. I wasn’t really brave enough to go beyond this too much. I needed the stability and security of being the person I’d always been to keep me going. To help me get through life.

But that person is changing. I know she is. I feel it in a way I haven’t really felt before. When my world imploded, when I became a widow and solo parent at the age of 39, all I wanted to do was survive. I had nothing else. If we got through an hour, a day, a week or a month that was enough for me. I remember writing a Facebook post a month after my late husband died that said “This whole experience has irrevocably changed our lives. It’ll continue to do so. But I won’t let it define us or who we become.” Did I really believe we could do this when I wrote it? Or was I trying to take back some control? I’ll never know.

But in August last year, I knew I was taking control of my life again. I mentioned in my New Years Eve blog that I’d done a boudoir photoshoot with Style Photography. This for me was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done. Because it made me see myself through different eyes. The one thing I told the photographer that I wanted to come through in the photos was the fact that I was taking control of my life again. Now. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t completely overthought in the run up to that day. I took way more outfits than I needed because I wasn’t sure what might work. I felt the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt for a lot of the session. But as I was having my hair and make up done, I remember saying “I’ve stopped dying my hair dark, because I’ve realised that getting grey hair is a sign of growing old and that’s a privilege.” Yet while I had this bravado approach, the second the photographer started it ebbed away. I felt I was being such a rubbish model! As much as I’d dictated the photos I wanted in a way to show me taking back control, I didn’t actually feel it or think I’d like them.

A few weeks later I went back to view them. One of me was on the big screen when I sat down. Yet. I didn’t realise it was me. I was in shock. As we went through all the photos, I repeatedly asked if they’d been photoshopped. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. And then we got to the one Mr C would have called the money shot. The one that completely and utterly showed me taking back control of my life. It was exactly what I wanted. It gave me probably the biggest confidence boost I’d had since becoming a widow. As I reflect on this now, I am so grateful for what it gave me. I won the shoot after I saw a competition and entered on a whim. There we go again. Not overthinking, just chancing something. It was beyond empowering. To think that you’re a really rubbish model. To think you’re not being any good at something and then to see the output. To know that that really is you. That at the age of 42 you’ve pushed yourself to do something so far out of your comfort zone. And you like the outcome. I’ve shown these photos to a number of people now. I am so, so proud of them. And while I won’t share some of the more risqué ones publicly because, quite frankly, my daughter will never speak to me again, the collage in this blog are all from that shoot.

And since that day I’ve probably been on a bit of a trajectory. When the world went a little bit mad and threw so much at me in 24 hours just before Christmas, I responded with levity (new favourite word). I didn’t overthink at the fact that things I had no control over were happening to me. I just responded to them in the best way I know how. Similarly, when I had a burst pipe at 10pm one Saturday evening in January, I didn’t cry. I just got on with it. It needed dealing with, so I dealt with it and moved on. No debate. No stress.

The recent news I received could have pushed me one of two ways. I know that. But I’ve controlled how I’ve responded to it. I’ve looked at it from a ridiculously pragmatic perspective (once I got past the tears!) I’m in control of what comes next. It’s made me realise that I need to make changes. That my mindset is changing. That I don’t need to plan for all eventualities, because, let’s face it, they may not happen anyway. What matters in life is how I play the hand that is dealt to me. How I respond to all the challenges that come my way. The example I set to my daughter on how to deal with adversity. They are the only things that I really need to be in control of. Life will happen to me whether I like it or not, and I have absolutely no control over it. My husband dying is a prime example of that. As the song says:

Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep living anyway
We rise and we fall and we break
And we make our mistakes

We’ve fallen and we’ve broken. My god have we done that. It makes me so emotional to think about this day two years ago. But it also makes me so, so proud. I was at the bottom of a very deep and dark pit. I was, essentially, at rock bottom with what felt like no way to get back up again. It’s not been pretty, I’ll admit, but I’ve clawed my way back from the despair. I’ve had no choice. Likewise, when I think about this day last year and my daughter, it makes me emotional. But so, so proud. She has also clawed her way back from despair. I couldn’t have ever imagined writing a blog like this on either of those days. We’ve had to go through what we’ve gone through to make us the people we are today. I hate that in a way. But it’s true. Yet now is our time to rise. Now is the time to look forward and think about what next. Change doesn’t scare me in the way it once did. Because we’ve been through the most unimaginable change and sadness in our lives, yet we don’t, and I refuse to let us, live a sad life. And if change is going to continue helping us, maybe it’s time to start embracing that and letting go of the control a bit more. Who knows where this trajectory will take me. I refuse to be defined by being a widow. I’m me. And I like the person I am. I’m proud of her. There is no-one like me. As the chorus says:

I am the one thing in life I can control
I am inimitable
I am an original

Goodbye 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.

