My story of becoming Emma whilst navigating the ups and downs of life. Including (but, not limited to!) being a mum, living with depression and anxiety and becoming a young widow at the age of 39. A real rollercoaster of a ride!
Five and a half years ago today, on 19 April 2020, my husband died in a global pandemic.
I write that because when you’re living it, there’s an element that you just survive. You can’t sit and think about it too much because it’s simply too huge. It’s overwhelming.
When I went to bed on that fateful day, I had no idea what my future held. How I was meant to carry on. How I could raise my daughter without him. I’d never been an adult without him, how was I meant to start at the age of 39?
A month later, after one of my honest Facebook posts, someone suggested I start writing a blog. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But after launching that blog in March 2021, I realised the power of sharing my story.
Since that day, I’ve been asked countless times if I’m going to write a book. Again. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But at my team’s Christmas gathering in 2023, as we went round the group and spoke about what we were hoping to achieve in 2024, I told them I was going to write a book.
On 22 September 2024, after being away at the Widowed and Young AGM and while having a coffee in the castle my nan spent five years in when she was evacuated in World War II, I wrote the last words of that book.
I hadn’t quite anticipated what would follow. A return to therapy for me. A realisation of how much I hadn’t processed about my late husband’s death. Another bereavement which knocked me for six. A return to therapy for my daughter. My book felt like the least of my problems. It was written, if it never saw the light of day, did it really matter?
Except deep down inside, I knew it did matter to me. So. Eventually, I started the process of trying to get it published. I’ve learnt so much this year about just what it takes to get a book published. But for the last few months, I’ve been working intently on making it a reality. And on today’s pertinent date, I’m thrilled, honoured and just a teeny bit scared to reveal more details.
Is Daddy Going to Be OK? by Emma Charlesworth will be published in November.
Wow. That statement is almost as sobering as saying my husband died in a global pandemic.
I’ve done it. I’ve written a book. It’s going to be published. I wonder if I’ll look back in five and a half years and realise that today was the day that I finally took stock of what I’ve achieved? That I’ve spent so long writing, editing and making decisions about it, that I haven’t really reflected on just what it means to have not just written a book, but to have also published one.
I’m so conscious that this will not be an easy read for so many people. That it might be incredibly painful. As with my thoughts when I launched my blog, I don’t actually know if anyone will read it. But what I do know is that since 19 April 2020, my aim has always been simple. To create a legacy for both my daughter and my late husband to make sure he never becomes a statistic of the pandemic. I hope in some small way, that this book helps me achieve that.
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It’s probably no surprise that the title of this blog is linked to Les Misérables. For someone who at the start of 2024 said “I don’t really feel the need to see it again,” it’s somehow become part of my life. I didn’t envisage when I made this statement that I’d be seeing it in London, Aberdeen, Manchester and Abu Dhabi. I certainly didn’t envisage that I’d be watching my daughter in the one of the lead roles. And of course. None of the songs are triggering or make me cry. Nope. Not even one.
The local production which my daughter was in recently involved an intense two-week rehearsal schedule. The venue for these rehearsals was about a five-minute drive from where Mr C used to work. The irony was not lost on me. There was me getting up at 4:30am so that I could drive to a local train station, get an early train into work and leave the office early to pick her up. Meanwhile, my mum and stepdad had to drop her on those days so that she could get there. And then on the days I wasn’t in the office, I did both drop off and pick up. I don’t begrudge this in the slightest, I’m her mum and I knew that her anxiety wouldn’t cope with her getting the train, but it still felt like a military mission to organise. All the while knowing that if I wasn’t a widow, this wouldn’t have been the case. Mr C could have done the drop off and pick up on his way to and from work. Again. Pure conjecture and speculation because I don’t actually know where he’d be working, but the crux of the matter is this. It wouldn’t have been solely down to me to orchestrate all of the running around.
