Tag: Hope

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday to me…?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Day of Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday Miss C

Family picture of The Charlesworths

To the most amazing person I know,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mum xx

Goodbye 2022

Photos from across 2022

Wow. 2022 is done. Pretty sure that’ll go down in my history as that was the year that was. A year that took so much. A year that gave so much. A year that made me look at the world differently. A year that feels like it could have been about 10 years in one in all honesty.

Before writing this, I read back the blog I wrote this time last year. I ended it with the phrase “I am good enough.” Funny. Within six weeks I wasn’t feeling this anymore. My world capitulated. I was signed off work sick. I was forced to stop. I was forced to really and truly look after me. I don’t doubt when I wrote that blog that I meant it, but now I just think I was still trying to convince myself. I’m not convinced now that I properly believed it.

But that’s how grief works. That’s how stress works. You think you’re ok. You think you’ve made progress. But it’s only when you look back at where you were that you realise that while you were ok and had made progress, it wasn’t nearly as much as you thought you’d made. I remember looking at a photo of from New Year’s Eve last year and saying that the smile reached my eyes and I wanted to hold on to that feeling. But again, that smile faded relatively quickly.

I honestly thought going into this year that I was a lot further ahead than I was. I didn’t realise the effect that stress was having on me. I didn’t realise that my emotional resilience simply isn’t as strong as it once was. I doubt it ever will be again. I’d spent 2021 adjusting to reality and trying so very hard to keep going, to keep things as they’d always been, that I didn’t think about what was best for me as I started to look for coping mechanisms for adjusting to my new life.

As I look back over this year, I realise that I spent a lot of 2022 looking for distraction techniques. I absolutely know that I did it. I gave so much of myself to others as a way of stopping me thinking about me and what I was distracting myself from. And for what? Were these the people messaging me on Christmas Day to wish a Merry Christmas? No. People who are willing to take and not give back aren’t really the people that someone like me needs. Plus I’ve learnt something invaluable in the last few months. Distraction only really works in the short term. It’s only really preventing the inevitable. You can only really jump from one distraction to another for a short amount of time. It’s quite tiring for this to be sustained.

But it’s fair to say that new people have become a big part of my life this year. In an odd sort of way, it’s easier talking to and being with these people. The people who didn’t know me before (my life genuinely feels marked by the timeline of before Mr C died and after). Yes, I talk about him with them. But it’s on my terms. I like and enjoy being with people that didn’t know him, that only know me and accept me for who I am now. This is no doubt incredibly selfish of me, but when you’re trying to work out who you are and find your way, you sometimes have to be selfish.

A perfect example is someone who has become an integral part of my life this year. I received a message recently because of a conversation they’d had about me. “I don’t think we’d have met if she hadn’t lost her husband, and I’d give anything for that to be the situation” was the phrase that hit home. Because that’s it. My life is now on a different trajectory. With different people. With a different outlook. With a different mentality. I hate “what ifs” but they’re all par for the course. They’re what mess with my head the most. If Mr C hadn’t have died, what would my life be like? Who would be in it? What experiences would I have had?

Online dating is a prime example of something I wouldn’t have entertained if he was still here. And after my small foray into it this year, I do still sort of like the idea and haven’t totally given up that one day in the future someone may care for me or love me again (damn those cheesy Christmas films I’ve been watching! Although if anyone knows a widower like Jude Law, please send him my way!) But someone else in my life is still not something Miss C is willing to entertain. And that’s perfectly understandable and something we’ll have to work through if the Jude Law widower appears. Right now though, she much prefers the idea of me being on my own forever and becoming a Crazy Cat Lady with nine cats. Touching really.

But even creating an online profile is something that a year ago I wouldn’t have felt capable of doing. It wasn’t on the agenda. I know I said this at the end of 2021: “I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to” but attempting to date wasn’t one of those plans. Damn those curveballs. And I also know I didn’t achieve as many of those ambitions as I wanted to because of curveballs and distraction techniques. But add those to your world capitulating within six weeks and it’s actually very hard to.

