Tag: Loss

Goodbye Mr C

I guess if I’m honest, I’d been expecting the call I received on the morning of 19 April for a few days. Expecting, yes. Prepared for, no. But then, I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for the call to confirm that my husband of 14 years and partner of 21 years was going to die. I vividly remember where I was when the call came, I was helping my daughter tidy her bedroom. I sat on the floor in her room and tried to process what was being said to me. Did I want to go into hospital to say goodbye? The offer was made, but if I’d said yes, I’d have had to self-isolate away from our daughter for seven days. It wasn’t really a choice; I couldn’t be away from her and she couldn’t be away from me in the seven days after losing him.

Almost at the same time as the phone rang, our doorbell rang. Our daughter went downstairs to answer it and it was my mum on her daily walk just checking in. As I sat on the floor on the phone to the amazing ITU staff, I knew as soon as I hung up the phone, I’d have to go downstairs and tell our beautiful, brave little girl that her daddy was never going to come home. It took everything I had to get up off the floor and do that. I remember telling her that her daddy was going to be the brightest star in the sky. What else I said to her, I have no recollection of. I just hugged her. I didn’t know what else to do. My mum, standing on my driveway, had no option but to watch as her eldest daughter and granddaughter fell apart.

But we composed ourselves. Because we had to say goodbye to him. Thanks to Mel and Sharon, our amazing “Skype Angels” we’d been speaking to him every day for a week. That day, I was asked if we wanted to do it again. I didn’t hesitate to say yes. There was so much I needed to say, despite not knowing how to say it. So, for the very last time, we dialled in. For the very last time, I saw my husband. For the very last time, she saw her daddy. Family photos and her get well card were laid around him. I told him how proud we all were of him for fighting for so long. I apologised for the fact I hadn’t been able to protect him from this. I told him how much everyone loved him. I said thank you for everything. But it still didn’t feel real. After 21 years which had seen a cancer battle, a break-up, losing a baby, living with my depression and anxiety, was this really how our story was going to end? Via an iPad and Skype call? This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t how our story was supposed to end. We had so many plans. He hadn’t had a cough. He’d walked to the ambulance. How was he not coming home? But a couple of hours after our Skype call ended, the ITU team rang to tell me he’d died. My life with Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth was over.

I didn’t know what I was meant to do next. I didn’t know how to tell people he’d died. So, I didn’t for a while. My daughter and I finished the film we were watching. Because I knew that even when I told people, no-one could do anything. No-one could come around and look after us. In my head there was no rush. I didn’t know when, or if, people would be ready to find out they needed to say goodbye to Mr C. But slowly over the course of the next few hours, I made the calls. I sent the messages. I watched as the notifications on my phone started mounting. As the kindness shown towards us began to escalate. The food voucher that was sent to save me having to think about cooking. The next day the first shepherd’s pie arrived courtesy of my friend. The first sympathy card arrived. I looked at it and put it back in the envelope. What use was this to me? I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted my husband home.

Friends and family just needed to see us. But we were living in lockdown, it wasn’t that simple. Some did ring our doorbell. Some ended up leaving with ginger and cherry Pepsi Max! Why? Because I don’t like it, he wasn’t coming home to drink it, so what was the point of keeping it? They so very graciously took it from me, but at the same time must have thought I was losing my mind. My husband had died 24 hours ago, why on earth was I worrying about getting soft drinks out of my house? But it was the only way I could begin to take control, to begin to try to accept what was happening. He really was never coming home.

Three days after he died, I went to the hospital to collect the few belongings he’d taken in with him. For the first time in over three weeks, he and I were in the same building. Just for a few minutes. I felt numb. Even though I couldn’t see him, something in me just needed to be there. I needed to be in the same building as him. Later that day, the call came from the funeral directors to tell me he was now with them, but due to the restrictions in place, it didn’t mean a thing to me. I wasn’t able to see him. I wasn’t able to give them clothes to dress him in. Was he really there? Had he really died? Or was this all some nightmare I was going to wake up from in just a few minutes?

