Tag: Hope

There will always be light no matter how dark this life can get

Twenty years ago today Mr C got the all-clear from his testicular cancer. Yes, that’s right, 11 September 2001. The day the world changed forever. And with it being 20 years, I’ve spent a lot of the day reflecting on the eight months that also changed his life forever. This is really his story to tell, but he can’t do that anymore. So, I’m going to tell the story of one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I think he’d want me to.

It was February 2001 when things really got bad for Mr C. He’d been going back to his GP on and off for around 18 months ahead of this with various symptoms. At each point he was reassured that there was nothing to worry about. He never got a second opinion or pushed for one. So, in February 2001 when he was in so much pain and could barely walk because of how swollen his testicle had become, his GP finally sent him for tests. Within three days he was being operated on to remove his testicle. I remember vividly going to see him after this operation and thinking how well he looked. He looked well because he was no longer in pain. Little did we know just how ill he actually was, and what would happen within a matter of weeks.

Three weeks later we learnt that the cancer that had started out in his testicle had spread. He had three additional tumours and would face intense chemotherapy and potentially more surgery. He was just 26 years old and there was no guarantee he would make it. The staff at St. Barts hospital in London were simply brilliant with their support and the speed at which they moved to get his treatment started. Over the next couple of weeks, he had to make sperm deposits in case the chemotherapy left him infertile and then on 30 March 2001 (my 20th birthday) he started chemotherapy. He would go in every Thursday, have a cannula in each arm with the drugs in and be in hospital until the Sunday. He’d then have three weeks off before doing this all over again. It was intense. He lost his hair. The steroids he was on made him put on weight. He was exhausted. But he always, always wanted to fight.

Until one day in June. It had all got too much for him. He encouraged me to walk away from him and live my life. He was worried that I hadn’t signed up for this and it wasn’t fair on me. For anyone who read my blog “Being Mrs C” you’ll know that I didn’t walk away at this point. But it was hard to watch him lose his fight. Gradually he got it back, he felt had his whole life ahead of him. He wanted a future. So, he kept fighting. And then in August 2001 we learnt that while the tumours had shrunk, he would need that further surgery. Because of where one of the tumours was, there was a chance that to remove it would result in him losing a leg. He still signed that consent authorisation. To him, having a future without a leg was better than no future at all.

The day of his operation, his dad and I went to London. Delays on the train meant that we didn’t get to see him before he went to the operating theatre. This pained me beyond all belief. So, we just had to wait. We went for breakfast; we went for a walk via St. Paul’s Cathedral (it seems ironic now that the Remember Me project for those lost to COVID-19 will be in St. Paul’s). I can’t tell you what else we did but I do know that I’ll always be grateful his dad was with me that day. When we eventually made our way back to St. Bart’s we thought we’d be seeing him shortly. It was still some hours to go. His surgery was taking longer than anticipated. I think it was just under nine hours until he made it back onto the ward. One of the first things he did when we saw him was lift the sheet to check on his legs. His sense of humour even on such a day was there to see. A few hours later the consultant told us that everything had been removed. All was looking positive, but we’d still need to wait a few weeks to be sure. He was in hospital for a week after this surgery. He’d essentially been cut in half and it was going to take time to recover. He had a lot to endure, obviously helped when on one visit I tripped over his catheter… It’s a miracle he stayed with me after this!

And then on 11 September 2001, he got the news he’d been waiting for. He was clear of cancer. We spent the morning at St. Bart’s and then met his dad at a pub in Westminster to celebrate. We then got on the tube. It was rammed. We weren’t sure why, it seemed most odd. As we pulled out of London, we overheard a guy on the train talking on his phone about World War III breaking out. We didn’t have a clue what had happened. This was before smartphones and all we could do was wonder.