But I have achieved some of those plans. And so very much more. I’ve seen Jason (once or twice!), I’ve had weekends away and nights out with the girls, I’ve done a lot more as “Emma” (including meeting Ronan Keating, not sure my sister will forgive me if I don’t mention that!), I’ve been to Wales and Scotland for two Widowed and Young (WAY) events, my blog was nominated for the Helen Bailey Award, I’ve appeared on TV as part of the Kelsey Parker: Life After Tom documentary, I’ve participated in a 25 Tuesday’s with WAY Instagram Live, I’ve spoken on the panel at the launch of the UK Commission on Bereavement’s “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report, I’ve hosted a fundraising event in memory of Mr C raising £3,500 for Medway Hospital’s Critical Care unit, I’ve launched a 2023 calendar featuring his photos and I’ve joined my daughter on an Instagram live with Winston’s Wish.

And on Miss C. This hasn’t been an easy year for her. The secondary losses she’s adjusting to have felt worse this year. But as a pair, we’re getting there. We’re finding a rhythm. We can argue like cat and dog at times. But we keep going. My proudest moment of the year was watching her dance at Disneyland Paris with her dance school. I’d have paid a fortune just to see that smile again, but I didn’t need to. Her being able to perform gave her that. We’ve managed overseas trips together. Florida, Paris and New York. I’m not going to lie, there’s been tricky moments during all of these trips. But somehow, we get through them. We’ve got through so much worse, we’re still living with pain and we always will be, but our little rhythm is picking up a bit of pace.

And these trips are just some of the firsts we’ve had to do in 2022. Anyone that tells you all the firsts are done within the first year is wrong. Partly because we lost in a pandemic. This year has also seen us return to the theatre for the annual panto trip for Miss C’s birthday, we’ve seen Mr C’s football team for the first time at a charity match which raised money for WAY in his memory, Miss C did her first dance show since 2019, her first dance show Christmas party (where I incidentally performed a Street dance having started lessons in September, although I’m not sure she was as proud of me as I was of her in Paris!!!!), and a return to friends for their annual Christmas gathering.

Life has slowly, slowly returned to “normal” this year. Except it isn’t our normal. Our normal was with Mr C. But he’s not here anymore. I don’t actually know what our normal is. I don’t know if I ever will. I’ll always be a widow. My daughter will always be growing up without her father. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told her this hasn’t been a normal year. It’s exceptionally unlikely we’ll ever have a year filled with as much as we have this year. I think we’ve got one more theatre trip to do and then we’re finally caught up on rescheduled dates.

I know that 2023 will be very different. The theatre trips and days out will be less, the overseas trips won’t be able to happen as frequently, I’ve got to adjust to being a one salary household against a cost of living crisis and the return to normal activities. There’s going to be some tough decisions coming my way because of this. I know that. I’ve got decisions to make regarding my future career, in the short term, medium term and long term. Sacrifices are going to have to be made. Nearly three years since my late husband died, I’m now in a position where the world is open, costs are higher and life on my own is harder.

But. I will make these decisions. They feel a little overwhelming but I’ll make them. Because it’s what I do. I’m so exceptionally proud of 2022 and all I’ve achieved. But the thing I’m proud of most of all is the fact that I’m still standing. 11 months ago I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown. It was one of the biggest wake up calls I’ve ever had to face. Something had to give. I had to stop. I had to look after me. It’s taken a hell of a lot of adjusting for me.

If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control, because I wonder what I’m now actually capable of. What comes next for Emma? If I strip back the distraction techniques, the need to constantly be busy, the constant trying to find out who I am and the acceptance that I am not Wonder Woman, what can I achieve? I don’t know. It’s going to be exciting to find out so bring on 2023. Because if 2022 has taught me anything, it’s to remember the words to a song I say is my song and regularly tell myself:

“Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did?

Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid

And I’m still standing after all this time.”

It’s been a long time

Various images of Emma with quote from Young, Widowed and Dating

Oh how I’ve debated writing this one. I’ve debated publishing this one. I’ve debated whether this is a part of my story that I want to share. I’ve debated whether it’s a sensible one to write. But the trouble is. This has been whirling around in my head. And when that happens, I know I need to write. And I also doubt that I’m the only one that has gone through, or will go through this…

A while back, I decided to join a dating app. I didn’t really know why at that time. But it felt like something I needed to try. I didn’t even know what I really wanted to come out of it. I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted a relationship. I wasn’t really sure anyone would want me and all my baggage. Let’s face it, I come with a lot! And around the same time I randomly heard a Bruce Springsteen song (Secret Garden) that I hadn’t heard for years. There’s a couple of lines in it that resonated:

“She’ll let you into the parts of herself

That’ll bring you down.