My daughter was phenomenal. No other word for it. Even if I wasn’t a particular fan of watching her be a prostitute. Or the moment when she died, and they covered her with a sheet. Her being cast as Fantine was never going to be an easy watch! But I don’t really have the words to articulate just how proud and emotional I felt watching her. Seeing her living her best life on that stage. I could only begin to imagine just what her dad would have felt seeing her up there. And I know he was playing heavily on her mind during the performances too. There was an issue with her microphone during one of the shows that I wasn’t watching, and I got a little voice note from her saying how much she wanted a dad hug. Our everyday lives continue to be impacted by his death. Her dad wasn’t there to scoop her up at the end of that show and give her that hug. Missing him at those really important moments.
And as well as missing him and running round like a loon, it was during this rehearsal schedule that I received my first ever speeding ticket. I knew I was running a little bit late that morning but hadn’t realised I was going fractionally over the speed limit. I completely own it. I was the one driving that morning and I must have just taken my eye off the ball for a split second. But as I sat there reading the letter that was sent out, it made me stop and think. Was this actually a metaphor for me to slow down a little bit in life more generally?
I’ve lost count recently of how many times I’ve heard “you’re doing too much” and “I don’t know how you do it.” But as I’ve felt so often since my late husband died, I don’t really feel I have a choice. I can’t sit back and do nothing just because he died. I still have to work and commute to an office three days a week, I have bills to pay. I still have to raise our child. I still have to do the housework, finances and all that comes with being a homeowner. Yes. I could just focus on these aspects of my life but why should I? Why shouldn’t I try to forge a life and map out a future for me?
You see, this is the other thought that is regularly crossing my mind. I’m rapidly approaching a time when I’m going to be on my own. Change is coming and I have to start thinking about my future as ‘Emma’ rather than ‘Mum’ and planning for it. My daughter starts Year 11 when she returns to school in September and will be taking GCSEs in 2026. If all goes to plan, she’ll be leaving school following this to go to college. After that, there’ll be the next phase in her life, and she’ll in theory be heading off to do a degree. And what happens to me then? If all I’ve done is work and raise her, what do I then do in 2028? Both of these would be a heck of an achievement in themselves given all we’ve been through; I don’t deny that; but I can’t help but feel I need to future proof my life too.
Granted. When it comes to futureproofing, there might have been an easier and less demanding way to do this. But I have to do it in a way that works for me and by doing something I’m passionate about. I was absolutely honoured to have been appointed as a Trustee for Widowed and Young in July and I’m looking forward to seeing what I can achieve in this role. In December 2023 I said I was going to write a book and that has now been written. I have been working with the team at Softwood Books to bring this to life and I’m excited to see what this brings. But both of these require my time and energy. Which is why I can see why people tell me I’m doing too much. In a way I no doubt am. But it’s easy to say that when you haven’t been through what I have. When you haven’t had your future completely decimated.
Becoming a widow at the age of 39 wasn’t on the future plan when I was growing up. And that’s why I push myself. I’ve had one future ripped away from me. I can’t bear the thought of not having a new one to look forward to. For such a long time, the future was overwhelming. It scared me to look beyond the next day. But now I have to think about it. Because as my daughter starts to enter the next phase of her life, she’ll no longer need me in the same way she has. And then what becomes of me? It’s a thought that crosses my mind on such a regular basis. What happens to me? Empty nest syndrome is such a common feeling for millions of people but for me it’s going to hit that little bit differently. I really will be on my own when that happens.
Because I’ve recently been thinking about whether she and I are too co-dependent on each other. The circumstances regarding our bereavement no doubt forced us to be. In the first year after Mr C died, she was only in school for four months. No-one stepped foot inside our house for nearly three months after he died and even then, it was very minimal. I didn’t have to commute to London. We didn’t really have to navigate a social life. We became quite insular. It did pretty much feel like it was Team Charlesworth against the world. I think the two of us supported each other and held each other up in ways that we didn’t even realise we were doing. She became my sole reason for getting out of bed each day. I became her one constant in life. We’d both lost our other one constant, it was instinctive to cling to the one remaining.