But as the days went by, I didn’t wake up from a nightmare. Because this was real. I really had said goodbye to Mr C via a Skype call. People kept talking to me about a funeral. I didn’t care. I didn’t want one. I was 39, I didn’t want to be planning my husband’s funeral. I wanted him to come home. I wasn’t ready to say another goodbye. But I had to, and I did.

Yet as I sit here now, a year on from that fateful call and fateful day, I realise that we’ll never really say goodbye to him. Mr C will always be part of who we are. He will always be a part of our lives. I think back to the situations over the past year where I’ve had to make a tough decision. Every time I’ve faced these, I’ve asked myself what would he do? And every time, I’ve landed that he would be doing exactly what I’m doing. I watch our daughter load Spotify to listen to Train, Tenille Arts or the Kris Barras Band (among many others) knowing that it’s his influence that makes her to do this. There’s not many 11-year-olds who would know these artists. She does. She sings the lyrics with as much passion as Mr C did. I watch our daughter make statements or pull facial expressions which are just like him. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve said, “she’s her father’s daughter”. I don’t know if I see it more because he’s not here, but she really is. He’d be so incredibly proud of her. She will never, ever be allowed to forget whose daughter she is.

And as for me? My first year as an adult without him is now complete. I wish every single day with everything I have that he was still here. Telling me about another board game on Kickstarter. Twiddling our photos. Cooking my dinner. Doing nothing with me. Rolling his eyes at me. Despairing at my love of Jason Donovan. Yet while he’s not physically here, his influence and his legacy are. Living on in us. I know I’ve been able to get through this past year because of him. I know I’ll be able to get through the next year because of him. Because of the love he gave us. Because of everything he taught me. It hit me when our daughter was singing a song from Wicked at the top of her voice. The lyrics say it all.

I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives
For a reason, bringing something we must learn
And we are led to those
Who help us most to grow if we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you

So, thank you Mr C. I’m so grateful you chose to spend your life with me. Because as Winnie the Pooh says “how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” He really is a wise old bear.

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.

Widowed and Young

I can still remember the first time I was called a widow. It was 22 April 2020 and I’d just registered my husband’s death. While he was entered as my husband, as the informant I was listed as his widow. I felt indignant at being called that. Why couldn’t I still be called his wife? Widow. I was 39 years old. Aren’t widows supposed to be in their 80s?

But no. I was now officially a widow. When I had to renew my car and home insurance a few months later, I had another slap in the face. For no longer was my marital status “married”, it was “widowed.” There it was, once again in black and white. Widowed. I didn’t want to click that button. I didn’t want to have it being official. Same again with completing the census last week. Always there now.

It’s hard to articulate what it feels like to be widowed young. Everything about my life suddenly changed. Everything. Yes, I’d felt grief before when my grandad died but despite the pain of losing him, my day to day life was still the same. When Mr C died, everything about my life changed. I had to start cooking every single day. I hadn’t cooked in 21 years and it was a running joke that if he was away, we’d either have takeaway or people would take pity on me and feed me and my daughter! But now, every single day I must cook. I don’t eat the same food any more as my daughter doesn’t like spicy food and it feels pointless to cook two meals. I don’t watch the same TV programmes because we used to watch them together and I don’t want to watch them without him. I haven’t been to a supermarket since 20 March 2020 because we always did the shopping together. I don’t want to wander round without him. I don’t want to bump into people that might ask me how I am because I don’t want to run the risk of crying over the fruit and vegetables.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m no longer part of a couple. In the eyes of the law I’m not married so is it possible to still have in-laws? What should I call them? When a friend introduced me as “Charlie’s wife” a few months after he died, I found it odd. It completely took me off guard. Am I his wife? Am I his widow? Who am I? What am I? I just have an overriding sense of being on my own. Because no matter how many times people tell me I’m not alone (which I’m not, I’m incredibly lucky to have a strong support network), the simple truth is, I am on my own. There is no playing good cop, bad cop when it comes to parenting any more. There is no “you empty the dishwasher, I’ll put the bins out” trade off. When I eventually go back to the office, spontaneity will no longer exist. I’ll no longer be able to ring him and say, “I’m just going for a quick drink, are you ok to pick her up?” Everything related to our daughter will have to be planned. I’m the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for her. I’m now the one responsible for making absolutely every single decision for us. It’s overwhelming. It’s isolating. And it’s tiring. It’s oh so tiring.