I remember us getting home, switching on the TV, and finding out about the unbelievable events in the USA. The euphoria from the morning left us. So much loss and devastation was happening overseas, it was quite hard to be jubilant. We just sat there for hours watching the news in disbelief. It was like something from a disaster movie, this couldn’t be real life surely? Except it was. And it made the day of his all-clear memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Over the next few months, he tried to find a job (he’d just started one when he was diagnosed and unfortunately couldn’t stay). He really struggled to even get interviews because of the gap on his CV. It turned out that all-clear was fast becoming an anti-climax. Life wasn’t all cupcakes and roses because of it. I started to see the change in him too. He was far less tolerant of things. His temper was shorter. This experience changed him. Yes, there were so many elements of the old Charlie there, but you don’t go through what he did, staring death in the face and expect to still be the same person afterwards. You reassess your life. You reassess the people in it and how they treat you. You have new expectations. I’m not saying this happens to everyone that goes through an experience like this, but it certainly happened to him. And I can see it happening to me too now that I’ve been widowed. I haven’t personally stared death in the face, but death has affected my life in a way I’m still trying to comprehend.

But this experience also made him appreciate life more. He lived for the moment. He realised life is fragile and made it his mission to just enjoy it. He was told on more than one occasion that he should lose weight, but his philosophy was that he liked food and he wanted to enjoy his life. Not live governed by other factors. He was the life and soul of the party. He treated everyone equally. He wanted to make sure that everyone enjoyed spending time with him. But above all else, he became fiercely loyal to all his friends and family. For the people who had been there for him. The people who visited him in hospital. Who took him unbelievably noisy toys! But in all seriousness, those people who were there for him then are now there for me. He was blown away by the support in 2001, he’d be blown away by the support for me now. I just know it.

And as the years went by, he’d remember this day. Usually with the phrase “B*ll*cks to cancer.” But he never forgot the significance of his all-clear date. He would make reference to the tragic events that had happened as well as the milestones he was reaching in Facebook posts. I’ve been reminding myself of them today, it makes me feel closer to him. And one stopped me in my tracks. It ended with this paragraph “So please, while we must remember this date, the horror of what happened in New York and share our support with the families of all those who were lost, some still have a reason to celebrate this date, people were saved, children were born and illnesses were beaten. There will always be light no matter how dark this life can get.” He knew this first-hand. His life had been dark but in typical Mr C fashion he always looked for the light, he knew it was there. And since his death, he’d be so honoured that his Testicular Cancer experience is raising awareness and hopefully giving light to others via raising funds for charity. When the funeral directors asked me the name of a charity for people to donate to after his death, I chose The Oddballs Foundation. So many of our friends, family and colleagues now get their underwear from Oddballs, over the weekend one of his school friends completed her first triathlon and the little boy who was ring bearer at a wedding (he’s not so little any more!) will be running Scarfell Pike. Because of the significance of the date, they also chose to raise money for The Oddballs Foundation in his memory. He’d be so honoured.

But above all else, I know without question that this philosophy he strongly felt about finding light after darkness, the strength he displayed when living with his cancer and the character he showed after he was given the all-clear is something that has stayed with me to this day. I can’t, and won’t, let the darkness beat me. The strongest man in the world taught me that. I will always continue to look for the light. And I will do it because of, and for him.   

A letter to my 15-year-old self

I’m writing this to you today because I really wish someone had been able to tell me this 25 years ago. To reassure me that everything was going to be ok. To let me know that I would survive everything that life had to throw at me. Many people are looking back at 1996 right now, each one of them with their own reasons for doing so. But for you, 1996 is going to be the start of your life changing. It’s important you understand just how important this year is going to be.

So. Quite simply, 1996 is going to be a pivotal year for you. It’s going to be one you’ll remember for many reasons and for many years to come. Not least of which will be Euro 96 and the heartache that will come from a missed penalty. Don’t worry though, you’ve only got to wait another 25 years for a tournament like it. Although, spoiler alert. There’s going to be penalties involved again.

I must admit I’m going to start shallow with my words of advice. Right now, you’ve still got long hair, yet within a couple of years you’re going to cut this off. I know, I know, you’re laughing at this prospect. But you will, you’ll spend most of your adult life with short hair and whenever it grows, you won’t feel like you. Go with it, dye your hair, try different styles but always go back to short hair. It looks good on you.