She’ll let you in her heart

If you got a hammer and a vice.”

Yup. That was my worry. Admit to the dead husband and I’d bring anyone that was interested in me down. And the fear of being hurt and losing someone again makes me feel as though my heart is impenetrable without serious trying on their part. God help anyone that made the mistake of liking me! But most importantly, whatever was to come of this, I didn’t want anything that would throw me and my daughter off kilter. I knew that if anything was to come of this, it would need to be handled exceptionally carefully. But something inside of me said I needed to experiment and try a dating app.

I barely told anyone. I didn’t want any judgement. I didn’t want any pressure. I didn’t want people asking how it was going. I didn’t want any expectations. I didn’t want my mum rushing out and buying a hat! This was, quite simply, something I needed to do for me. For the first time in a very long time, I was 100% selfish. I did something that was completely and utterly for me. It was, in essence, my secret and a gift to myself.

I’m not going to lie. It felt absolutely alien to me. Choose your best photos. Sell yourself in a paragraph. Give people a brief overview of yourself by answering some questions. I had never had to do this before. I’d known Mr C for nearly three years before we started dating. I didn’t have to sell myself to him in a paragraph, a natural connection formed over time. And ultimately, that’s why I was sceptical about being on an app. I just didn’t think you could feel an attraction or form a connection with someone without actually knowing them. How on earth could that happen?

But more than that. I didn’t really like the person that I was turning into from being on it. I felt I was becoming such a shallow, ruthless person. I’d reject people based on looks, their height, whether they were vaccinated, if they said that COVID-19 was a hoax, if they were called Charlie or Stuart, if they said they wanted no drama, poor grammar (yes, honestly!), fetish requirements (opened my eyes a little though!) and acronyms that I didn’t understand (you know you’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time when you’re having to Google what people are putting in their profile because you haven’t got a clue what they’re saying).

However. I did send some messages to people that passed the ruthless test. The majority of them didn’t respond however. Which, of course, does wonders for your self esteem. A couple did. Some were literally laughable with how forward they were. Definite eye rolls from me at some of the messages. There were a few nice chats but that was it. “Ok,” I thought, “I’m capable of doing this, I’m capable of having a message conversation with someone I’ve never met. Get me.” But the first time someone asked if he could ring me, I made up an excuse. Shut that down straight away. Because, as I’ve said, I didn’t really think this was what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted to come of this.

And then. A guy responded to one of my messages. He seemed “normal.” We started messaging. Just a few a day to start with, but then they gradually started to increase. Hmmmm. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was completely and utterly on my wavelength. We seemed to have a huge amount in common. We discussed anything and everything. He made me smile, he made me laugh and I found myself looking forward to the little notification that I had a message. Seriously. What was happening? This wasn’t on the plan (probably because I didn’t laminate it). I wasn’t meant to like someone. This didn’t happen on dating apps. He ended up invariably being the last person I messaged before I went to sleep and the first person I messaged when I woke up. Hmmmm.

The very few people who knew about this encouraged me to ask him to meet for coffee. Nope. I batted them away whenever they suggested it. To do that would make this real. To do that would mean I’d have to deal with it in real life. Hiding behind messages was just fine for me. I could be who I wanted to be. I could be Emma. I wasn’t a widow, a mother, a colleague or a friend. I was, quite simply, Emma. It was refreshing. I didn’t want to have to address any elephants in the room about why I was on the app. I just wanted to be me. Not meeting him allowed me to do that.

The messaging went on for just over a month. We didn’t exchange numbers. He didn’t put pressure on me to meet. He was sweet. He seemed genuine. What on earth was the catch? He seemed too good to be too true. And then. One Sunday evening, when I went to send a message, I made a discovery. He’d deleted his profile and vanished. Just like that. It was over. Whatever “it” was.

