I woke this morning long before I opened my eyes. Hearing the busy sounds of the traffic outside I knew it wasn’t any earlier than 8am. I lie in bed unable to move, not because there’s something physically wrong, but my mind seemed paralysed. I thought about what I need to do to get up and my thoughts turned to breakfast.
What about toast with almond butter and jam, and a strong black coffee? Maybe eggs this morning but how would I prepare them? Boiled, fried, scrabbled or poached? I’ve never mastered the art of poaching eggs, so I don’t know why this choice has entered the running. What about porridge cooked in the microwave? This would be easier to prepare than eggs and only involved two heaps of porridge, water, a dash of milk, one bowl and a spoon. If I’m going down the route of a simple breakfast then I’m back to toast, nut butter and jam again.
Perhaps I should start with opening my eyes.
On this day Simon would have brought me coffee in bed. We may have been at home, or may have gone away. Either way would not have matter, because we would have been together. Instead, I’m alone, (aside from my cat and he’s not able to use the kettle yet) and my thoughts of Simon are not helping me to function. So I think about the need for coffee. Is this enough to get me up? Let’s see.
I’ll need to get out of bed, walk to the kitchen and switch on the kettle. Once I’m up, I’ll stay up.
I open my eyes. Good start.
My cat is next to me asleep, and we are curled together like the ying and yang symbol. He’s been my constant companion for eleven years, and with him I don’t feel so alone. Now I’ve gone back to not wanting to move, as the warmth of the covers and his presence provide security. I could stay here forever, cocooned under the duvet with my familiar.
But I am a seasoned widow and I’ve done this day seven times before. In the practical ‘self-care’ sense I know what I need to do, but emotions are far more unpredictable and can trip me up unexpectedly. All I can do is draw from my experience from previous years. Being a seasoned widow means you have an idea of how these significant days pan out. You also develop the skills of distraction very well, can fake how you feel, even going into autopilot just to get through the day. Ignoring grief can work for me in this situation, or it can delay the inevitable. I don’t always know what is best for me but a seasoned widow knows these period of heightened grief eventually pass.
Until then, I may or may not have overwhelming sadness and I may or may not cry anymore. When this day is done, I will sit with an uncomfortable feeling, one I can only describe as a knot in my stomach, or a sinking dread, with knowing this is one more wedding anniversary without him. Getting through the day can be difficult for a novice widow but with sufficient time it does get easier. For this seasoned widow the harder part is accepting the emptiness afterwards, that longer for someone you know is never coming back.
But I get up anyway and have coffee.
Coffee is always good.
Simon,
You are always missed and remember, especially today
As I look up from my laptop, I take a moment to watch my cat. He’s on guard duty, surveying his domain from the perch of the windowsill. I don’t know what he sees, whether he’s given any thought about what he’s doing. I only see the odd head movement he makes as he catches a leaf drifting passed. I only know when he’s sees a bird, because he makes the chirping sound of a frustrated hunter. When he sees another cat there is a blur of brown fur as he zooms across the room to the cat flap. What he thinks and feels is a puzzle, but I bet it’s a lot more simpler than the complexities of the human mind.
Simpler would be nice as I return to reflecting on the year just passed. I’ve not done much journaling of late, so I’m trying to put my thoughts and emotions in some sort of order, to gain some clarity for the new year. I’ve been disappearing into a fantasy world these last few months. Writing fiction is my escapism when reality gets too hard and opting to this safe place, where I’m in control, is far easier to deal with.
I’m glad to see the back of 2023 as there was never a pause to take a breath. The health of my parents was paramount, which led to burnout as I tried to take charge. At the time I didn’t realise what I was doing, and that I don’t have the power to control or change what life dishes out.
At this time of year my thoughts go back to Simon. This will always happen, no matter how much time has gone. I found myself thinking about the 1st January 2017. I can still remember the room as I walked in, it was quiet, sterile and completely surreal. This was different from the noise of machines and people during his final days. I touched his warm body and I knew his turmoil was over. I whispered to him that it was alright, he could go now.
I should have known back then I didn’t have any power over life and death, but when it’s someone you love then you will do all you can to keep them alive. It’s not ego or arrogance at play but a deep belief I can stop bad things from happening to others if I take the burden off them. Thinking I had the ability to prevent or even change major life events and failing, only created a feeling of helplessness. It’s this I’ve been carrying ever since, that it’s my responsibility to keep those I love safe and happy. It took a stranger to say, You don’t have that kind of power.
