Tag: Widow

Four and a half years a widow

Picture of Emma Charlesworth between 2020 and 2024

It’s been a while since I wrote a blog on the “half anniversary.” I think the last time I did this was in 2021 after a pretty tumultuous few months when I was reflecting on 18 months as a widow. But there’s something about this one that’s making me reflect as well. It’s the last one I have before the anniversary (or Dad’s Death Day as my daughter prefers) that already feels like it’s looming over me. Five years. The fact we are rapidly hurtling towards this one is something I am struggling to get my head around. And probably will be for the next six months. It just doesn’t feel real that in 2025 I’ll have been a widow for five years.

I first started thinking about it on Father’s Day this year. The realisation hit me a few days beforehand that my daughter was about to do her fifth Father’s Day without her father. There is something about the number five that just feels huge. I think in part it’s because my daughter was 10-years-old when he died. Five is exactly half of that. It scares me how quickly time is going and how much she is achieving without him. Fast forward a few weeks and we then had our fifth birthday without him. Which also happened be his 50th birthday. It hit me a lot harder than I anticipated it would, and I think this is what I’m still coming to terms with. How much of a part of my life grief is. How much of a part of my life it always will be.

I know that on the surface people don’t see this in the same way about me as they would have done in the early days. And that’s completely right, because I’m not as physically broken by it as I was in 2020. What staggers me is how much grief changed me not just mentally by physically too. I look back at pictures now and see how ill I looked. I’ve questioned my family on this, I’ve asked them why no-one told me that I looked ill or broken, and the response is always the same. “You didn’t need to know.” They are of course right; I didn’t need to know this because I would have just stressed about it and probably made myself more ill. But when I look back now, it makes me really emotional. Because I do know now. And I can see it.

Yet a couple of weeks ago when I was out, I had a comment that really took me aback. I was speaking with someone I’d never met before and the subject of what had happened came up. “Well, you look quite happy about it” was the response. I stood there, slightly unsure of what to say. What am I meant to do? Sit in a corner, wear black, have a veil over my face and weep until the end of my days? Or be like Miss Havisham and wear my wedding dress (granted, I probably wouldn’t fit in it) until the end of my days? I flustered a little bit and made a comment about how it was nearly five years, and I was learning to live with it, but I know I it was just waffle.

Because this is the thing, isn’t it? There is such a lack of understanding or knowledge about grief. I think this is the main thing I’ve learnt in the last four and a half years. To the majority of people I’m living my life, am happy and am moving on. But these people don’t see me behind closed doors. They don’t see me crying in a theatre, cinema or while watching TV because the music or storyline has triggered me. They don’t see the anger I feel at all the coverage the release of Boris Johnson’s new book has been getting. They don’t see me bristle at the term covid fatigue. They don’t see me exhausted at having to do absolutely everything. They don’t see me worrying that my late husband is going to be forgotten. The inane fear I have that people are over it and wish I’d stop banging on about it. They don’t see the constant juggle of being a solo parent, a full-time employee, perimenopausal, a friend, a family member and not to mention Emma. Me as an individual. Someone trying to forge a life for herself because she’s well aware that her daughter is just getting older, gaining more independence and building her own life.

I’m having to retrain my brain to adjust to this. I’m having to get used to time on my own. This should have been the time of life when my late husband and I had a bit more freedom, were able to take advantage of this and enjoy being a couple. I’ve spent a lot of time writing this year, and now I’ve finished that project, I’ve been at a bit of a loss as to what I’m meant to do with my time. Again. People don’t see me wandering round my house wondering how to fill time when my daughter is with friends or at dancing. They don’t see me coming up with oodles of jobs that probably don’t need doing because it still feels weird to me to be at home on my own without him. Even now. There are times when I still struggle with the fact he isn’t here, and I have to do it all. That’s the life of a widow though. The side swipes are still very much a part of my everyday life.