My stomach dropped. I felt the tears start to come. I felt sick. I’d let my guard down. I’d trusted someone enough to have all these messages covering a wide range of topics. And then, in the blink of an eye, I’d felt like I’d been played for a fool. Of course no-one would seriously be interested in me. How on earth could I have been so stupid?

But. The one emotion that I didn’t feel was anger. I didn’t want to yell about the injustice of it all. I didn’t want to shout at anyone. After the initial feeling of stupidity, I just sort of accepted it. That confused me. And oddly enough, I felt relief. Not hurt. But relief. Again. What was happening? Why wasn’t I feeling what I “should” be feeling? What on earth was going on in my head and my heart now?

I sat and gave it some serious thought. And that’s when it hit me. This was actually the perfect outcome for my first foray into dating again. Because at this point, it just helped crystallise that I probably wasn’t ready for a relationship and all the quagmire that comes with it. The relief was that it wasn’t going anywhere. I wouldn’t have to deal with the where is this going question. All that had happened, was that I’d reached a point in my life where I wanted and needed some flirting, banter, chat and to be made to feel good about myself. I got that from doing this. But why? Why had I needed that?

Again. Serious thought time. When I’d first subscribed to the app and said to my sister I didn’t know why I was doing it, she told me the answer to that was simple. “To prove you can.” And that’s really what this whole experience came down to. I needed to prove something to myself. Rightly or wrongly. For over 20 years, I’d had someone on hand to pay me compliments (admittedly they’d sometimes be backhanded ones, but still), I’d had someone to message on my way home from work, I’d had someone to make me smile, I’d had someone who could make me feel good about myself on those down days. And that person went just as I was approaching my 40s…

Now. I’m not saying I stressed about turning 40. I’m not saying I need validation from a man. Far, far from it. I instil this in my daughter on a very regular basis. “You are enough. You simply need validation from yourself.” But. Let’s be honest. Who doesn’t like to receive compliments? Who doesn’t like being flattered? Who doesn’t enjoy having someone to talk to who you’ve got a connection with? Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of intimacy? Yet, all of a sudden I found myself alone in my 40s, knowing that I had more grey hair, knowing that I had more wrinkles, knowing that I was carrying more weight than I used to and being way too self critical of myself. I was trying to navigate the world alone at a time in my life I should never have been.

Yes, Mr C and I had had those random conversations about if something happened to either of us and us wanting the other to be happy, meet someone else etc… But, when I said “til death do us part” at the age of 24, I didn’t really expect to be facing this dilemma. I expected us to grow old together. I expected to have someone there to pick me up on my down days. To make me feel good about myself when I needed it. I didn’t anticipate what would happen. I didn’t anticipate being a single person and basically being surrounded by couples and happy families. It’s bloody hard work. Seeing people in the throes of new love. Seeing people loved up. Seeing people compliment their partners. Seeing lives move forward as people celebrate their anniversaries and share all the things they love about their other halves. No matter how happy you are for others, that jealous pang hits. You find yourself withdrawing. Because it’s easier to do that than feel alone.

And that’s ultimately why I did this. That’s why I joined the app. My sister was 100% right. Annoyingly. It was, quite simply, to prove that I could. That if I really wanted to, I could sell myself. I could find someone to connect with. I could find someone who would appreciate me. Who would make me feel wanted and desired. Who would make me feel flattered and complimented. But this was also something I was doing as me. As Emma. People weren’t liking me and responding to messages because I was a widow, a mother, a colleague or a crazy Jason fan because I didn’t share any of that in my profile. They were liking Emma. I said when I launched this blog that I was trying to figure out where I was going next. Answering who Emma is the $64 million question. This experience has helped me on that quest and to answer that question.

After that Sunday discovery, I did keep looking at the app. I did send some more messages. But my heart was never really in it. It hadn’t been from the off if I’m perfectly honest. It really wasn’t for me. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing with my life. I let the paid subscription run out. I didn’t renew it. However, I can’t say I’ll never subscribe again. I can’t say I won’t consider dating. After all, as my daughter forges her own life and becomes more independent of me, I’m going to need someone to talk to. As wonderful as my dog is, he’s not the best at conversation or compliments! And as I know all too well, you never know what life is going to throw at you. Someone could come into my life at any point. I could get swept off my feet tomorrow. And maybe at some point I’d actually be ready to brave that coffee. Or brave being taken out for dinner. I mean, let’s face it, I’m never going to turn down a free meal! And as Rachel, a fellow widow wrote in a brilliant Twitter thread about her requirements, once a month would be enough, (I could literally have written this thread myself).