New Year weekend at work was busy as there was a large amount of people who needed help. Some I found frustrating, as no matter what you did it wasn’t enough. Then I took a call and straight away I knew something was really wrong. Before I has a chance to get their names, I’d already began to instruct a woman in giving CPR on her husband. She rang because she couldn’t wake him. She thought he was snoring, but even when giving compression he remained unresponsive. The snoring was more likely to be agonal breathing, which is not good news. The paramedics were there within minutes and my part was done.
I hope I made a difference to their lives. Keeping Simon alive whilst waiting for help to come was the most terrifying situation I’ve ever been in. I had no control over what was happening to him, but I did have a certain level of ability to do what I could to help him. I’ve never put this in to content before, knowing the difference between doing your best to help, rather than taking full responsibility for what happens to others.
It’s going to take time for me to realise I don’t have that level of power, so until it fully sinks in I’m not going to beat myself up for not doing more, for not spotting the signs, for not having the ability to prevent his death. I’m just one human on this very vast planet, but hopefully I do make a difference to the lives of those around me, and with whom I come into contact with.
I don’t do New Year Resolutions as to me they’re only good intentions which are either broken or not follow through. I do, however, have a few New Year Eve traditions and these little acts give me the comfort I need to prepare for year ahead.
It doesn’t help to dwell on what has gone, and who is no longer here but we can remember absent friends & loved ones with fondness, and hold them in our hearts.
Today there is a silence I’ve been craving in a while. It’s morning and the trees outside are still, allowing the sun’s rays to beam through without interruption. There’s a pair of squirrels happily playing in the garden, their graceful movements barely touching the ground. My cat is purring on my lap and in this peaceful moment we are content. I hear the odd car outside on a nearby road – usually a constant stream of traffic – but it’s too early in the day for the last-minute Christmas shoppers.
I hear my breath and it’s steady, so I let the calm wash over me.
I’ve developed a weariness of late and it seems to be draining my energy. My tiredness isn’t solely down to the approach of Christmas, or the significant date of Simon’s death, but my body telling me to slow down. Last weekend I found myself in an A&E waiting area full of injured people. Many had slipped on icy conditions, and with a glazed expression I looked around at people with bandaged heads, arms in slings and being wheeled in with raised legs. I, on the other hand felt an imposter, as I had no physical signs to show why I was there.
The human body is amazing and I’m in constant awe of its ability to instinctively prioritise survival above anything else. Of course it does as without this basic mechanism we wouldn’t function properly. Despite not needing our flight, fight or freeze mode to survive something big, like a tiger attack, our bodies still protect us from any threats by giving us the essential components to stay alive.
In today’s society we can’t afford to give our bodies the same time and attention we do to our busy lives. Our worries keep our hormonal and nervous systems working harder and longer. We take these systems for granted because our body does it for us automatically, and we don’t recognise when we need to replenish our reserves before it gets to critical low levels.
My body’s normal process of delivering oxygen to my brain was temporary disrupted one night. A Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA), or a mini stroke happened to me. At the time I wasn’t sure what was going on – a panic attack maybe – so I ignored the need for urgent medical attention. After a hour of struggling to stand up, walk and at one point swallow, I went back to sleep, waking later that morning and going to work. It’s easy to say what I should have done, but at the time it was hard to comprehend the severity of my situation. Hindsight doesn’t help, in fact it makes me feel stupid, careless and then guilty for worrying my loved ones. Looking back at the ‘what if’s’ also took me to a dark place in my head where I wished Simon had been given a warning sign instead.
January 2023
Moving forward,
And into another new year without Simon. Some years I accept the sad emotions that goes with his absence, and other years I simply block them out. The emotions I felt at the start of 2023 was with a heightened awareness of what happened to him on the night he left, and as a consequence my grief shifted back to when it was in its infancy. The thought of, ‘he really isn’t walking the earth anymore’ played with my reality and I struggled to make sense of why he didn’t survive. Why didn’t Simon have a warning instead of death? I found myself looking to the past whilst struggling with not knowing what was going on with my body. At this time the TIA was still undetermined and I had to battle with doctors to stay on HRT medication because the benefits outweigh the risk. January turned into a very bleak month and this was nothing to do with the cold dark winters nights.