I guess I’ve found myself being a lot more reflective this August than I normally would be. I hadn’t really realised why until I broke a little bit at work last week. I was feeling the strain of being a solo parent. Of juggling so much. Of not having that one person who could step in to pick up the slack when needed. For the first time in a very long time, I felt like a widow. That might sound daft given I’ve been living this life for five years now, but when you’re just living your life and you’ve become accustomed to living with grief every day, you sometimes forget to give yourself a little bit of kindness. Of remembering the magnitude of everything you’ve gone through and what’s led you to where you are in your life. I was so lucky that a colleague accompanied me for a walk to help me clear my head but when I said to her “what would have been my 20th wedding anniversary is fast approaching,” I heard my voice crack.
I haven’t really thought about just how significant this wedding anniversary was going to be. For the past few years, I’ve referred to the date as the anniversary of the day I became a Charlesworth. I’ve found it hard to refer to it as a wedding anniversary as I no longer feel married. I was. There is no denying it. I don’t want to. But I’m not married now. Every widow is different, but for me, I’m not married. I’m on my own. I’m widowed. Just writing that is hard. I battled with the phrase widow for a very long time. Now it’s a part of my identity.
This time 20 years ago I was just over two weeks away from getting married. While I didn’t know exactly what the future was going to look like, I had a pretty good idea. I never envisaged my husband dying in a global pandemic just over 14 years later. That being a widow would become a part of my identity. The Friday of the August Bank Holiday weekend in 2005 saw the start of my hen weekend celebrations. A night out in Maidstone before heading to Bournemouth for the rest of the weekend. Full of hope. Full of plans. Some realised. Others not.
I knew quite early on that I’d need to mark this anniversary. And so, I chose to think of a way to celebrate his life. To celebrate the marriage I did have. CharlieFest: Dress to Impress is how I decided to do that. To once again raise funds for the Intensive Care Unit at Medway Maritime Hospital. The unit who worked so tirelessly to care for him in the last three weeks of his life. Oh yes, did I forget to mention that I’m planning an event as well as working full time, becoming a Trustee and publishing a book? And I wonder why people tell me I do too much.
If I’m honest. This event has become like a second full time job. Even more so than the previous two I’ve held. Everything about this year has felt harder. The cost of living. The ticket sales. The raffle ticket sales. People not seeing my social media posts because of the algorithm. The posts in local Facebook groups which are left as pending. The organisation of it and unexpected changes. All of which take their toll. Those nagging thoughts that plague me have become a bit more prevalent over the past few weeks. Do people care less about what happened to us now? Are people sitting there thinking “dear god, is she still banging on about her dead husband?” I think back to the previous ones I’ve held and wonder if I asked for help more or if people offered their help more freely? Probably a combination of the two in all honesty. Lives move on. People are busy. With all I have going on, I just have to get things done when I can. And if I’m honest, there is something about this event that I feel even more responsible for. It feels even more personal. It’s not just a fundraising event in memory of my late husband. It’s also in memory of our marriage and everything we had.
I look at the current confirmed attendee list. It’s a very different list to the guest list for our wedding. People attending who never even met him. People not attending who were a huge part of his life and our married life. A sign of how times change. How lives move on. Again. I’ve wondered what the invite list would have looked like had we been hosting a 20th wedding anniversary party together. I’ll never know, but this is a prime example of something that affects me as a widow, and me alone. It comes back to that sentiment of being on my own. In so many ways, I am with my grief. I don’t for one second underestimate the impact of my late husband’s death on others, but how many other people are still having their day to day lives and routines impacted by it? How many others live with so many pertinent dates and reminders that only affect them? Who else said the words “til death do us part” only to have that become a reality far sooner than it should have been?
Yet as I have so many times since 2020, I can’t let myself dwell on thoughts like this. They don’t do me any favours. I had my moment last week. I didn’t ignore it or try to battle through it. I gave myself permission to feel how I was feeling. I joined a virtual Widowed and Young meeting to just vent with others who get it. It’s the first time for a while I’ve done that, be a member, be a widow and admit that this life is crap at times. I don’t have a bad life by any stretch of the imagination, but it is hard. And I knew that once I’d said out loud how I was feeling, I’d feel better. That’s exactly what happened.