But around the time I was looking for insurance, I remembered Widowed and Young (WAY), a charity someone had mentioned to me on Twitter shortly after Mr C died. When it was first mentioned I didn’t understand what use it would be to me, but I now started to research it. I needed it. Because no matter how supportive my friends, family and colleagues were being, I just didn’t know anyone that actually got it. After spending time on the website and discovering just how many people lose a spouse or partner under the age of 50, I suddenly felt that maybe there might be people out there that understood. I joined a virtual quiz that one of the Kent groups* had organised. I was so nervous as I dialled in (I’m not sure what I was expecting) but everyone was just so normal and friendly. Yes, we’re now all part of a club that no-one wants to be part of, but fundamentally, we’re all normal people. It’s invaluable to have support like this. And more recently, a WAY from COVID group* has been set up for anyone who has lost a partner throughout any of the lockdowns (be it to COVID or another reason). Our first virtual gathering was again just so very comforting. It’s so reassuring to know people have had the same thoughts and emotions that you have.

So, when WAY advertised for ambassadors I applied. I wanted to be able to help others going through this experience to feel less isolated. To know that there are people who understand what this horrendous journey is like. To help people know that support is out there. I feel incredibly proud and privileged to have been successful in this application. A year ago, I didn’t know anything about this charity and never dreamed I’d be in this position. To be honest, I still don’t want to be and wish I didn’t have a need for WAY. But now I am, and I do, I’ll do all I can to share our story and help others to know that they’re not alone.

If you missed my Talk aWAY session with Jess Haslem-Bantoft , you can catch up here.

If you’d like to find out more about Widowed and Young and the support offered, please visit the website.

* To join these groups you must have a current WAY membership.

What it means to me to be a mother

“Is daddy going to be ok?”

“I don’t know. I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you that the doctors and nurses will do everything they can to try to make him ok.” 

This is a conversation that took place at 4:30am shortly after my husband had walked down the stairs to a waiting ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. The severity of that moment will stay with me for the rest of my life. I had a choice with how I responded to her. Lie and pretend everything was going to be ok or admit that I didn’t know what was going to happen. In the split second it took me to make that decision, I opted for honesty. For whatever we were going to face over the coming days, weeks or even months, honesty would get us through.

I won’t lie. There’s been a lot since I became a mother that I’ve not been prepared for. But that conversation was hard. No-one prepared me for that conversation. No-one then gave me a manual to help me prepare for having to tell our beautiful little girl that her daddy was going to die. No-one prepared me for helping her through her grief. No-one prepared me for how much of a fierce mama bear I would become in the weeks and months that followed.   

Because since I became a mother I’ve always tried to protect her in whatever way I can. I’ve always tried to stop her feeling hurt and to try to put a smile on her face. Yet since Mr C came down with his temperature on 22 March (Mother’s Day) last year, I’ve seen how broken she can be. Yes, she’s been phenomenal. I am reminded on a daily basis of just how phenomenal she is. I simply wouldn’t still be standing without her by my side.

But she’s also a little girl who has gone through the most excruciating loss. I’ve seen her eyes lose their sparkle. I’ve watched her fall apart. And when you’ve watched your child go through this pain and all she has gone through, you want to do everything in your power to stop them ever feeling hurt again. You’re prepared to take on anyone and anything that causes them disappointment or angst.

I know it will be impossible for me to do that totally. Because I’m acutely aware that she will feel hurt. One day it’s inevitable that someone will break her heart. It’s almost a rite of passage and something she will need to go through in life. All I will be able to do will be to pick up the pieces and hold her until the hurt subsides a little.  

