Tag: Motherhood

When the flowers stop

In August last year, an incredibly lovely person told me her mum had said to her at the beginning of my journey that the hardest time may be some months later “when the flowers stopped coming.” It’s stuck with me ever since. Because it’s absolutely true.

To mark his anniversary, flowers came into our house again. The smell was beautiful, I was so grateful, and it got me thinking back to when Mr C died. We were inundated with flowers. At one point, I had 14 vases around my house. The smell was beautiful. I was so very, very grateful. Until they died. Because they made work for me by dying. I vividly remember standing on my driveway yelling at my mum and stepdad while trying to consolidate vases and get rid of the flowers that had now died on me too. A gust of wind knocked a vase over and it broke. I yelled some more. My husband had died and now I was having to deal with dead flowers and smashed glass, I had enough to do, I didn’t want to deal with this as well.

That moment was the first time I’d really thought about the expectations, actions and support those left behind need when someone very close to them dies. I’ve nearly always sent flowers when people have lost a loved one, you are limited with the support you can show, and flowers are a nice way to do this. But not anymore. When one of my closest friends lost her partner to COVID in January, I didn’t send her flowers. I thought about what had been most useful to me and used that for ideas. One of the most memorable gifts I had was from a friend who said “don’t judge me” when she gave it to me. It was a bottle of gin, a bottle of tonic, a box of tissues, ready meals, bubble bath and hair dye. She thought I’d be stressing about my hair with hairdressers shut. She was right. That morning I’d sent my mum out to buy me hair dye ahead of the funeral.

When he died, we were inundated with messages. I spent almost every evening responding to them. We were inundated with support. We were inundated with people telling us they’d be there for us. Some of them have, some of them haven’t. We were inundated with people telling us to do what we needed to do. There was no expectation put upon us. We were just allowed to be. But as with the flowers stopping, the messages dwindled. It was unsustainable for such frequent contact to continue. I know that, everyone has their own lives to lead, the world didn’t stop because my husband died. But it doesn’t mean I need them any less. It doesn’t mean I need the support any less. Equally the lack of expectation also seemed to stop. Because when it comes to grief, everyone has expectations. Whether they know it or not.

When I returned to work, there was an element of surprise. It was too soon. Shouldn’t I give myself more time? Wasn’t I putting too much pressure on myself? Was I being fair on my daughter? Turns out I wasn’t conforming to the expectation people had. I absolutely know that people said this with the very best of intent and it was lovely to have such care shown towards me, but it started to show what I’d now be navigating as I walked along this new path.

I’ve been exposed to the expectation to move on when you’re widowed young. It was during one of my few visits out that I first came across it. I bumped into someone who knows my mum and was asked, “are you over it yet?” It took me a good few minutes to work out what they were referring to. I wasn’t expecting to be asked if I was over it six months after losing my husband. We chatted for a bit longer and they ended the conversation with “I wouldn’t worry about what’s happened, you’re a good-looking woman, you’ll find someone else. Don’t worry.” I was flabbergasted. Their attempt at comforting me I’m sure. And yes, while I totally acknowledge that I have no idea what my future holds, I do know that it won’t be a case of moving forward and not remembering or worrying. Irrespective of my future, part of me will always, always be Mrs C. Charlesworth. Charlingtonsworth. Or any of the other names that I’ve become accustomed to being called since I got married.

The hardest expectation though is about how I should behave. I’ve been told so often how strong I am, that it’s like there’s an expectation on me to be on my best behaviour and not show when I’m under pressure. That it’s not strong if I do that. I refuse to do this. I won’t put on a mask and pretend I’m ok. I did that once and learnt the hard way that it doesn’t work. But I sometimes wonder if I’m expected to. A perfect example took place in the run up to Christmas. I was openly struggling, life was the hardest it had been for a few months and beyond stressful, we were finding the third lockdown hard and I was dreading Christmas. This culminated in a conversation where I was short with someone. I used a tone. I was blunt. I admit it. I used a tone and was brutally honest in the conversation. I know it. But this resulted in me being told they were “not accustomed to being spoken to in the manner that I adopted.” It was used as a contributing reason for them distancing themselves not just from me, but from my daughter. And this stopped me in my tracks. To be told that hurt. It was a one off during a particularly stressful time. It was the first time over the nine months since losing Mr C that they’d seen me like this. Where was the support? Where was the understanding? Why wasn’t I allowed to have an off day? Why was this held against me? Against my daughter. As time has gone by and I’ve thought about it more, I think it’s because of the expectations and perceptions surrounding grief. When you’re perceived as strong and as time passes, you’re no longer meant to have off days. You’re not meant to need the support in the way you did at the start. The taboo of talking about grief means people don’t understand that off days and the need to be supported will be a way of life for me for an exceptionally long time.

But I’ve equally found myself having expectations. For people to treat us in the way that I’d treat them. I expect them to behave as I would. As Mr C would. He would, and I do, expect more from people for our daughter. Irrespective of what was usual before he died, I firmly believe, and expect, people should show up for her more because life is different now. It’s a new playing field. She was just 10 when her daddy died and the rules have changed. Maybe I’m wrong to feel like this. Maybe I’m wrong to expect things to change. Maybe it’s me that actually has unfair expectations. But when your life has been overwhelmingly changed beyond all recognition, your outlook and expectations change too. It’s inevitable. It’s why Mr C changed after his cancer battle. It’s why I know that if the roles were reversed, he’d feel and be having the same expectations that I do.

I know I’ve changed since he fell ill. I know there are people I’m far closer to now than I was then. There are people in my life now who are only in it because of what’s happened. There are people I’m not as close with. Partly I’m to blame. I know I don’t make as much effort with people as I used to. I don’t organise in the way I used to. I have far less tolerance for seeing other people’s mundane or first world problems. But I’m just so tired. I’m juggling being a solo parent while working full-time and running a household and all that that entails. Oh, and just the small matter of grieving for my partner of 21 years. The father of my child. Sometimes messaging or ringing people is just one more thing that I don’t need to be doing. Or I simply forget to. I suspect there are some who are uncomfortable with my honesty and talking about what’s happened. I suspect there are some who find it difficult to know what to say to me. I suspect for some it is easier to walk away because it’s too hard to walk this path with me. Because I’m a different person now. And there are some living with their own challenges who just don’t need mine on top of them.

But I’ll always be so grateful to those who have been there for me since the flowers stopped. They are the ones without expectation. They are the ones who have become my scaffolding, holding me up on this rollercoaster. They are the people who will help me get through whatever the future brings. I can honestly say I don’t know what it looks like. These people and the expectations on me could all change. As with 2020, I know the flowers will stop again. But the hard times won’t. The challenges won’t. But it’s knowing that there will always, always be people giving me the support I need during the hardest of times which is so invaluable.

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.

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.