So, for now, I’m going to focus on the positives. I’m going to look for the little glimmers. The memories of my hen do this weekend 20 years ago. The memories of my marriage. All we achieved during those 14 years.
The greatest achievement of all being our daughter. When I’ve had my moments questioning myself lately, she’s been the one to rationalise and talk sense into me. The one reminding me to focus on what we will achieve in two weeks to celebrate him and all that we had. All the donations made in his memory and the amount of money we’ve raised to help others in the last five years.
But above all else. She is the best reminder I have of the future. Because whatever my future entails, whatever I chose to do with it, however I choose to manage being on my own, the parenting and love we both gave her; and I’ve continued to do; has led her to the point of being able to plan her future and what comes next. She has so many exciting tomorrows ahead of her. And I hope I do too. As she herself sang in Les Misérables the other week:
“It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes.”
I cannot believe that somehow we’ve made it to five years of living without you. The memory of 19th April 2020 and the weeks leading up to it will never leave me. It still feels beyond surreal. I suspect it always will.
I want to start by saying I’m sorry I lost your wedding ring in 2023. To this day I don’t know how or where that happened. I certainly didn’t anticipate going viral on social media because of it though. But that’s what I’ve learnt these past five years. Expect the unexpected. Don’t try to plan too much. I live in hope that one day I might be reunited with the ring. You were always a blinking nightmare with it anyway, it’s a wonder you hadn’t lost it in the near 15 years you wore it! But I don’t feel losing it diminishes our marriage or the love we had. Your dad said “The ring is in your heart. The band is only a symbol” and he was right. I stopped wearing my engagement and wedding rings relatively soon after you died, there was no big ceremony about it. It was just my hands were so dry after all the washing and the anti-bac I was using. I wore your ashes ring on that finger for a long time, but gradually moved that too. It’s funny the things we do subconsciously.
Anyway. I don’t know the last time I wrote to you. I talk to you a lot of the time though. Heck. Sometimes I even shout at you. Usually at Christmas when I’m lugging the 4,000 boxes in and out of the loft. But throughout the year too. I’ll often pop to the Memorial Bench to get your opinion on things. Fortunate really that nobody can listen to those chats. And I’ve not yet been struck down by lightening so I’ll assume you’re ok with everything. But there’s some things that I’ve never said out loud. Or written. Today feels like the most apposite day to say them.
I know that we spoke to you via Skype on the day you died. I’ve always wondered if you could hear us on that day. I pray you could. I pray that you heard me telling you how much you were loved by so many people. How proud everyone was of you. That you heard me apologise that I couldn’t have kept you safe from the virus. Granted, as time has gone by I’ve accepted that I did all I could to get you the medical help and intervention that you needed. I wasn’t in control of you falling ill, to this day I have no idea where you contracted it from. How COVID-19 entered our world and stole you from us. I don’t think about it anymore, it ate away at me for so long but there really is nothing I could have done that would have changed it. I wish with everything I have that I could have done but this was out of my power.
When I made the announcements via message and on social media that you’d died, I said you’d lost your battle. But the truth is you didn’t lose a battle. You were fighting an enemy that didn’t play fair. Because that virus was indiscriminate with its victims. It just took whoever it wanted to. And I know that you battled so very, very hard Charlie. You fought it for four weeks from coming down with your temperature. You gave it everything you had. You tried to come home to us. But in the end, it was just too strong. One thing you weren’t though was weak. Not at all. I know you mustered all the strength you had to walk down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. I know you did this for our little girl. For her to not see you being carried out of our house. Thank you for doing this for her. I will be eternally grateful that her last image of seeing her father physically is of him having his head held high and showing strength. She needed that to help carry her through.
I’m so very proud of how she’s coped with losing you Charlie. I know you would be too. I’m not entirely sure where I would be without her. It’s dubious I’d still be standing. She’s been absolutely incredible. No 10-year-old child should have gone through what she has. She shouldn’t be growing up without her father. But she’s adjusted. Or should that be adjusting? I don’t know if she’ll ever really come to terms with it, how can she? You are going to miss so many special and important occasions, I know that she will be missing you and thinking of you on each and every one of them. As will I. As will so many other people.