But for now, I’m content. I’ve done what I needed to do in this new world I’m navigating. I’ve got what I needed. I like the new found confidence and glint in my eye. Yes. Most of that has come from me and all the work and effort I’ve put into me through counselling and looking after myself, but some of it, without a shadow of a doubt, has come from my app man.

And how do I feel about him and the whole episode now? He shockingly hasn’t put me off men for life. I’ll never regret those messages or any of the time I spent in conversation with him. The thought of it still makes me smile. I suspect it always will. I’ll forever be thankful to him. He reminded me how to accept and say thank you for a compliment about me. Not about how brave or strong I am, not about how I’ve coped with what’s happened to me, not about how I’m raising my daughter. But about me. We come back to why I did this, I just needed to be selfish for a bit. But more than that. I’ve said before about believing people come into your lives for a reason. I wholeheartedly believe that this is the case with him.

And the reason? To give me back something I didn’t realise I’d lost. To give me a bit of a confidence boost. To help me realise what I needed and was looking for. To help me appreciate myself again. To help me look at myself through different eyes. Not the eyes of a grieving widow. Not the eyes of a devoted mother. Not the eyes of someone trying to hold down a full time job while also juggling her life.

But through the eyes of someone who can appreciate all she has to offer. Who can appreciate that she deserves more than she gives herself credit for. Who can appreciate all she’s been through and realise she’s right to be proud of herself. Who can realise that the wrinkles and the extra weight are part of her story. They’re something to be proud of. Because they reflect her life. They reflect the fact that she’s still standing and still keeping going despite everything that life has thrown at her. It hit me one day when I took a selfie to send to him. Because I looked at it and didn’t criticise it. I’ve started taking more selfies. I’m less critical of myself now. I can see and like the sparkle in my eyes again. I can look at pictures of me, like them and appreciate myself for the person I am. The person I’m evolving into. The person who is, without question, enough. And ultimately, that’s an incredible gift for him to have given me.

Be Thankful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning to live with the unimaginable…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are moments that the words don’t reach

There’s a grace too powerful to name

We push away what we can never understand

We push away the unimaginable”

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

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

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

Angels on my side

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

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

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like waking up

Wanna stay inside my dreams

Sometimes I feel like I am breaking up

Do you know just how that feels.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Cause I got angels on my side

I got angels flying high

And everything gonna be alright

‘Cause I got angels on my side.”

Love…

Mr C and I didn’t really bother with Valentine’s Day. He used to think it was just Hallmark’s way of making money. Occasionally we might grab a takeaway or send a card, but other than that there was no fuss. But it didn’t mean that we didn’t love each other. It just meant that we didn’t need a particular day to show it. Yet this year, I’m thinking more about love and all that goes with it. What it means to me. What I’ve learnt about it throughout my grief.

Both my bereavement counsellors have asked me what I miss most about Mr C. Each time, the answer to that has been simple. Him. I just miss him. I can’t single one thing out. But for a while now, I’ve realised that I’m missing something else. For a long time after he died, I felt numb. I felt dead inside. I missed him. I missed everything about him. The person. The man, the myth, the legend. Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. But as I’ve started to emerge from this numbness, I’m realising that I’m missing something else too.

I first started emerging from my numbness a few months back. I know exactly when it was, although at the time, I didn’t realise quite what was happening. It was when a friend was doing me a favour. It was one of those weeks when you just can’t make diaries match and the only time we could get together was one evening. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen him in the daytime over the past couple of years, but never of an evening. And as we firmed up plans, I suddenly realised that this was the first time since Mr C died that I’d be having male company of an evening. Yes, I’d had evenings with friends in couples (or groups when permitted) and friends or family had been round of an evening while my daughter was still up, but in just over 18 months I hadn’t had a one-on-one evening with a man.