In sickness and in health

November has been a month that I wasn’t really anticipating for Team Charlesworth. I mean, I knew that November was going to happen, but in my military mission planning, I hadn’t anticipated that both of us would be pretty much wiped out by illness. Both of us for the first time since Mr C died.

I’ve written before about how to help me manage work, childcare, dog-care and simply live my life, I plan like I’ve never planned before. And this from the woman who laminates holiday itineraries! But it’s something I have to do now; spontaneity isn’t really a word that is part of my vocabulary since being widowed. There are times that I think it would just be nice to be able to do something without having to plan it weeks or months in advance, but I’ve sort of made peace with it now. This is how my life is and generally speaking, we’ve got in a good routine. Family and friends are brilliant when it comes to helping with Miss C and I have the most amazing doggy home boarder. We’ve got this.

But on 3 November, this routine and control came crashing down. I woke up after a dreadful night and just felt so, so ill. A quick inspection of my throat, on the advice of my sister, revealed white spots at the back of my throat and on my tonsils. I felt like my throat was full of razor blades. I felt exhausted. I did something that I couldn’t tell you the last time I’d done for reasons other than my mental health. I called in sick. I knew that I simply couldn’t work. But, despite feeling so awful, I then did the school run. Because I had no option. I couldn’t simply go back to bed and get Mr C to do it. A few hours later I managed to speak to a doctor and was given a prescription for antibiotics. I rang my mum in tears because I just didn’t think I could drive to pick them up. She got this for me and brought it round. Other than that, I didn’t make it out of bed. I just had no strength to move. Until 3pm, when I went and did the school run.

It might sound silly, but part of me needed to do that school run. I needed to show my daughter that I was still able to function and do a certain number of “normal” things. The last time there was real illness in our house aside from the odd migraine or minor colds was when Mr C fell ill. I don’t ever want her panicking and worrying about me. But more than that. To organise someone else to do it took energy. There is no husband to step in and help me now. If I messaged someone and they couldn’t do it, I’d have to message someone else. And if they couldn’t do it, someone else. I merely didn’t have the headspace to organise this. The organiser was down. So, it became easier to do it myself.

Over the course of that weekend, I barely moved off the sofa. Except do the dancing run and pick up a parcel from Asda. Doing so resulted in me sleeping for three hours because I’d worn myself out. I slept an inordinate amount that weekend. I just couldn’t do anything. It felt like my entire body was being attacked. It felt like my body had simply said “you will stop.” But. I still have a child and a dog. I’m fortunate that my dog is fairly lazy and didn’t object to not being walked for days. But it’s not that easy with a child. She still needed looking after, she still needed feeding and all the things I’d usually do. But I couldn’t do it. She was amazing. She cared for me. She cooked all the meals. She put the shopping away when it was delivered. She sat and did her homework while I slept. Granted, I did query why she can’t do this when I’m not ill! But there was no alternative. In the same way she stepped in and cared for me when I fell apart when Mr C died, she was having to do it all again. This is the part of childhood bereavement that I think gets forgotten. In circumstances such as ours, children end up caring for adults. They take on a huge burden of responsibility. Because there is no-one else in the house to do it.

All of this made me feel exceptionally vulnerable. It reignited those feelings I’d had in the summer when I ended up in minor injuries with a head injury. Because while I’m not alone, it just reminded me that I am, on my own. And there is no obvious person to step in and help any more. I didn’t ask for this. Yet here I am, living and dealing with it. The feeling of vulnerability is always there, but sometimes it becomes all consuming. Being ill was another example of that.

It took me a good couple of weeks to feel human and feel like myself again. I knew that I had to listen to my body and not do too much. I was too scared of relapsing. But what I hadn’t known about tonsillitis until now was that it completely drains you, as well as giving you a sore throat. I couldn’t go to the office for a week because I had no energy. I had to go to bed early. I just had to rest and look after me.

And then. Just as I thought we were back on an even keel; Miss C fell ill last weekend. That military mission planning was really being tested. In the early hours of Monday morning, I awoke to her being sick. All over my bedroom carpet. Absolutely not her fault, illness is what it is, but it needed dealing with. But in a horrible reminder of the night Mr C went to ICU, I was once again torn. I knew she needed me to be with her and needed cuddles, but I also knew I had to clear up because to leave it until the morning would just make it worse. Once again, just as she was on 30 March 2020, she had to be on her own for a little bit. It was triggering for me. The guilt I feel towards her about being on her own when our entire world was collapsing is something that I don’t think will ever leave me.