It makes my heart swell at how loved you still are. How I still get messages from people that something they’ve done has made them think of you. Even people who may have only met you once or twice. Your impact and legacy on the world hasn’t been forgotten. I doubt it ever will be. I said I didn’t want you to be a number or statistic of the pandemic, it’s not been easy but somehow through my writing and all the fundraising we’ve done, you’re not. Five years on and people still talk about you. That’s pretty good going don’t you think?
By no means am I taking full credit for this. Family and friends continue to keep your memory alive. They, like me, go to your Memorial Bench for a chat. They leave you cans of beer (I do wonder if this is why a bin was mysteriously put up next to the bench last year!) They still share photos and memories of you. The community that came together at last year’s CharlieFest said it all. The people in that room were there because of you. I might have organised it, but they were there because of you. I doubt you’d have ever expected it. If anyone could have told you what was going to happen following your death, I’m pretty sure you’d have said “give over” and rolled your eyes. You always were so humble and unassuming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not turning you into a saint and saying you were perfect, I’ve not gone delusional in my grief, but you were a good man. A decent human being.
It’s why I struggled for so long with why you were chosen as a victim of that virus. Why so many good people lost their lives as a result of it. I know you’d have said that it was your time (yes, I do remember that heated discussion just a few weeks before you fell ill about losing people ahead of their time!) but it still didn’t make sense. But that’s the thing with death isn’t it? I think of some of the other losses I’ve experienced since you died, none of them have really made sense. Another COVID-19 death, a tragic accident, a symptomless condition. All young people. All people taken too soon. Yes, you may eye roll at that statement, but to my mind they were. I like to think that you’re up there having a beer or a glass of red with them. Probably despairing at me a tad with one of them. But I also hope that you’ve managed to have a cuddle with your nanny. Family and friends were always so important to you, I can’t imagine that has changed.
You’d have been so grateful and appreciative for the family and friends who have helped hold us up since your death. The kindness that has been shown to us. I suspect you’d have been as surprised as I was at the people who did show up for us, the people who didn’t know how to support us, the people who are no longer in our lives as predominantly and the new people who have come in. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep all the relationships the same as when you were alive. But this was something else that was outside of my control. I know people needed me to be but I was never the villain in this story, I was simply heartbroken and lost. A woman trying to find her way in her new life, one that she should never have been living. A woman simply trying to do the right thing by you and her daughter. I had no energy to give to other people. I had no fight left in me. It became easier to let people go than have to explain myself or fight for them to stay.
You see for so long Charlie, I was simply trying to survive. I had to focus on our daughter. Not even me so much. Her. She was and is my number one priority. We didn’t really live. We just went through the motions. We had to put all our efforts into survival. It sounds remarkably simple to put that in words. To say all we had to do was survive. But it wasn’t. It really bloody wasn’t. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I wish someone could have given me a manual. Who knows whether I’d have believed it or paid attention to it, however. You know me. Always know best right?
Yet I haven’t really known best. I haven’t really known how to climb and survive this insurmountable grief mountain. I’d never been an adult without you. I hadn’t anticipated needing to become one at the age of 39. I don’t know whether I’ve done everything right these past five years. Yet I know I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done though. Because every decision I’ve made, l’ve done so with the emotions and information I had available at the time. Overthinking has probably become my trademark, but sometimes I have just had to trust my gut. Without overthinking. I did it the day you died when I was given the heartbreaking decision of saying goodbye to you in person but only if I then isolated away from our daughter. That was a split second gut decision. I know you’d have agreed it was the right one to stay with her and not see you. So I have tried to remember that. I regularly ask myself “what would Charlie say?” and “what would Charlie do?” when I face tricky situations. I try to listen to you still, you’ve become that voice in my head now that I look to for guidance.