It’s this that I’ve found most interesting since he died. The expectation anyone in my situation puts on themselves. “It’s been X amount of years, I should feel different by now.” Not wanting to scare people who are newly widowed that the grief doesn’t ever go. When I talk with fellow members of Widowed and Young, this is a topic of conversation that crops up time and time again. People apologising because they’re further along and don’t want to cause worry to newer members that they’re still sad or struggling. Newer members feeling guilty because they’ve had a positive few weeks and feel they should be sadder. The guilt when you’re a few years in and have a bad day because you should be better by now. The crushing pain that can appear when you least expect it to. The complexity of emotions is vast. Navigating them has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Trying to understand my emotions and my needs is at times beyond me. I messaged my sister a few months back and told her I was having an existential crisis. “Why now?” was her blunt response.

Because this is the thing. There is a lot in my life that feels tougher to deal with now and causes me to have a crisis more than it once would have done. Because I have to deal with it on my own. I recently had a leak in my house that resulted in the floorboards needing to be lifted up. I asked our plumber if he could stay for a cup of tea and help me rationalise it because it felt overwhelming to me to have to work it out by myself. It was the fourth leak I’d had in a year and each one had elicited a different response from me. Because each one came when my mental state and resilience were different.

And while it might sound daft. These leaks feel like a perfect metaphor for grief. The first one sent me into a bit of a spiral as I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go away with the girls the following day and needed a friend to come to my rescue. The second one I just dealt with, very matter of fact and didn’t even cry. The third one was the straw that broke the camel’s back after a full-on couple of weeks and caused me to capitulate. And the most recent one saw me having to rationalise it all out by talking to someone. Every single one of those reactions have been how I’ve dealt with my grief since becoming a widow. How I’ve dealt with the fact I’m a solo parent and no longer part of a couple anymore. It’s relentless. It’s exhausting.

Yet I’d be lying if I said that the people who only see the superficial side of me are entirely wrong. I cannot sit here and say I have a bad life. To do that would be disingenuous. I am moving forward. I am able to enjoy aspects of my life again. I have been able to have some amazing adventures. I know when I write my end of year blog this year it’s going to be one that I’m incredibly proud of. I’ve conquered a lot this year both emotionally and physically. I’ve achieved objectives that I set for myself at the start of 2024. So far, neither my daughter or I have needed therapy this year. The first year since 2019 when neither of us have been in therapy. Life feels settled. But this is equally hard. Because I don’t trust it. I find it very hard to relax into it. There is always this nagging little voice at the back of my mind telling me not to get to used to it. That something bad will come my way very soon.

I know as I head towards Christmas, my daughter’s birthday and the upcoming anniversary, life might not feel as settled. There’s going to be a lot of reminders. It’s not going to be easy. But I’m going to try to focus on a quote I heard at the Widowed and Young AGM last month to get me through. Because it feels like the perfect summation of my life as a widow.

“It never gets easy. It just gets less hard.”

Finding your WAY

Various photos from the Widowed and Young AGM 2024

It’s been a few months since I last wrote a blog. Life has been busy lately, we’ve had a fab summer and while I have been busy writing, it’s been for something completely different to my blog. And I always said I’d only write when I had something to say, I never had the intention of blogging just for the sake of it.

But a lot has been whirring in my mind since last weekend. You see, last weekend was the 2024 Widowed and Young AGM. This was the third AGM I have attended and once again, I trekked across the country to be there, this time to Crewe. It’s always a bit daunting getting in the car and driving quite a way by yourself, Mr C was always the one out of the two of us who did most of the driving, but there is always something reassuring about knowing you’re driving to spend the weekend with people who “get it.”

Yet, this was the first AGM where I headed off feeling slightly nervous about it. You see, I knew that Emma, my comfort blanket at these events wasn’t going to be able to make it until late on the Friday evening. So, I was going to have to go to the Volunteer’s Meeting and dinner without her. It might sound odd, I’ve been volunteering and an Ambassador for WAY for three and a half years now, have met numerous other volunteers and members of WAY at various events, but that thought of walking into a room by myself still feels me with a little bit of dread. I’m still not really used to being on my own.