February 2023
Moving forward,
And before I had the chance to blink February was on the doorstep. Despite being relieved January was well and truly behind me, the bombardment of challenges continued. For myself, the cardiac investigations were ongoing and I made some lifestyle changes in order to better myself. This wasn’t without failing, as I tried to dominate everything around me but also desperately wanted to loose control. My dad had major surgery to remove a large tumour from his chest cavity. A sarcoma mass of abnormal cells and tissue that was 15cm long and 10cm thick. He dealt with it in the only way he could and named it Fred. During this time I helped to look after my mother as my dad is her full time carer. She’s now a different person to the mum I’ve known for most of my life. Alzheimer’s has robbed her mainly of her adult identity and she has difficulty communicating and coordinating daily activities. I can honestly say dementia is a cruel disease but I try not to dwell on what she has lost –what we have as a family – instead I’m getting to know who my mum is now. She needs verbal prompts to wash and dress herself and doesn’t alway know how to make a cup of tea. Yet she can sing the words from an obscure ballad recorded fifty years ago and likes lots of hugs. Both my parents have shown me how fragile and precious life really is.
March 2023
Moving forward,
My dad turned a corner in his recovery and my mum started to go to day care. For myself, a bubble echocardiogram revealed I’ve got a hole in my heart. Who knew at the tender age of 49 I would have this surprise congenital diagnosis. I require a further test and then possible surgery to fix it.
Looking back, and I had moment the other day when I cried…no I sobbed at the thought of Simon dying. I was so angry he never got the chance to be fixed. I don’t know why it got to me so much and I wanted to blame someone, something, but I believe there is no higher being governing what happens to us. Who goes and who stays is up our individual genes and our societal choices. Fear of what happened to me in December started to take over as I was still getting regular chest pain and palpitations. In the end I turned inwards to self care as growing apprehension for any future stresses became too much. Luckily the end of the month brought some much needed rest.
April 2023
Moving forward,
And the sun is beaming strongly through the window, despite it being early in the day. It’s creating a golden-shape square on the blue rug and it’s just enough space for one medium-sized cat to stretch out on. The signs of spring have been appearing gradually over the last few weeks, first with a few flower & leaf buds and now there’s small burst of colour everywhere I look. I love this time of year, as it marks the end of winter and a sense of coming out of hibernation. Life feels as young as an eager lamb, bouncing through the field of fresh tender grass.
Looking back and with this month I should be celebrating our wedding anniversary and Simon’s Birthday. It also holds my boyfriend Ric’s Birthday and my sister’s. Past and present all mixed together, bringing joy and sadness. I want to have balance with the memory of Simon without it taking precedence over the living, so I went away for the weekend with Ric. We camped near, but not too near, the place I once lived with Simon, and I felt nostalgia without being overwhelmed with grief. We walked in the hills and I scattered some of his ashes. I had lovely evenings in a local pub with Ric and broke my alcohol sobriety by toasting Simon’s Birthday with a single malt whisky.
I gave up alcohol for lent, not for religious reason, but it was the time was right for me to make this change. Easter came and went, and I realised I didn’t want to go back to my old relationship with alcohol. Simon drank because he was shy and like everyone had his own troubles. Coming from a generation of bing drinking, I never thought I could do anything different other than regular consumption for socialising and stress- coping purposes. The warning sign made me to step back and rethink what the fuck I’m doing in my life.
May 2023
Moving Forward, Looking Back,
My world was ripped apart six years ago, and it once felt no matter how hard I tried to sew the severed pieces back together, it only created further tears. I’ve been struggling with grief for a long time due to Simon’s death. I’ve been struggling with loss on a much bigger scale to what death has given me. I’ve had too many changes arriving so fast I feel I’m stumbling along. I’ve not always coped in the best way and fallen flat on my face many times, but I’ve got up and figured it out. The grief pendulum will always swing back to Simon but I now realise whilst sewing my quilt, the holes that remain show I’m not an expert in managing life. I’ve gained a deeper understanding of how the human mind works and how we’re naturally default to think, feel and react negatively, as this helps us to survive. We just have to take rests when we can in the gaps between the clouds of negative thoughts.
Simon will always be a part of me, and I miss him walking the hills and drinking a single malt whisky. Bad things are going to present, especially the older I get, but moving forward is the only path I can take. I’m not talking about ‘moving on’ in the sense of getting over Simon, as this fuels the need for closure. I’ll say this again, grief cannot be put in a box marked ‘complete’ and left behind on a shelf. It’s a work around, something that will always be here, and to ignore grief is to disregard the person who once meant a lot, and still does. Moving forward is evolving to the changes that happen in life, and adapting behaviour and reactions so it’s a little less challenging and painful.