I can’t begin to explain how nice it was to just sit for a bit and chat over a cuppa. But as he got ready to leave, I started to feel scared. I couldn’t really comprehend why. But this feeling of knowing he was going to go home and leave me on my own just hit me. I didn’t want to be on my own. I just didn’t want to be on my own. I wanted to sit and talk to someone all night. I wanted adult company. In that split second, I realised just how much I’d missed adult company of an evening. How much I’d missed male company. Now of course, this is me. So, my brain completely overthought all of this and went from zero to 100 in a matter of milliseconds. My brain started over analysing these (perfectly normal) feelings. I barely slept. I couldn’t work out why, from what felt like nowhere, this realisation and these feelings had hit me. And so, I did what all “sensible” people who are going through times like this do, I buried it. I tried to pretend I hadn’t felt any of it. I didn’t even really talk to my counsellor about it. Because I knew to do so would be to unlock something I wasn’t quite ready to. Something I hadn’t realised I’d be needing to deal with.

But subconsciously, it’s been there ever since. I joked with a friend over Christmas as to whether I could borrow her husband once a month on a Tuesday. She laughed and queried why just a Tuesday. So, I explained. It’s the day I do an exercise class, the bins need putting out, my daughter needs help with homework, and I have to cook dinner. It would just be nice to have an adult in the house to do some of these things. To put the bins out and sort dinner while I’m out for an hour. To just take the pressure off me doing it all. Again, those feelings were sneaking up on me. I really was starting to miss something else. Something more than just Mr C as a person.

And then at the start of this year, I looked after the daughter of some very good friends. She’s my daughter’s BFF, she came round for a sleepover and they spent the following day together. Absolutely no bother at all. Yet when her dad came to pick her up, he stood on my doorstep with some flowers to say thank you. Totally unnecessary, but very lovely, nonetheless. But it completely unnerved me to see a man on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers. It threw me. I couldn’t think of the last time a man had given me flowers that weren’t linked to the death of my husband. A little gesture. But unbeknown to him, it came at a time when so much was going through my head about gestures, love, and companionship. It was another little thing that made me stop and think. Those feelings I’d been trying to bury were getting closer and closer to the surface.

And it’s funny what brings them to the surface and forces you to deal with them. Because that’s happened now. Over the past few weeks, a rather amazing friend has been helping me out by doing some decorating for me. He’s without question one of the best friends a girl could ask for. The sort of person you’d be genuinely lost without if he wasn’t in your life. The sort of friend you can have banter with, be sarcastic to and very rarely complimentary to. So much so, should he read this, he’ll no doubt pass out at me being so publicly nice about him. But it’s all true, I’m so lucky to have him and will be eternally grateful to him for his friendship and how he’s looked out for me (fairly sure this is what he told me to write if ever I mentioned him in a blog.) Told you. Our friendship is one of sarcasm.

Anyway. I digress. He was at my house the day I went to my first funeral since Mr C’s. At the same crematorium. With the same funeral director. I was absolutely done in by the time I got home. But having an adult there to talk to made the world of difference. Having an adult realise that all I really needed was a hug, helped immensely. Just having another adult in the house to talk to has been immensely helpful. It came at a time that I was missing going to the office and seeing people, so it was a godsend to have him here. There was one day that he finished early, and I went downstairs to discover his mug on the worksurface. Now, just to clarify, I don’t usually expect tradesmen to put their mugs in the dishwasher, but he doesn’t really count, and so, I sent him a message having a dig. When he was next back, I finished work and came down to find his mug in the dishwasher. It really made me smile that he’d thought to do this. I may also have moaned (ever so slightly) when on a day of calls, I rushed downstairs in a five-minute gap to make him a cuppa, only to discover that he’d already made himself one. And not me. Again. I don’t normally expect tradesmen to make me a drink. But again I, obviously, wound him up about this. In nearly two years, I think I can count on one hand the occasions when I’ve been working and someone else has made me a cuppa. So, on another day, when I was again back-to-back, he sent a text asking if I’d like a drink and brought it up to my office in my Mrs Jason Donovan mug. He subsequently did this without even asking. What more could I ask for?!