Traffic delays meant I was slightly late to the Volunteer’s Meeting. Fortunately, Emma was on hand for me to ring to ask her to let them know! But being late also meant that I didn’t have a chance to get nervous and scared about walking in on my own, the meeting had already started when I arrived and so I just had to thrown myself into it and the initial icebreaker challenge. Within moments, I was wondering why I’d been feeling nervous. There were familiar faces for me to talk to and also new faces who I quickly got to know. It’s one of the weirdest situations really, we’re only in that room together because of one commonality, we have all experienced the loss of a partner before our 51st birthday yet somehow that almost feels secondary once you start talking to others. My team won one of the other challenges and we were presented with a bag of Heroes, an apt prize if I ever saw one! I then joined other members for a history tour of Crewe Hall Hotel and Spa, the hotel we were staying in, a really beautiful and fascinating place and then I trundled back to my room to get ready for dinner.

Once again, the nerves kicked in. Dinner was at 8pm and while there were messages on the Facebook page about meeting for a drink earlier, I started feeling apprehensive again. What if I went down and wouldn’t have anyone to talk to? What if people I didn’t know started to talk to me about my widowhood experience, did I really want to talk about it? What if, what if, what if…? The question that we really shouldn’t ask ourselves, but we always do. Worst case scenario planning, and I am very, very good at it! I snuck into dinner just before 8pm, not revealing to anyone the feelings I was having and instantly started talking to people. Again, some I’d met before but others I hadn’t. Conversation was easy and free flowing. If I’m honest, I knew it would be and I was berating myself in my head for the fears I’d been having leading up to it.

Emma had messaged to tell me the time she would be arriving and despite feeling tired, I knew I needed to wait up to see her. I suspected both of us would need the reassuring hug from each other, her because of the long drive and to help quell a number of anxieties she was feeling, me because I was also experiencing anxieties and just wanted a hug from someone who knows me well. I think we both clung on a little bit too tight when she did arrive. But that’s the power of connection through tragedy, sometimes you don’t even need to say how you’re feeling for someone else to just instinctively know.

The following morning was the AGM itself. A chance for us to learn more about the work of the charity over the previous year and plans going forward. But it always kicks off with an icebreaker challenge, there was a lot at stake with this one, I’d been on the winning table in 2023 and felt I had a title to protect! This year we needed to build the tallest swan, the swan being synonymous with WAY. There were other people on our table who had been on the same table and therefore victorious last year, but there were also some people who were new faces. Straight away we all got to work and after some potentially contentious entries, I’m delighted to report that my table was once again victorious. The winning sashes were instantly put on. The prosecco opened a short while later (it was early after all). The smiles and the laughter evident for all to see.

That continued throughout the day. Yes. There were some challenging moments. Hearing from a speaker who is also a member of WAY and hearing her story can’t help but make you reflect on your own experience and how you’ve come to be in a room full of people who have faced similar heartbreak. But as we all went off to the breakout sessions, me experiencing my first Soundbath and then candle making, I couldn’t help but think about just how important weekends and occasions like this have become to me.

Those thoughts continued as we headed to the spa for a swim and time in the sauna and steam room. Emma and I chatting and putting the world to rights. Catching up with others and making plans for the evening dinner dance. It was just so ridiculously easy and comfortable. As we headed to dinner, posh frock on (any excuse to wear a posh frock!) I knew I’d be in for a fab evening. I was proven right. I was once again victorious in a game of Heads and Tails and another box of Heroes came my way. I introduced someone I had met the day before and someone I had met last year to Tequila Rose, I’m nothing if not generous. We tried to see how many of us we could squeeze into a Photo Booth to take a photo of the victorious winning icebreaker challenge table (the answer is eight people). Some of us crying with laughter at the most ridiculous and surreal conversations we were having. Some of us crying because the emotion had got a bit much being relatively new to WAY and widowhood. I instinctively went over and gave a hug to someone because I could just see that they needed it and if I’ve learnt anything, it’s just how powerful a hug can be at the right time. Some of us catching up and chatting, I spent a lot of time talking to someone I had met last year, we’ve continued to message over the past year but despite the fact we’ve now only seen each other twice in a year, it felt so normal and like old friends talking. At one point I and another volunteer were asked how long we’d known each other, I looked at my watch, did the maths and responded “about 29 hours” to be promptly told that it was as though we’d known each other a lot longer than that. I think a lot of that came down to the very warped sense of humour we both have!