But just a few hours later, the alarm went off for me to get up for work. I was knackered. Fortunately, I was working from home, but I was juggling a sick child and work for the first time. That vulnerability and feeling of being on my own kicked in again. There was no trade off. There was no-one for me to say to “can you sit with her today while I work, and then I’ll do it tomorrow?” I was juggling it all on my own. My mum and stepdad took over for me on Wednesday so that I was able to go into the office, but I’ve not been able to go in as much as I’d planned to this week. The military planning hasn’t worked this week. Because, at the end of the day, what my daughter wants and needs when she’s ill is a parent. There’s nothing quite like a hug from your parent when you’re sick. And I’m the only one she’s got now. I know how hard that is for her. Especially when she’s feeling ill. It’s time like this that you miss the person you’ve lost even more. She hasn’t said it, but I strongly suspect she’s feeling just as vulnerable as me right now. And that loss is feeling even more paramount. As she went to bed the other night she looked at me and said, “thank you for caring for me.” I told her it’s what I’ll always do. It’s what she’ll always do. We’ll care for each other forever. Because the last three and a half years have taught us even more that it’s what we need to do. Nothing else really matters except the two of us.

Yet as well as having someone to care for us in sickness, I’ve also really missed that person to care for us in health. I’m rapidly approaching four years into this new life of mine, but over the past few months, I’ve felt his absence that little bit more. When opportunities have presented themselves, I’ve not had anyone at home with me to discuss and sanity check them with. To just talk through the pros and cons. I’ve had to apply for a mortgage on my own for the first time and be the sole person to make financial decisions about our future. No-one to discuss it with. Likewise, when I was ill, I didn’t have that sounding board and person to talk to. To be able to look after me and our daughter. While Miss C has been ill, I’ve not had that person to bounce thoughts off. To stop me googling her symptoms at 3:30am. To help me rationalise.

This month and our illnesses have been firsts for us. And they’re probably firsts that no-one really thinks about. In a way I consider myself lucky that it’s taken over three years for us to face them. But at the same time, it’s been a stark reminder that our lives are changed forever. We no doubt still have so much more ahead of us that will be firsts that we aren’t expecting. But one thing I do know. The formidable team that is me and Miss C will face them headlong together. It’s what we do. And nothing and no-one will ever break us.

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 51^st 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.

Am I going to die?

“Your sister has had an incident with a rabbit.”

I’m fairly sure this isn’t what my sister was expecting to hear when she saw my daughter’s number flash up on her phone last Sunday afternoon. Confused is the best way to describe her response. And I think the confusion became even greater when my mum followed up with that the Easter Bunny had fallen on my head. We’re in August after all, what on earth was she expected to think?!

But let me take you back to the beginning of this story. Last weekend was the weekend I’d had earmarked for months to empty, sort and tidy up the man cave at the bottom of the garden. It’s become a bit of a dumping ground over the last couple of years, but when it reached the point that I was struggling to even get in and needed to climb over boxes just to move, I knew something had to be done. The past few months have been pretty chaotic, and we had to clear it in the summer to prevent things being rained on, so August it was. I’d been off work for a couple of weeks, and it just felt like this was the perfect opportunity.

Saturday morning, I was fired up. I was raring to go. I was annoyed with myself that I’d let it get into this state and became a bit of a woman on a mission. “No, not used that in years, that can go” became a frequent phrase of mine. My mum, stepdad and I created piles of bits to stay, go to the tip (I do love a tip run after all!) and go to charity shops. By mid afternoon on Saturday, one side was all done and dusted. A proper sense of achievement, and I felt that Sunday would be a slightly easier day as the majority of the bits on the other side were already in boxes and just needed organising better.

But on Sunday morning, I wasn’t feeling as fired up. I’d woken up and tried to find family photos and videos of Mr C singing to send to accompany a recent podcast I’d recorded, and in that moment, I felt sad. The tears started to flow, and it felt like it was going to be harder doing more sorting of his belongings without him. It was, as I’ve come to know them, “a grief-y day.” But I persevered. My mum and stepdad came round again to help, and we got it done. More charity shop bags were created, and another tip run booked. We were going to finish earlier than the previous day and would then be all good to sit down with a cuppa. That was, until the Easter Bunny attacked.