And now for the serious stuff. Over the course of this year, you’re going to fall in love for the first time. It’ll feel like the best thing in the world. He’ll make you feel like the most special person in the world. However. You’re also going to have your heart broken for the first time too. This is something that you’re going to have go through, it’s almost like a rite of passage. All I can say is that it will hurt like hell. You’re going to shed a bucketload of tears. It’s going to leave you taking a sharp intake of breath whenever you hear certain songs. Always. But you’ll reach a point where these songs will not only cause that intake of breath, but also make you smile. Why? Because you are going to get over this heartbreak. Honestly. It will become a part of your story. I won’t lie to you though. You’re going to hate him for a while, you’re going to want horrible things to happen to him, you’ll think you’re never going to recover and that you’re never going to love again but you really are. On more than one occasion. But do you know what? Don’t be too quick to judge him. Don’t waste your time on hate. Because as inconceivable as this is going to sound right now, that first boyfriend is going to turn out to be not all bad. Really. He’s going to end up becoming one of your closest friends. He’s going to be a rock for you after the death of your husband (we’ll come onto that bombshell in a bit). He’s going to be one of the key people holding you up. Crazy huh?!? But I promise you it’s true. You’re going to be incredibly lucky that he not only comes into your life in 1996, but that he stays a part of it.

But of far more significance to you, 1996 is going to be the year you’ll meet your future husband. Of course, you won’t know this at the time, but he really is going to come into your life in the summer. You’ll meet him standing by his blue fiesta outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. You won’t give him a second thought. He won’t actually give you a second thought to be begin with. Over the course of the next few months and years when people ask you who he is, you’ll say “just Charlie.” 1996 is the year that he’ll move from Essex to Kent, a key factor in how and why he’ll start to appear in your life more and more. Don’t underestimate the role that he’s going to play. Cut him a bit of slack when he tries to woo you. Still play hard to get, because it’ll give you a story to tell, but just try to prepare yourself for the massive impact that man is going to have on your life.

I know you worry that you’re not the most popular girl at school. But it really, really doesn’t matter. Because you have such an amazing group of friends there and that counts for so, so much. Always treasure them. Over the next 25 years you’re going to need them in different ways and at different times. But always, always treasure them. They get you. Even when you don’t see them for a few years, when you get together it will feel like nothing has changed. And during the most difficult times of your life they’ll be there. Without fail. Without judgement. But more than this. You are going to go on to meet and make other wonderful and supportive friends. You’re going to meet and have so many fabulous people in your life. You’re going to be so loved. And while some friendships will drift apart, that’s only natural after all, the ones where there’s no demand or expectation from either side will be the ones that see you through. You’ll count your blessings that you have so many of them.

This year, you’re going to start looking ahead to your career and future as you start to consider your A-Level choices. Right now, you’re going to see yourself as a journalist. You’re going to apply to university to study journalism. But your A-Level results aren’t going to go the way you planned. You’re not going to get into your first-choice university. But you will still go. You will still persevere with the course for three months. But then one day, you’re going to realise it’s not right for you. You’re going to drop out. It’s one of the bravest things you’re ever going to do. Doing what’s right for you. You need to remember to do more of this. Putting you first and doing what’s right for you. Again, I’m not going to lie, you’re going to feel scared and nervous. You’re going to wonder what next, but it will all fall into place. You will go on to have a good career. It’s going to change over time, you’ll head down a secretarial route before switching to marketing but you’re going to be just fine. Of course, there will be instances during your career where’ll you have had enough. Where you’ll be beyond frustrated. Where you’ll query why you bother. Where you’ll want to quit. But just keep going. Things have a funny way of turning out for the best when you least expect it. Just remember that you’re the one in control. You’re the one that can change things. And don’t be afraid to. This is your life, nobody else can live it for you.

And throughout your career, there’ll be one constant. The people. Your colleagues. Who will become friends and confidantes. Who’ll offer support and a friendly ear. Who’ll be there with gin and fried food. Who’ll be there with doughnuts. Who’ll be there with “Smile Thursdays”. Who’ll be there with straight talking. Who’ll give you the tough love you need. And above all else, will help look after you in a way that you simply won’t think possible on the day you walk through the doors of 1 Embankment Place for the first time. You’re not going to, but I just want to tell you to never, ever take them for granted

Yet without fail, I wish I could prepare you for just how much heartache you’re going to go through. And to give you the knowledge that you will make it through all of it. That heartache is going to come in many forms. It will come when you must confront living with depression and anxiety. It will come when your boyfriend is diagnosed with cancer and you have no idea if he’s going to make it. It will come every month when you just can’t fall pregnant. It will come when close friends tell you that they’re pregnant again and you break down on them. It will come when you’re pregnant with your second child and have a missed miscarriage. That “what if” of that baby will never go away, but the pain of this and the other heartaches will ease with time.