Simon’s hermit has been essential tool in healing and has given me a place to express my grief. I’ve published over one hundred blog entries and written over thirty drafts. The reason I didn’t share these drafts is due to the fact there are only so many ways I can express grief before it gets repetitive. It’s true that grief is a chaotic tangle mess of emotions and affects everyone differently, but I can only give my interpretation, and hope it helps someone, in some way.
Sometimes the balance of attention I give to others sways in their favour, but as long as this is only in the short term then equilibrium can be restored. Moving forward means focusing on myself and recognising that self care has to be holistic. I love Simon, this fact will never change, and I’m more of an affectionate person because I knew & loved him. I’m also a stronger person because I lost him. It’s true that this wonderful, creative, passionate woman is self evolving with the knowledge that I’m the lead writer of my life, but without the people who have influenced, supported, love/loved and created so many happy times, I wouldn’t be the person I am today,
So to you all for the love, time and attention you’ve given me,
It’s getting to the time of year when my thoughts turn to you. In fairness you’re never far from my mind when it’s a frosty winter’s morning and I’m all wrapped up in a scarf, hat and gloves. Your presence is with me when the first buds appear on the trees and birdsong is spring excitement. I’m reminded of you when the red summer sun is slowly setting in the blue sky, another long day done. But it is Autumn which hits me the most, with its crisp mornings, the nights drawing in and a feeling of wanting to hibernate.
As spiders spin their webs that sparkle in the morning dew, and the squirrels frantically bury as many acorns as they can, unaware they won’t find them all, I find myself smiling at autumn’s beauty once again. I’m here to experience the trees changing from green to red brown, and I try not to feel the sadness which comes with knowing you’re no longer here to see it. I really appreciate, after grieving for 5.5 years, that life is valuable and precious, but it’s also cruel when it decides to stops. I’m not sure if I’ve made complete peace with death as it took you away from me too early. I’ve accepted it only in the terms of the grieving process, but it is and always will be unfair.
I had a flash of a memory of you the other day and it literally stopped me dead in my tracks. In the memory you were expressing your love for me in the silly way you did, which included you moving around the room with your arms out stretched. Remembering it took my breath away and in that moment my body ached for you. Not in the same touch deprived intensity when I first lost you, but missing individual you, your touch and your laughter. It was missing how special you made me feel with just your eyes. It was us both wrapping up in warm clothing and heading into the autumn trees, sharing this season with all its browns and golds. It was, for a brief moment, feeling you in the room but within seconds you were gone again. The warm and loving memory is replaced with a dull emptiness when reality strikes.
I pause…
As suddenly guilt comes after expressing loss. I’m putting all this on you and it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause me miss you and you didn’t choose I go into this autumn without you. As quick as I pour out my grief I want to cover it up with words of joy.
So I will.
I am happy and grateful. I’m experience life and it’s so much fun. I’m meeting new people and spending time with those who really matter. Solo, our naughty little cat, is still loud and constantly demanding attention. I’m safe, secure and have shelter. I’ve even danced all night, playing air guitar to Bon Jovi and drank gin until the early hours. More importantly I am loved and I love too. Autumn will be here in a few days and already it’s cooler in the morning. Soon I’ll get my winter hats and gloves out and the fairy lights will be switched on earlier. Your cider apples trees are doing well. Not sure if I’m ready for the summer to end but I can’t stop it moving on. It is with smiles for life and sadness to do it without you, wonderful individual you.
As my car pulled up to the side, I gasped at the amount of people waiting quietly outside. I knew it was going to be a hard day and so my autopilot kicked in to offer protection. I still remember where I was sat, how I felt as I heard the words people said and the meaning behind the music I chose for him. All the time staring at his, larger-to-cope-with, photo in front of his coffin.
This is it, I told myself, the final farewell.
I didn’t want it to be goodbye, I wasn’t ready and yet I couldn’t sustained the heightened stressed state I’d was forced into for over two weeks. Anxiety, heartbreak and being overwhelmed were so strong, I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. It was all for Simon, his final send off, a party in his honour, with everything planned to the last detail. But when I felt the arms of loved ones holding me up, listening to them speak of him and showing so much love, I realised this day was for those he left behind. It was for me and everyone who loved him.
It became a release.
What was to follow from his funeral is more of a blur. I can only describe it as falling into a very deep void and not knowing how long I was going to stay there. I had a lot of dark days but at some point I started to look back at my time with Simon, and instead of feeling sorrow I began to smile. No longer was our time overshadowed and overwhelmed by death.