As my mum and I went to put something in front of the windows, I accidently knocked the bunny which was on top of a box. It fell, hit me on the head and then fell to the floor where its foot was smashed off. I swore quite emphatically. It had really hurt after all, but I then continued with what I was doing. Mum walked out of the man cave to get a bag of peas or something else cold to pop on my head (benefit of her having been a nurse for over 30 years, she knows exactly what to do in circumstances like this). And then I realised my head and neck felt wet, feeling confused I put my hand there and discovered I was bleeding, and in my mind, there was a lot of blood.

“I’m bleeding” I then shouted and went to sit down in the garden. Mum was there, putting wet, cold kitchen towel on my head to stem the bleeding and I think it was at this point, I went into shock. “Am I going to die?” I asked her. The rational side of me knew I wasn’t, I hadn’t passed out and it wasn’t the most severe of bangs to the head, but the fear was palpable. As I looked at my daughter, I sobbed “I can’t die, I can’t leave her by herself, please don’t let me die.” Again, rational Emma knew this was unlikely, but vulnerable, irrational, widow Emma was scared. I think this Emma took my mum a little by surprise, it’s not often that I’m vulnerable like this in front of others. At this point, she sent my daughter indoors to make me a cup of sweet tea and made the call to my sister in a bid to get her to help calm me down and see sense. Ever the pragmatic realist, my sister was able to do this to a point and then we went to Minor Injuries.

Explaining that a giant rabbit had fallen on my head did feel, quite frankly, ridiculous. But then came the question which anyone who has lost someone close to them dreads “who is your next of kin?” I’d been there before; I knew chances were that I’d already changed it from Mr C but in that moment everything just felt too much. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s my mum” was my response as I started crying again. I don’t want to be reminded that I no longer have a spouse. The receptionist very kindly gave me a tissue and then I went to sit in the waiting area. Fortunately, I was seen relatively quickly and established I didn’t need stitches or any further treatment but needed to rest and do very little for the next 24 hours. I went back to my mums where she cooked us dinner, dozed on and off and then went home.

The next morning when I woke up, I was still feeling incredibly vulnerable. It just reminded me that accidents happen. Life can change in a heartbeat. The fear of leaving my daughter was the highest it’s been for a very long time. I sat on the sofa and just sobbed. While the physical pain had lessened, the emotional pain was a little bit higher. The underlying fear that lives inside me was that little bit higher. I don’t do sitting at the best of times but knew that I needed to rest. As much for my mental health as the physical recovery.

A few hours later, my stepdad popped round to help me take things to the charity shop and the dog to the groomers. But in another twist of fate, as we were looking at a broken picture frame, I unclipped part of it and a large shard of glass slipped and cut his leg. There was blood everywhere. Not overly great when you live with a child who doesn’t do blood! The fear crept in again, I felt sick. How could this have happened? Someone had literally just popped round to help me and there’d been another accident. I wasn’t entirely sure this was what was meant by taking it easy! Back to Minor Injuries I went, and the wait times were a lot longer than they’d been the day before. The guilt kicked in even more at this point, he was going to be there over lunch, and it was all my fault. I’d have to tell mum who was at work blissfully unaware of the carnage that had occurred. To cut a long story short, Minor Injuries were unable to help him, and he then had to go to A&E. Two hospitals, stitches, tetanus, antibiotics and eight hours after he’d come round to mine, he finally made it home. Guilt, emotion, vulnerability increasing by the second.

And as we were sat waiting for news from him, my daughter put Gavin and Stacey on. The episode where they get married. If you’ve not seen it, the bride’s uncle brings out a letter from her late father that he wrote for her wedding day. My tears were back. I yelled at my daughter to turn it off. I just couldn’t face dealing with seeing this on a TV screen. It’s something that pains me to this day and will probably pain me forever that Mr C never got the chance to do something like this. That he never got to tell people how he felt about them, to write letters for her as she grows up and more importantly, that he never got to say goodbye. To anyone. He was robbed of that opportunity, and I hate it. I absolutely hate it. For him and everyone who was left behind.

I went to bed that night emotionally fraught and done in again. Two accidents in two days. I was feeling the most vulnerable and fearful I’d felt in such a long time. I just wanted someone to give me a hug and tell me it was all going to be ok. Yet over the next few days, these feelings started to dissipate a little. My daughter had some friends over, I had my lovely WAY angel stay, we took cheques to both The Big Cat Sanctuary and Medway Hospital ITU totalling £2,020 from the profits from his calendar sales. I started to feel a bit more with it again. I then went away on Friday for a fabulous weekend with friends to see Jason Donovan. I’ve probably drunken and eaten too much over the past few days, but I’ve also let go. I’ve not been Control Freak Emma (can I get a range of dolls made like Barbie please?!) and I’ve had so much fun.