And I noticed that while I was having these conversations, I wasn’t as solely reliant on Emma as I had been in previous years. Yes, I was so relieved to have my comfort blanket back and to know she was there, but we both were having conversations with others and finding our way. Together but also on our own. As I’ve had to do with the rest of my life since becoming eligible to join WAY almost four and a half years ago. Emma runs courses and is passionate about talking about growing around your grief, and I truly believe that this is what so many of us in the room have done or are in the process of doing. It’s different timing for everyone, no grief journey is the same, but we are all doing it. Anyone walking past that room and seeing the smiles, laughter and dancing wouldn’t have had a clue behind the heartbreaking reason that has brought us all together. They’d have just seen a group of people having a good evening. And after all the heartbreak and tears we’ve experienced, that can only be a good thing.

As we checked out of the hotel the next morning, I knew there was one more than I needed to do before I headed home. I needed to brave doing something else on my own. Finding my way to revisit a special place. Just me. Not with Emma or my WAY friends. Not my family. Just me. I was a short drive away from the castle that my nan spent five years living in while she was evacuated. The last time I visited it my family were all together. My grandad and my late husband were still alive. Alzheimer’s hadn’t taken hold of my nan. As I walked around taking photos and videos to show her when I next see her, I couldn’t help but think about how much my life has changed since that last visit. I sat on my own, had a coffee, did some writing and just spent time as me, as Emma.

It hit me that the same day four and half years ago was the day that Mr C experienced his first symptom of COVID-19. The tears fell and I found myself crying for a lot of the journey home. For what I’ve lost. The pain I’ve gone through. The hurt that has come into my life. But I also cried for the good in my life. The people who are only in it because of what I’ve gone through. Everything my daughter and I have been able to achieve in the face of such adversity. The hope we have for the future. The plans we have. It’s the most bittersweet of situations. I’d give everything I have for my late husband to still be here, but I know that’s impossible. And so, I just have to focus on what I do have.

Those of us who formed a close bond last weekend are now part of a WhatsApp group. It’s been quite active this week. Plans being made. Support being given. Conversations that one might say are classic examples of levity. I’ve had to find a new life and a new way since the pandemic turned my world upside down in 2020, but I just know that there is still a future for me, good times ahead and new friends to be made. I owe a lot of that to WAY. It’s one of the reasons my latest fundraising is raising money for the charity. It’s my way of both showcasing Mr C’s photography while also giving back to the charity that has done so much for me.

Because what WAY has shown me most of all is that it is possible to find your way in this new life I’ve found myself in and that you can go on. It’s why I intend to live my life to the full as the best way of honouring my late husband. As the quote on the candle I made last weekend from Elvis Presley says “What’s the good of reaching 90, if you waste 89?”  

Am I going mad?

About a year ago, I started to wonder if I was going mad. No, for all the cynics among you, it wasn’t anything to do with Jason Donovan, but instead it was because my memory was shot to pieces, I was exhausted more than I thought physically possible and I was simply struggling to function. I put this down to grief and the fact I’d been doing too much. It was also around this time a year ago I realised I wasn’t Wonder Woman so that was that. If I just took the pressure off and eased up a bit, I’d feel better.