Right. Take a deep breath before you read this next paragraph. Because, this is the one where I talk about you being widowed. Where I tell you that this will happen when you’re 39. Where I tell you that the greatest heartache you’ll have to face will come in 2020, when your husband of 14 years (that random guy you met in 1996) will die during a global pandemic. (Oh yes, incidentally during 2020 and 2021 you’re going to have to live through a global pandemic and your entire life will be turned upside down). The pain and heartache this will cause you will be nothing like you have ever, ever felt before. That broken heart in 1996? A mere paper cut compared to this. The grief is going to be unbearable at times. You are going to break. You are going to hit rock bottom. You are going to think you’re doing ok and then get side swiped and fall apart. But the one thing you absolutely need to remember is to ask for help. To admit that you can’t do this alone. To let the tears flow when they need to do. To be kind to yourself. To stop. To breathe. To acknowledge just how difficult this is. As I write this, I don’t know if you’re ever going to love or feel love like it again. But I do know that you’ll feel the love from your husband for a very long time.

But above all else, I want you to know just how much joy and happiness there’s going to be in your life. How despite all the heartache and hardships you’re going to go through, you will smile. How you will enjoy your life. How you’re going to have a beautiful and simply inspirational daughter even though it’ll take you a while to get her. How you’re going to meet some truly brilliant people when you cave and take her to postnatal group in the vague hope she might find some friends. How you will go on to make so many fabulous memories with these people. How there’s going to be so much laughter in your life. How you’ll stop worrying about everything all the time. How you’ll stop trying to fit in and how you’ll come to actually quite like yourself. This is the one thing I wish more than anything that you could know, and I could teach you. It would change your life during your 20s and 30s. But by the time you reach 40, you’ll know this. Promise.

I know you’re never going to see this. But you’ll never know how much I wish you could have. To have had someone confirm that despite everything you’re going to go through, you’re going to be ok. You really, really are. And that will largely be down to the people who come into your life, it will be down to your determination to never give up, it will be down to your willingness to accept help, it will be down to your realisation that there is always, always something to be thankful for. When you learn, accept and remember this, I promise you more than anything that you’re going to be just fine. 

And now as I sign off, I can’t help but wonder if this letter has really been for you or something I actually need to remind my 40-year-old self. Because no matter how good she might be at giving out the advice, she definitely still needs reminding from time to time to take it.

Me xx

A year of firsts

A couple of weeks before my birthday, a friend of mine said to me “you’ve almost done it now, your year of firsts, only a couple more to go.” In so many ways, he was right. Yes, I’ve done the first Father’s Day, Mr C’s birthday, wedding anniversary, Christmas and Mother’s Day. Yet in so many ways, he was wrong. There are a whole host of other firsts that I would “normally” have done in this year that I’ve not been able to. I, like so many others who have lost a loved one during this pandemic, have had their grief essentially put on hold.

For there is still so much I haven’t done without him. There is still so much as a family we haven’t done without him. A year ago today I was told for the first time to prepare for him to never come home. I made the calls to friends and family to tell them the next 24-48 hours were critical. That night was the first time I’d ever really thought about what my life might look like without him. But I still didn’t try to think about it too much. He could beat this. Whatever it would take for him to beat this and however long it would take for the recuperation, we could do it together. We always did. But of course, this wasn’t to happen. Navigating life without him would shortly begin.

Yet it didn’t begin in a way that is usually associated with grieving a loved one because of COVID restrictions. The standout one being it was nearly three months before I was hugged by someone other than my daughter. The first hug after the loss of my husband came nearly three months after he died. That’s not normal. Whether you’re a hugger or not, physical contact is so important when you’re grieving. I have not hugged my best friends. I have not hugged my mum. It wasn’t until nearly three months after he died that family and friends were allowed into our house for the first time.