And on the drive home today it hit me. A week ago, I was a mess. A proper emotional mess. But what I’m learning as I go through widowhood is that while these days and feeling like this will never, ever go away, what has happened and will continue to happen, is that I’m better at managing them, accepting that they’re part of life and being able to bounce back that little bit quicker from them each and every time. I’ve learnt that it’s ok to be vulnerable, but it’s been a heck of a long time since that vulnerability and fear came to the fore as it did last weekend.

Yet that’s ok, and just serves as a very good reminder to be wary of the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas in future… turns out when they’re mixed with a clumsy person they can be a tad dangerous!

Widowhood is like a walk in the park

Imagine of the last selfie of Emma and Stuart Charlesworth plus a recent picture of Emma Charlesworth

Tomorrow marks our fourth Fathers’ Day without Mr C. I’m not sure there will ever come a time that this feels right, our daughter only had 10 with him, how can she possibly have done four without him by the time she goes to bed tomorrow night? And tomorrow also marks three years since I made my first post in the Widowed and Young (WAY) Facebook group, introducing myself, sharing the last ever selfie of the two of us and telling a brief overview of our story. Looking back now I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t really know what it was going to be like living as a widow when I made this post. And more importantly, what it was going to be like living as a young widow. I think the t-shirt my sister bought me for Christmas sums it up. It’s like a walk in the park. Assuming that park is Jurassic Park.

I’ve written before about being a little bit of a control freak. I’ve struggled at the complete and utter lack of control in my life a lot over the last three years. Yes. I do try to find ways to bring elements of control into it, but the simple fact is that I’m not sure I’ll ever be 100% in control again. And that is quite a scary prospect. A couple of months ago, after a particularly difficult day, I was sat just before midnight, with a bottle of wine, sobbing ( otherwise known as a Widow Wail (phrase I learnt today while hosting a WAY New Member Zoom)) and needing to read all the Facebook posts made in the days after he died and watching his funeral simply to feel close to him. This came from nowhere. I didn’t wake up that morning expecting it to be a difficult day for us. I didn’t wake up that morning and think “I know what’ll make for a fun Saturday night. I’ll watch his funeral until the early hours.” But this is what I mean about the lack of control. I don’t have a choice as to how I feel on any given day, it just sneaks up and hits me. Looking back to the day I made that initial post in the WAY group, I’m not entirely sure what I envisaged my life would be like, but a tiny part of me wouldn’t have expected days like this to still be happening nearly three years in. Naivete, I guess. But I didn’t really know what to expect. Who does? Grief is the most individual thing to experience, no matter how many others around you are also experiencing it.

The untold pressure I feel is huge. The ramifications of everything I do constantly weigh on my mind. Shortly before we went on holiday recently, I had a day whereby I just completely and utterly felt like I had let my daughter down. That I wasn’t good enough. That the juggle of working full time, being a mother, grieving the loss of my husband, trying to sort out care for my nan and still make time for me simply meant I’d dropped some balls along the way. And this was going to, and will have, an impact on us over the next year. My sister, quite rightly, put me in my place and told me that in no way had I let my daughter down, but it didn’t stop the feeling. It didn’t stop the tears that fell. Because I’m all my daughter has now. If I mess up, if I’m not at the top of my game, if I drop some balls, then it has a knock-on effect on what I can do for her, what I can offer her and there’s no-one else to step in and take that pressure off. The rational side of me knows that I am good enough, all she really needs is to feel loved and I give her that in spades, but that irrational, grieving widow just sometimes forgets it. And I simply don’t get a choice as to which version of me takes over and leads the charge when it comes to my thoughts.

And that leads me nicely onto another learning over the past three years. Choice. Or rather the lack of it. I wasn’t given a choice about this situation. Because I can safely assure you that I would have said no had this been the case! It’s one of the reasons I struggled so much in the early days with everyone telling me how brave and strong I was, I just wanted to shout at them that I wasn’t. That I was simply trying to live with the hand that life had dealt me. About six months in, I think I was ready to punch the next person who called me brave or strong (for anyone who watched the Kelsey Parker, Life after Tom documentary, you would have actually seen me say this on National TV!) but it’s true. I’m now better at acknowledging that yes, I have been insanely strong to not only achieve all I have in the most surreal of circumstances, but to still be standing. I’m not sure I’ll ever willingly call myself brave, but I will admit strength. It’s a strength I simply didn’t know I had in me until I was put through the toughest test of my life.