But then I had a chance conversation with my Occupational Health Advisor at work. I’d been under her for a few months since my return to work and we spoke about a wide range of things. She asked me if I’d considered that I could be perimenopausal.* And to be perfectly honest, no I hadn’t. She then told me how in some circumstances trauma can affect hormones, it can exacerbate things and potentially bring on menopause earlier than you might normally have gone through it. Trauma and grief. The gifts that just keep on giving. She recommended that I just go to the doctor and have a bit of a MOT to get myself checked out.

Now. I’d like to say that I went and booked an appointment there and then. But I’d be lying. I was 41 years old, surely this wasn’t something I’d be going through? I genuinely felt this was something that happened in your late 40s or early 50s. And I wasn’t experiencing hot flushes which is essentially what the menopause is right? Or at least that’s the impression that the world used to portray.

Yet over the next few weeks, it played on my mind more and more. I started to think back over the past few months. The breast pain I’d be experiencing before my period started. The cramps I’d been having during my period that at one point were so bad I physically struggled to get up off the floor. I’d never suffered with any PMS for nearly 30 years, but again I hadn’t really joined up the dots. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was just too busy to stop and think.

And then, I had a conversation with my daughter.

  • Me: “Can you go and tidy your bedroom before Debbie comes tomorrow?”
  • Miss C: “Who’s Debbie?”
  • Me: “Stop being ridiculous. Just go and tidy your room so that Debbie can clean it tomorrow.”
  • Miss C: “Seriously, who’s Debbie?”
  • Me: “You’re really starting to annoy me now, just go and tidy your room before the cleaner comes.”
  • Miss C: “Have we got a new cleaner then? Our cleaner is called Kim, not Debbie.”

I just stopped in my tracks. She was completely right. Kim had been our cleaner for a number of years and I’d been fortunate that this was something that I’d still been able to keep on to help me out after Mr C died. Debbie was the cleaner who went into my nan’s house once a week.

I decided that maybe I should book a doctor’s appointment after all. Because after all, losing my mind was something I didn’t really need to happen on top of everything else. Like I say. Trauma. The gift that just keeps on blinking giving.

I went to see the doctor in early December. I sat down and explained why I was there. That I wondered if I might be experiencing perimenopause symptoms. She asked me to list what these were and then said, “is that everything?” Here we go, I thought, this is when she tells me to stop being ridiculous, that I’m too young and to go away. When I said no, she responded with “well, it’s not like you’ve not got enough to be contending with is it?” Maybe this was real. Maybe everything I’d been going through wasn’t because I was grieving or going mad. Maybe there was more to it. She recommended blood tests and a scan just to check there wasn’t anything else affecting me. And to go back to see her in January.

At the next appointment, she told me that my bloods and scan were all normal. She asked if I wanted to try HRT. Again, my first thought was I’m 41, surely I’m too young for HRT? but I figured what was the harm. If there was even a slight chance of getting my mind back, I was willing to try it. Within two weeks, I felt like a new woman. I was functioning like I hadn’t functioned in such a long time. I couldn’t actually believe it; my brain was back! I sort of turned into a woman on a mission, just excited to be able to function and remember things. I drove home from visiting my sister one day and the random Spotify playlist threw a ridiculous amount of kryptonite songs at me. When I got home, I messaged her the songs in the right order they’d been played. Three months earlier I’d have been lucky to even remember that I’d been to see her that day.

I wish I could say that this was the end of the story. That everything became rosy from this point on. But again. I’d be lying. After a particularly inspiring life coach session, I started completing a daily journal that I’d been given about 18 months previously but had lived in my bedside drawer. I also started using the Balance App to log any symptoms I was still experiencing. Within a few months, I started to see a pattern. There were still weeks when the exhaustion was debilitating. But these tended to be at the same time every month. I remember one of these was in April and I considered not going to see Jason at The O2 because I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stay awake and was too scared of driving home late at night. Miss C had a friend to stay a few times, both of which coincided with one of these weeks, and I’m fairly sure she must have thought I was beyond miserable at moaning about how tired I was and going to bed so early. But she was incredibly polite about it bless her. So, I started adjusting the HRT dosage to see if it made a difference. And lo and behold, it did. Right. Back on track. I had this nailed.