Ironically enough, it was the first time we went to friends for afternoon tea that I ended up facing another first. My daughter fell off her scooter and I had to take her to minor injuries. As the nurse went through the questions she had to ask, she came to ask for her father’s details. I responded with “he passed away in April, do I still need to tell you?”. She looked so apologetic, I felt for her. She was just doing her job but for me it was much more than that. We went and sat in the waiting room for an x-ray and I cried. I cried because my daughter might have a broken bone. I cried because I’d just had to tell someone else in an official capacity that my husband was dead. A first that I hadn’t really thought about that would happen, but one that hit me so very hard.

And then I think of all the other firsts that I know I’ll have to do over the coming weeks and months. Just with my daughter there are a number: parents evening, dance shows, starting secondary school, swimming lessons, a theatre trip, a holiday, the ‘baby group’ Christmas Party. And for me, there are several things I’ve not been able to do and will need to do for the first time. Since my husband died, I’ve not been in a room with both my sister in laws and my father in law. I don’t know when or if that will happen for the first time, but I know his presence will be so dreadfully missed. I’ve not been in a room with the wider family. I’ve not been able to get together and reminisce with his Sunday League football team. I’ve not been for a big night out with friends. I’ve not had to deal with a hangover and my daughter by myself! I’ve not been in a large group of people sharing memories and smiling or crying at them. I’ve not hosted an Easter or fireworks party at our house, something we used to do every year. To be perfectly honest, the thought of doing all these things for the first time feels me with fear. Because I’ve become quite adept at being in my house, being with my daughter, only speaking to people via screens. How will I cope when I start to see more people? What will happen when people can hug me? Will I feel comforted? Will I break? Will I want to run away and hide from it all?

It was C.S. Lewis who famously said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” And not only do I feel fear at the future, but I’ve felt it over the past year of grief and firsts. Fear as to what happens to my daughter if something happens to me. I felt it when the UK raised the terror alert last Autumn. How can I possibly go to London for work if the terror threat is raised? What if something happens to me? I can’t have my daughter being an orphan, I need to wrap myself in cotton wool. But again, this isn’t possible. This is something I need to work through. And again, fear was so present when I had to take our puppy to an emergency vet late one evening last week. He’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, and they had to make him be sick to prevent it getting stuck. “There’s a risk of asphyxiation with doing this” the vet told me. My stomach dropped. I felt sick. I felt fearful. I wanted to cry. How could I possibly drive home and tell my daughter that our puppy had died? The main thing is that the puppy is absolutely fine and was far less traumatised by the experience than I was! But as I went and waited in the car for him last week, I realised for the first time how quickly I now jump to the worst-case scenario. If someone tells me the worst that could happen, I immediately assume it will. Because it has. My husband died; he didn’t come home. Other than losing my daughter, I can’t think of anything worse than that.

As I sit here now, a week out from my final first date, I don’t know how I’ll manage all the firsts that will come after this milestone. I don’t know how different year two will be. How different it will feel. I wonder in a bizarre way whether it will actually be harder. Because there is a greater chance with lockdowns easing that I’ll have to start living my life without him. I do know that no matter how fearful I am, that I can’t continue to hide away in my house. I need to be with people who are also grieving the loss of Mr C. Because it’s all part of keeping him part of our lives in the future.

Life begins…

So that’s it. The end of my first week as a 40-year-old. And as the saying goes, life begins at 40…

I always used to joke with Mr C that I wasn’t going to turn 40. You see every time I’d turned a different decade, something had gone wrong. My 20th birthday was spent with him in hospital having his first chemotherapy session. Shortly before my 30th birthday, he’d been made redundant scuppering all our plans, I ended up with food poisoning over the birthday weekend and my mum received a health diagnosis just after my birthday. So, when I had to dial 999 in the early hours of my 39th birthday, I joked with Mr C that he was a year early. I joked with him and the paramedics that he was going to extremes to get out of buying me a birthday card. I didn’t for one second think he’d never be here for my 40th. We’d been together since my 18th birthday party, how could he not be here for my next big birthday?