I’ve had to learn to adjust to the lack of choice about all aspects of my life. When I was growing up and imagining the marriage and the 2.4 children, at no point did I envisage being 42, on my own, solo parenting and having to ask my mum’s permission to go out! A prime example of this happened recently, I’d been in the office all day, my daughter was with my mum after school and some rather fabulous friends suggested meeting for a drink off the train. But I can’t just say yes anymore and tell Mr C what I’m doing, I had to ring my mum and ask if this was ok. When we then decided to stay out a teeny bit later, I again had to ring to ask if I could stay out later. 9pm was the agreed time that my stepdad would come and pick me up. 42 and on a curfew set by my mum, definitely living the dream here! But while I joke about this, the simple reality is that I couldn’t do anywhere near as much as I do without my mum and stepdad. From going to the office, to having nights out and the odd weekend away, I just couldn’t do it. I am forever indebted to them for all they do, and will continue to do for us. I don’t have the adequate words to express my gratitude, but it doesn’t mean I find it easy. To constantly have to check that they can help me out, and if they can’t, then have to ask friends or other family if they can. I absolutely 100% know that none of them mind in the slightest, and that people are happy to help, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. While I might be Little Miss Organised and Little Miss Laminator, there are times when I wish spontaneity was a word that existed in my new life a little bit more.

It’s why I often do a bit of an eye roll when people ask me about dating again. Could you imagine what a catch I’d be? “I can offer you a Friday night in two months’ time once I’ve coordinated childcare, dog-care, work and around the other existing plans I’ve made months in advance because I have to get my life planned in order to do anything. Oh, and by the way, I also have an irrational love for Jason Donovan.” Who wouldn’t want me?! Again, the sarcastic, self-defensive side of me kicks in, because it’s just so, so hard to contemplate.

My daughter and I have recently had some very heated discussions about the prospect of me dating again. She inadvertently discovered the profile I’d created on a dating app, and it led to her feeling that I’d lied to her. But the simple truth, and as I told her, is I don’t think I want to date right now or go headlong into a relationship. I’m not actually sure where I’d find the time, but maybe that’s just because it’s not high on my list of priorities and if it was, I’d make time. But that doesn’t stop me feeling lonely. It doesn’t stop me wanting to have someone to care for. To have someone care for me. And have someone at the end of a long day send you a message asking how your day was.

It was the day after one of these discussions with her that I read an article by one of my LinkedIn connections, Alex Delaney, Co-Founder of Lemons.Life whereby she spoke about how she reacted after losing her husband. For the more easily offended among you, you might want to stop reading now! But I applaud Alex for being so honest about her experience and in particular about “Widows Fire.” Again. Another term that three years ago I hadn’t heard of. I can categorically tell you that this exists and is utterly real. There are days when you crave, long for and would do just about anything to have physical touch, to the point that it’s probably quite fortunate that our postman doesn’t have to ring the bell and can just leave parcels in the porch! Because it is that strong and overwhelming. It comes from nowhere. And there is no rhyme or reason for it.

But here’s the thing. Even if I wanted to go down the route that Alex chose to, it’s not that simple for me. We’re back to that choice and permission again. I very rarely go back to an empty house. Whoever is looking after my daughter always asks me where I’m going, who I’m going out with, and what time I’ll be home. Without question I’m exceptionally lucky to have so many people care for me, but could you imagine if I was to respond with “You wouldn’t know him Mum, I’m just off to have a casual night with someone I met on the internet.” I’m fairly sure that I know the response I’d get! And while there is a running joke amongst family and friends that I have 12 men on the go (I don’t, for the avoidance of doubt), I’m 42 now, I’m not sure where I’d get the energy from to do this! But if I’m being honest, there is a part of me that wonders what it must be like to be this age, to still want to feel desired, to act on those desires and not have to plan it weeks or possibly months in advance.

Yet, this is something my daughter cannot understand, because she simply doesn’t have the emotional maturity to. To her, it’s simple. I either love her dad or I love someone else. It’s not possible for me to do both. It’s not possible for me to love him but go out on dates. There is no just having a bit of fun. Even a friend with benefits would be out of the question if she had her way. Because in her eyes there is no grey. It’s black and white. And I completely understand that. I’m supportive of, and completely respect her views and do all I can do to reassure her that I’m not about to abandon her for a man. But it doesn’t mean that this is an easy situation for me to deal with. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want some affection, that I don’t think about it and wonder ‘what if?’ It doesn’t mean that I don’t get frustrated at what feels like a complete lack of choice or options.