But in June, I changed the progesterone part of the HRT. Partly because it was becoming incredibly difficult to get hold of (in April I’d had to try five pharmacies before I found one that had it in stock) But what I didn’t do was change the oestrogen part. I didn’t think I’d need to. I was still going to the doctor for regular check ups but part of the joy of HRT is that it can be individual, and you do have to adjust it based on your needs. Over the course of June and July, I went downhill and backwards. I was struggling to sleep and kept waking up in the night. The exhaustion was so bad that on a few occasions I’d be working at home, put my head on the desk for a few minutes and wake up 45 minutes later. I’d come out of meetings, read my notes and have no recollection of having been in that meeting. I’d sit down for five minutes before cooking dinner and wake up an hour later. I was craving sugar and kept raiding the biscuit tin. Which in turn led to some weight gain. As well as the bloating I was experiencing. I went out with a friend at the end of July and looked at myself in the mirror, hating myself. I couldn’t decide what to wear, “can you go and find me a bin bag?” I said to my daughter as I felt that it might be the only shapeless thing I could wear. This wasn’t me. I didn’t like it one bit, I felt that HRT was proving to be the biggest mistake of my life.

And then in August, I had another chance conversation with one of my mum’s friends who used to be a nurse. She recommended that I completely reset. That I go back to the bare minimum of the oestrogen and see if that made a difference. Within two days, I was sleeping through the night again. Within a week the exhaustion was abating. I could have cried. She saw me a couple of weeks later and said how much better I was looking. I wanted to hug her. I didn’t as we were in a swimming pool for an exercise class and that might have been weird, but I really wanted to hug her. I’ve been on an upward trajectory since. My levels have settled out and I am now functioning again. Still journaling. Still using the Balance App.

Yet. For someone who is comfortable talking about her life and her experiences, I didn’t talk about this. I didn’t talk to anyone at work. Nobody knew that I was struggling. And the reason now seems a tad ridiculous. Because I didn’t want it to be another thing. As I said this to my career coach in September, I could hear how utterly stupid it sounded. But this was my concern. I’m the one whose husband died. I’m the one who is caring for a nan with Alzheimer’s. I didn’t want to admit that I was also struggling with perimenopause. I didn’t want to sound like a blinking sob story and as though I was making excuses.

My career coach was of course understanding. I told my line manager the following week. Who was of course also understanding. I started making more use of the Peppy App that I’m able to access via work. I know I’m exceptionally fortunate to work for a company that does allow conversations like this to happen. That does provide access to apps and guidance when you need them. I just wish it hadn’t taken me quite so long to make use of it and to admit it.

Because here’s the truth. My life didn’t stop when my husband died. I’m still going to go through what a number of people do, people are going to die, people are going to fall ill etc… I am still (God willing) going to get older. I am going to go through the menopause because it’s a part of life. I can’t stop life happening because I’ve had my “thing” in my husband dying. It doesn’t work like that. This is a fact of life that all women will go through. Widowed or not. But being widowed does add another layer of complexity. When I was falling asleep when I should have been cooking dinner, there was no-one else to step in and do it. When I was struggling to function on a daily basis there was no other adult at home to step in, do what needed doing and take the pressure off. When I was feeling fat, old and ugly there was no partner to give me a hug.

Yet I am starting to feel better about myself again now since things have levelled out. Since I’ve been slightly more open about what I’m going through. I just wish I’d been brave enough to do it earlier and not let my other life experiences stop that.

* Please note. I don’t claim to be an expert on perimenopause and HRT. This is my story and what I have learnt. Please, please if you are experiencing symptoms or are in any doubt consult a medical professional or look at apps such as Balance.

Happy birthday to me…?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Day of Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been a long time

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

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

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

“She’ll let you into the parts of herself

That’ll bring you down.

She’ll let you in her heart

If you got a hammer and a vice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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