But sadly, my 40th was to be my first big birthday without him. And the penultimate of the first dates in this rollercoaster year. People rallied round me in the run up to it. People were concerned how I was going to cope. I couldn’t have asked for more. But the reality was, the hardest moment came the day before my birthday. My daughter went out with my mum and stepdad “to do things” and I was on my own for a little while. It hit me at this point. Mr C really wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming back. My daughter was having to enlist the help of other family members to help surprise me and buy me gifts. I sat and reflected. I cried. But then as I’ve had to do so many times, I had to take a deep breath and tell myself I could do this. For at that time, some friends popped round to see me. Because 29 March saw the first lockdown easing meaning people could meet in gardens again. Living in Kent, this hadn’t been able to happen since November. Life was beginning again. Just in time for my 40th.

When I woke up the following morning, I was under strict instructions not to go downstairs until my daughter gave me permission. She’d been worried about how she could decorate the house and lay my presents out for me as I go to bed after her. It was something she hadn’t really thought of until that moment and said to me “it’s hard doing this with only one parent. How am I meant to do this on my own?” Another reminder that it’s just the two of us now. But decorate and lay out presents she did. She’d thought so carefully about what to buy me, one of the gifts being a London Lego set because she knows how much I’m missing going to London and wanted me to have a reminder in my home office. As I drove her to school, she asked what my plans were for the day. She’s a little worrier and when I told her I was working; her worries were alleviated. “That’s ok then, they’ll look after you” was her response.

She was right. My first call of the morning saw people join with balloons and banners in their backgrounds. Messages were sent throughout the day.  A birthday call in the afternoon with my amazing team even saw a goat called Lulu join from Cronkshaw Fold Farm. I can honestly say that in my 40 years I’ve never had a goat wish me a happy birthday! It was such a lovely touch. And of course, Jason Donovan played a part. Dressed in a birthday hat and banners, he was part of all the conference calls throughout the day, moving to the garden as family visited.

Again, life was beginning. The weather was glorious. Daffodils and tulips were blooming. Family and friends came and sat in the garden. I had lunch with one of my closest friends. My nephew ran around with our puppy for the first time. My daughter and her cousins played football with their grandparents. All things that 18 months ago, we’d have taken for granted.

On Thursday, two more friends came to the garden armed with prosecco and cake. The weather wasn’t quite as glorious, we all had to wrap up in coats and blankets (I forgot I owned a firepit which could have given us some heat), but it felt like another new beginning. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed sitting and talking with friends. I’ve missed hearing about what’s going on in other people’s lives. But above all else, I’ve missed human interaction not via a screen. Admittedly, I drank the most prosecco I had in a very long time, had a hot bath to warm up when I came in from the garden and ended up dozing off quickly. After all. I’m 40 now, I can’t stay up too late!

It’s also felt fitting that the Easter weekend has come at the end of this first week. Another reminder of new beginnings. Easter Sunday saw us do a 6k walk with friends. Seeing my daughter laughing, running and just being a child with her BFF was so uplifting. She’s craved this normality. She needs her life to begin again.

So, as I sit here now, I can’t help but be thankful. For anyone who follows me on Twitter and Instagram, you’ll know how important this is to me and why it’s such a huge part of my life. I’m thankful for the continued amazing support from our family and friends. I’m thankful for my amazing team and colleagues who have essentially been my scaffolding holding me up for the last year (shiny and thin!). I’m thankful for the weather turning and the sun starting to appear more.

But, after the most turbulent year as a 39-year-old, I’m thankful for starting to feel a bit more like me again. The pre COVID me will never return. I know that. She’s gone forever. But there are elements of her that are still there. A friend said to me last week that she hoped I didn’t mind her saying it, but she wanted to tell me she’d seen a bit of a sparkle in me again on my birthday. It meant the world to me. Because she’s right. I felt it too. Who knows whether it was turning 40 that did it, the change in weather, the ability to see people in person again, the first birthday without Mr C being out of the way or a mixture of all of these? But whatever it was, this spark and the people around me will see me through.

Life begins at 40. Who knows whether this is true? For while I don’t know what the next decade will bring for me, I do know that it’s begun with hope and the ability to look forward. I can’t ask for more that.