As I write this, I can see the look on your face and the sarcastic “hmmm, really?” Okay. I admit. I didn’t ask myself what you would do when I chose the kitchen and conservatory floors, I know you’d have hated them! I also didn’t ask myself what you’d have done when booking six Jason Donovan gigs on the same tour. “It’s the same setlist Em, it’s the same show, what is the point?” might have been the polite version of what you’d have said. But I’ve very much needed these dates these past few months, I underestimated just how hard the fifth anniversary was going to hit me. I hope you don’t begrudge me the things that make me smile and bring me joy, it’s all part of discovering me and who I am. I feel the same about the people who are in my life now, I hope you don’t begrudge me moving forwards and making new friends. That you appreciate what they’ve offered me, what they’ve taught me and introduced me to. The juxtaposition that people have come into my life only because you’re no longer in it messes with my head at times. I often wonder what you would think of them. I’m sure you’d approve. But most of all, I hope you don’t begrudge me living again. It’s taken me such a long time to be able to do so. I truly do feel that you’d want me to do this. You wouldn’t have wanted your death to be the thing that destroyed me or our daughter, of that I’m sure.
It’s why I’ve tried to be brave and push myself out of my comfort zone. Our trip to the West Coast of the USA last year is a prime example of that and also showed how much of a part of our lives you continue to be. You and I had always planned that trip for my 40th and so we finally did it. The guide on the boat when whale watching asked who had good karma because of the incredible pods of orcas we were seeing. I don’t believe it was karma. I believe it was you. To show how proud of us you were for making that trip. The trip to Crystal River and swimming with the manatees when we went to Florida in 2022 that you’d always wanted to do. I owe it to you to do these things. To do the things you’d always wanted to do (within reason though obviously!)
But just on the living again. I’m sorry that I haven’t been as frugal as you probably would have wanted me to be. That I’ve made crazy decisions. But Charlie, for such a long time, I was so scared. Scared to not do things. Scared to not seize opportunities. Scared of my life ending too. Scared to say no to things. Scared to say no to people in case something happened to them. But my fear is slowly abating now. I don’t know if it will ever completely go, but it’s definitely abating. For the first time in about five years, I feel as though I’m on an even keel again. That I’m actually in control. I can’t promise there won’t still be the odd crazy decision, but I think I’m likely to be more measured about things now. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.
I don’t really know what is going to come next. At times the scriptwriters seem to be having a bit of a laugh when it comes to my story. But I think you’d like the person I’m becoming. The version of Emma in her 40s is very different to the version of her in her 20s and 30s. She’s probably the person you always wanted her to be. It’s ironic that I’ve probably only become this person because of all I’ve gone through these past five years. Of what I’ve learnt about me. But I think you’d quite like that in a way, it shows the impact you’re still having. And I hope you’ll continue to watch over us. That you’ll continue to make your presence felt. For everyone who knew and loved you. I’m not the only one who has felt you still around, an energy and a soul as great as yours was always going to leave a mark on this world.
What I do know is that we’re entering a period of change. Her first lead role in a show. GCSEs. Leaving school. Where we’ll live. Possibly moving house. My career. It all feels pretty daunting to be making these decisions without you. To be second guessing myself that I’m doing “the right thing.” But we’re back to that trusting of the gut again aren’t we? I have to trust myself that I know what is best for Team Charlesworth. Both as individuals and as a team. And if I get it wrong? Well, then we’ll just learn. You once found a quote you liked that included the line “you will never lose, you will either win or learn.” That’s how I have to look at life now. We’ve already lost so much, something good and positive has got to come out of it for both her and I now. We need to start winning. So, I need to grasp life with both hands and learn from it. It’s simply all I can do. It’s all any of us can do really.
I don’t know when I’ll next write to you Charlie. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking of you. That you won’t still be a massive part of my life. Of our daughter’s life. Photos of you are still up at home. That won’t ever change. I promise you that. But I do need to continue being just Emma now. I need to not be Charlie and Emma. It’s time. You understand that. I know you do. I know how proud of me you are for all I’ve done to get me to this point. The hours I’ve spent in therapy. The tears I’ve shed. The trauma I’ve processed. The clawing myself back from rock bottom. Thank you for loving me and giving me the strength I needed to be able to do all of this without you. To work out a way of living as a young widow and solo parent. I wouldn’t be the woman I am now without all you taught me and the love you gave me for two decades.
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.
Life is a rollercoaster 