Yet I’d be lying if I said widowhood had been all doom and gloom. It hasn’t. I have smiled, laughed, have had some brilliant adventures and am looking healthy again with a sparkle in my eyes. That’s not to say I wouldn’t give anything to have Mr C back, but I do find that you have to look for the things to be thankful for. For a start, I’d never have got away with the new flooring I chose in my kitchen and conservatory, decorating our utility room to be insanely pink or putting up numerous photos of Jason around the house. But more than anything widowhood has taught me so much about myself and what I’m capable of. It’s brought some rather brilliant and amazing people into my life who I’m fortunate to call friends. Again, I didn’t envisage that when I made that first post and while I hate what’s brought us together, I feel very lucky to have found them. None of us want to be in this situation, but that common ground is something that along with a dark sense of humour keeps us all going. It creates a bond. And without question shows that there is a WAY forward and that it is possible to keep living. Even on those very dark days.

Hang on to your love

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth and Jason Donovan across 2022

For the last two years I’ve posted a blog on 1 June, or as I prefer to call it Jason’s birthday. Mind you, since my daughter learnt it’s also Tom Holland’s birthday on 1 June, apparently that takes priority. Honestly. I don’t know where she gets it from. But as I read back the blogs from the last two years, I wasn’t sure if I’d have anything to say this year in honour of Jason’s birthday. I didn’t want it to feel like I was shoehorning a blog in just for the sake of mentioning him (again). And then I realised that once again this year, there’s been some key moments and learnings that have been linked to Jason. Probably not a surprise really.

I think back to this time a year ago when I wrote about just how difficult I’d found it changing my profile pic to be one that didn’t feature Mr C, and how it was a photo with Jason that finally made me feel able to do it. I’ve changed my profile picture on Facebook numerous times since then, each time it gets that little bit easier. I don’t overthink it anywhere near as much as I was doing before. I guess this is what people mean when they talk about time being a healer.

But while time does help to heal, and can show you how much progress you’ve made, the reality of mine and my daughter’s situation never really goes away. A classic example of this came at the end of June last year, the night before I was due to see Jason in Grease with my Northern Nutter. Every now and then, things just get too much for Miss C, she is essentially a carbon copy of me, she can go and go and then things build up and it’s like we’re a pressure cooker. Simply explode. It’s the best analogy I have to describe both of us, and it’s something that I’ve had to work on a lot over the years. This evening in particular was a bad one for her, which ultimately means it’s a bad one for me too.

It was a stark reminder that despite all the other hats I wear, that I’m a mother. First and foremost, I’m a mother. Every single day since Mr C fell ill has ultimately reinforced that. I would do absolutely anything for my daughter, because she is, without question, my priority. And as she exploded at me, my fears and concern for her were so great, that I knew that despite how much I was looking forward to the following day, I couldn’t go. She, not Jason, was who I needed to spend the following evening with. I didn’t want to leave her.

This wasn’t me being overdramatic, this is my reality. I will simply prioritise her above me every single time. I rang my sister and asked her to take the ticket and to go the following day. I explained what had happened and that I simply didn’t want to not be at home. I didn’t want my daughter to feel I was abandoning her. Yes. I really was prepared to give up a ticket to see Jason for my daughter.

And while my sister said that she would take it, she talked to me. She rang and spoke to my daughter. She was the voice of reason for both of us. Because she reminded me that I’m also a person. And every now and then I am ok to prioritise me. Despite whatever else might be going on in my life, sometimes prioritising me is ok. It was quite hard to hear. I felt guilty for wanting to still go and have fun and see Jason. The constant conflict in my life. But 24 hours later I was so blinking glad she had reminded me of that. I simply had the most fabulous time with my kindred spirit eating fish finger sandwiches (nothing wrong with brown bread right?!), drinking cocktails and prosecco, and learning that I will simply never be as cool as she is even when I attempt to dress as a Pink Lady. I have never laughed so much at a stage door stakeout, especially when the three policemen walked up behind us! It was definitely worth the wait, Jason was as wonderful as ever, he posed for photos with us both and we whooped appropriately as he’d asked us to when he came on stage.

At the end of the day, I went home and was still a mother. But I actually think I was a slightly better one because I’d given myself a night off and looked after me. I don’t know if it was the cocktails talking, but it simply reminded me that I can’t pour from an empty cup. Prioritising me is just as important as prioritising my daughter. But that’s one of the things about widowhood and solo parenting a bereaved child, you tend to forget that a lot of the time.