But all these examples. The thoughtfulness. The flowers. The Tuesday evening juggle. They’ve really got me thinking. Add them to the feelings that started to emerge a few months back and it’s forced me to stop and think. About what else I’m feeling and missing. It’s more than just “simply him.” It’s more than just a physical person. I’m missing a companion. I’m missing our relationship. I’m missing all the little things that go hand in hand with having someone by your side. The someone to talk to when you’ve had a long day. The thoughtfulness. The little gestures. The bringing me home a packet of Haribo because he knew how much I liked them. The unexpected bunch of flowers, just because. The person who would listen to what you were saying when they’d done something which wound you up, and try not to do it again. The teamwork. The splitting of responsibilities. Knowing someone was there no matter what. I’ve lost all of that as well as him as a person.

And that feeling I tried to bury and not deal with? The reason I didn’t want my friend to leave that evening? That feeling that I wasn’t ready to unlock a few months back? It is, quite simply, one of feeling alone. Loneliness.

I find it incredibly hard to admit to this. To be able to say out loud “I feel lonely.” Because I’m surrounded by so many amazing and wonderful people. Yet, despite them, there are no two ways about it. I’m on my own for the first time in adulthood. I’m responsible for every single decision. Nobody says goodnight to me when I go to bed. And as I’m working through my grief, feeling less deadened and devoid of emotion, I’m having to acknowledge what this feeling is and how it makes me feel. Because I can feel it now. And it’s hard. It’s painful. I also think there’s a perception that loneliness is only really associated with the older generation, but hey, isn’t that meant to be the case with widowhood too? But my reality is that I am on my own. Being lonely is a new feeling that I need to learn to adjust to and live with. I’ve entered a new phase of my grief.

I’d love nothing more than to wave a magic wand and have this feeling go away. But I actually know I need to become comfortable with it. It’s why I’m not about to go on the hunt for, or try to find, a new relationship to quell this loneliness. I’m really not. Far from it. Because it’s all part of what I need to go through to be me and understand who I am now. To be able to know and love myself again. It’s why my first new love in this next chapter of my story is writing. Because it’s helping me to work through so much. It’s helping me to love and remember who I am.

Plus, as I’ve said to my daughter, I’m acutely aware that it’ll be a tricky task finding someone who would even be willing to put up with me. And the Jason Donovan obsession. And all the baggage that I’ll come with. And there’s not exactly been a queue of men at the front door! Yet, while this may sound like a jovial discussion, it’s another one of those conversations that I sincerely wish we hadn’t had to have. We had it after watching yet another Christmas film with a dead parent (do you know how many of these there are?!) The mum in the film had started a new relationship and my daughter told me she doesn’t want that to be me. So, we had to have a chat. When I told her that I will always love her daddy, she couldn’t comprehend how this would be possible if I also love someone else. That’s incredibly hard for a child to understand. If I’m honest, I don’t really understand how it would work. But it would have to.

Because it’s how it will always be. I don’t envisage a day when I won’t love Mr C. I don’t envisage a day when I wouldn’t want to. But I’ve also come to realise that I like the feeling of companionship. Of being part of something. I miss it. And so, despite the love that I will always have for him, I’m also beginning to acknowledge that it’s possible that I may want a new relationship. I may meet someone else. I can’t 100% promise my daughter that it won’t happen. Because none of us know what the future holds. The last two years have taught me that. There is no point planning and stressing about the future. Someone very wise has been trying to get me to accept this lately, and I simply have to. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

It’s why when my daughter and I finished our chat, I reassured and promised her that if, one day, someone does come into our lives, they’re going to have to be a pretty special person. They’re going to have to be one in a million. Because they’re going to have to accept that Mr C will always, always be a part of our lives. He’s not a part of my story to be shut away, never to be spoken of again. That’s not how love and grief work. My grief and my love for him will be forever intertwined.

So, as I sit here on a day to celebrate love, no matter how lonely I am, I know that I wouldn’t want it any other way. When he first died, I remember telling people that I would never, ever have another relationship. Because I couldn’t contemplate the thought of going through this pain again. But what I’ve come to accept and realise is that I only feel the pain and loneliness I do because of love. And that makes me lucky. Because I’ve known a love so great, that my pain, grief and loneliness are also so great. They’re the price I’m paying for our love. And without a shadow of a doubt, I’ll be paying it forever. Because my love for him will never die. Whatever the future may bring.