And so today, on Mother’s Day, I’m pausing to reflect on my role as a mother. To reflect on the promises I made to myself the day my husband died. That I would continue doing my best for our daughter. That I would try to protect her as best I could. That I would fight her corner for her whenever needed. That I would teach her self-worth. That I would teach her to never give up.

It’s been my hardest year as a mother since Mother’s Day 2020. It’s been the steepest learning curve of my entire life. But it’s been a year that’s taught me so very, very much about just what it means and what it takes to be one.

COVID-19 and me

This is a post which was written in October 2020, six months after the death of my husband. It was originally shared internally at work and then after a number of people asked if I would share this externally, I published it on LinkedIn. The response was overwhelming and just one of the many reasons I decided to start my own blog.

——————————————

7 March

“I really fancy some chocolate”

“Go for it. Pop it in the trolley. If coronavirus doesn’t get us, the asteroid that my colleague told me about will.”

30 March

“999, which service do you require?”

“Ambulance, I need help. I think my husband’s having a panic attack. 111 also suspect he may have COVID-19. But he’s not got a cough. He’s never had a cough.”

Two conversations. Three weeks apart. All it took to turn my entire world upside down.

When I joked with my husband about the chocolate, it’s because it felt impossible that the UK was going to be hit hard. We argued about sending our daughter to school. Even when the announcement came to work from home, it felt surreal.

So, when he started sporting a temperature, I didn’t worry too much. COVID-19 couldn’t be in our house. It was happening on the news. It couldn’t happen to my family. We’d followed all the advice, he must just have a bit a cold.

But as he steadily deteriorated, my fears grew, and we spoke to 111 twice in the week leading up to needing to ring 999. And as the three paramedics got ready to take him to hospital and we watched him walk to the ambulance, I made our daughter tell him she loved him. Two hours later, I learnt he’d been taken to ITU, immediately sedated and put on a ventilator. For three weeks he battled so very hard and our amazing NHS tried everything they possibly could to save him. But late afternoon on 19 April he lost his battle. A new life for my 10-year-old daughter and me had begun.

Because for the first time in my adult life, I was without Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. I used to joke that we only got together because I needed a date for my 18th birthday party and I liked his surname, but for over 20 years we’d been navigating life together. A life that saw Charlie be diagnosed with and beat testicular cancer at the age of 27. It was this that led him to adopt a philosophy that life was too short and to just enjoy it. And I think it’s testament to him and how loved he was, that over £4,000 was raised in his memory for The Oddballs Foundation, a charity which raises awareness of Testicular Cancer. He was pragmatic yet vivacious. He loved Christmas and for the entire month of December would wear a Christmas t-shirt, jumper or shirt! Quite simply Charlie was one of life’s good guys and without a shadow of a doubt, the person you wanted in your squad!

But above all else, he was beyond devoted to our daughter. He was so unbelievably proud of her and all she’s accomplished in her life so far, I simply know that hearing her voice on the Skype calls for the last week he was in ITU would have been the spur for him to keep on fighting. And while it breaks my heart that I can’t fix this situation for her, she continues to amaze me every single day and just like her daddy, I couldn’t be more proud.

At a time that has seen all of us living through challenging situations, adjusting to the new rules and restrictions, getting used to a new physical distancing world (Charlie didn’t like the phrase social distancing), my daughter and I have seen an abundance of kindness and support from so many people since that fateful 999 call. It’s why despite all we’ve gone through, I truly believe that it is kindness that will be my abiding memory from 2020. On my last evening out before lockdown I wore a t-shirt that said “In a world where you can be anything… Be Kind”. It really does cost nothing but it means so very much.

I can’t lie and say this whole experience hasn’t irrevocably changed our lives. It has and it will continue to do so.

But a month after he died, I said I wouldn’t let our experience define us or who we become. I stand by that. If we’ve learnt anything these last six months, it’s to be kinder, stronger and to refocus our priorities. And I know he’d approve of that.