Yet I won’t lie, the surprise trip to Bristol in September a few months later was prioritising Miss C. Yes, Jason was obviously there too, but I made the sacrifice and organised a brilliant surprise for so she could be front row to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and in particular, Jac Yarrow as Joseph. She had no idea until my sister and I got her to the theatre and saw Jac standing there. He was as lovely as always and when I met Jason a little bit later, his words to me “It’s been a long time, how are you?” made me melt. Not going to lie about that! And just a few weeks later in October, prioritising my daughter was again, without question, what I needed to do. You see, we went to see Joseph in Southend. On driving there, we learnt that Jac was ill and wouldn’t be performing. I think it’s fair to say that my daughter was heartbroken on learning this. “Are we stage dooring?” my mum asked when we arrived. “No” was my response. Because as much as I always love to do a stage door stakeout and chat to Jason, in that moment, I knew that my daughter was my priority. It would have simply been too hard for her to do it knowing that it wouldn’t have been possible for her to see the one person she wanted to. I couldn’t do that to her. That day she was the priority. Not me. Not Jason. Her. Because I’m first and foremost a mother. And I don’t want her feeling any more pain than she needs to.

Plus I knew I was seeing Jason again a couple of weeks later in Grease two nights in a row (a first for me). This was around the time that I was simply trying to do too much, trying to prove that I could do my old life and ultimately coming to the realisation that I can’t do that anymore. It’s what led me to realise that I’m not wonder woman and to re-evaluate all I was doing. See. Everything always, always comes back to Jason! Yet the stage door escapades were just as amusing as they had been back in June, even if he did tell me and the Northern Nutter off for waiting for him and not being in the theatre! Most amusing of all was his question “who’s Carl?” upon seeing my We love Carl badge (that’s a whole other story to be fair). It was another fun evening, yet, I can see in the photos how tired I looked. It was a far cry from how I’d looked in June and September. My Jason photos of 2022 really do tell a story about my widowhood journey.

And sadly, I didn’t manage to find anyone that wanted to take me to Australia to see Jason in Rocky Horror which is where he’s been for a large part of 2023. But he was back in the UK and did a one-off gig at Indigo at The O2 in April. Obviously I got tickets, although that in itself wasn’t without its stresses and confusion! And as the excitement started to build, a couple of friends made me smile. Without even realising just how much I value it, they started to wind me up. Both of these people have come into my life in the last year, and I hope they’ll both be in my life for a long time to come. “I think he’s got your name on the door to get security to question you. I’d be surprised if you made it in” was one of the messages received. When I joked with my other friend that I was on a hot date that evening, “Do not mention JD” was his response. I subsequently admitted that the hot date was, in fact, a Jason gig. But this ribbing about Jason really does mean a lot to me. Because it’s what Mr C used to do. As much as I tell my friends off for being mean to me, I secretly enjoy it. I enjoy the banter. It’s like when my daughter said “Is that all? Feels like you’ve been banging on about that for forever” when I told her it was a year since I’d got engaged. In an odd way, these things help keep Mr C with me and a part of the Jason adoration. Because every time I get a cutting comment from my daughter or messages from friends like these, I smile or laugh as I used to when he used to send them. I like the fact that I can be so open now about Jason from the off with new people who come into my life and that they feel comfortable enough to wind me up about it. It took years for me to get like that with Mr C, but now it’s simply part of who I am. Take it or leave it. I’m not giving up Jason for anyone, not even for that handsome millionaire that I’ve tasked my friends with finding for me!

And just the other day when on a work call, a new colleague queried the picture in my office. “Oh, that’s my marriage proposal from Jason Donovan” was my response as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to have something like this on your wall. Again, I was reminded how far I’ve come in feeling comfortable in myself to have conversations like this. How it doesn’t bother me anymore that while it might not be cool to admit to being a Jason Donovan fan, it’s certainly not something I’d have done in my teenage years or early 20s, it’s just part of who I am. A woman who is first and foremost a mother, but a woman who has also had some amazing experiences and learnings thanks to the celebrity she fell in love with at the age of seven. To write a blog dedicated to that man on his birthday once a year isn’t shoehorning him in, it’s actually the most natural thing in the world to do. Because he’s a massive part of my rollercoaster life. And one day, when I grow up, I still want to marry Jason Donovan. I think I always will.

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.

	sylviabutcher37 on Till death do us part?
	Emma Charlesworth on I am the one thing in life I c…
	Sylvia Butcher on I am the one thing in life I c…
	I am the one thing i… on Goodbye 2023
	I am the one thing i… on One tip run at a time…

	sylviabutcher37 on Till death do us part?
	Emma Charlesworth on I am the one thing in life I c…
	Sylvia Butcher on I am the one thing in life I c…
	I am the one thing i… on Goodbye 2023
	I am the one thing i… on One tip run at a time…