Tag: Hope

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.

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.