With each year that passes the grief cloak is slowly being removed from my shoulders. I’m able to lay it in front of the fire, knowing it’s still there and accepting for what it is. Sometimes, when triggered, it smothers me and occasionally I choose to wrap it around my body in order to be close to him.
This day will always stay with me. Where once it was due to the trauma, it is now to appreciate when a gathering of people all came together and connected for one reason. To support each other and to remember the person they love.
Simon, I speak for us all, you are very sorely missed.
Simon, wish I could talk to you one last time.
I would tell you about your funeral and you would laugh
My hair is long, it needs a cut. The red henna is fading and grey can be seen.
My eyebrows are bushy so I try to give them a pluck.
My eyelids have wrinkles and the eyeshadow falls into the creases.
I get spots, not like a pubescent teenager, but the odd one on my chin and nose.
My neck sags and with it a double-chin forms.
My upper arms flap like bats,
And my finger joints have painful stiff nodules.
My breasts droop slightly and one is better then the other.
Symmetrical boobs are a myth, but I still want them.
My belly gets bloated.
I’m too lazy to shave but I try to do it anyway.
I’ve cellulite, thread vines and hairy hobbit toes.
I’ve only ever had one pedicure in my life, this was on my wedding day.
I get grumpy.
When I’m tired I get really grumpy. When I’m drunk I swear a lot.
My heart feels damaged and I worried it will never heal.
At times I need to run, or hide, in order to escape the things that tries to hurt me.
Stress has completely exhausted me.
I still have grief…
Still.
It has stripped me bare.
I get so angry at the world and so fucking upset. I still can’t get my head round the unfairness of death. It’s random and cruel. It brings out the worst in me as it’s still overwhelming. It’s a never ending ticking time bomb, lying in wait for that trigger, for me to be at my most venerable.
Then boom!
Afterwards I look at my naked soul and see myself for whom I’ve become. The grey, the wrinkled, the bloated and the sagging included.
All of it.
And it’s not all bad.
I also have long hair and the flecks of natural gold & ageing silver light up in the sun.
My eyebrows are fair, so almost invisible.
I have big brown eyes and the skin around them creases when I laugh.
I’m blessed with good skin.
My arms are strong, and I’m still able to create art and stories with my hands.
My breasts are beautiful, and I’m curvy all over.
I’ve blonde hair on the small of my back that is light and fluffy.
My grumpiness is always replaced with a smile.
My heart is still beating and I love others with every inch of my soul.
I still have grief…
Yes, this part is true.
But it has also made me resilient. Death has not only shown me the fragility of life but also how precious it is too. I can have a hard exterior, but my emotions are there, just below the surface, ready to express my kindness.
I now value hope after feeling absolutely none, and I now strive onwards, with purpose, when I once felt there was no point.
I’m an ageing woman who has lost so much, but with my silver streaks, broken heart and everything laid bare I’ve so much more to give.
It’s 8 in the morning and I’m already on my second mug of coffee. It’s been a strange and tiring week. There’s a hint of spring on the way, as the weak yellow sun rises in the pale blue sky, and small chirping birds hop from one branch to another. The frequent bouts of snow and ice seem to have stopped, for now, to make way for a crisp new season.
I’ve been feeling a little lost of late. Over the last four years February has developed into a reflective month. At this time of year I find myself taking stock of December and January. I’m always surprised, and a little reassured, to have made it through fairly unscathed. Even more so with the pandemic because, like everyone else, I’ve not been able to go out and do whatever activity I’d need to do in order to thrive. I’ve not had the social healing that enables me to feel connected to my community. This not only nourishes my everyday soul but temporarily fills the hole that has been permanently carved in my heart by death.
But apparently there is a potential light at the end of the covid tunnel, even though it still feels a long way off. I want to be excited but the skeptic in me is reluctant to do so. You see, in my hometown we’ve had little lift in the restrictions for nearly a year now and we’ve also had many let downs. Like a lot of you I’m fed up but I do my best, and I’m thankful I’ve not lived through this last year alone.
The chance of my adventure to walk around the island of Ibiza has now gone 😞 This wasn’t just a holiday and challenge but a chance for personal growth. It was also to ground me, to shake my grief web for a while and to breath the earth again. In addition, it was supposes to be during a time of significance, our wedding anniversary and Simon’s Birthday. He should have been 49 and we should be celebrating 9 married years together. He should be here to celebrate and I shouldn’t be dwelling on it…
But it is reflective February after all.
I don’t know what this year holds for me as there is still too much uncertainty. I find myself in perpetual doubt, ever since the pandemic began, and this has an impact on every aspect of my life. I just want to go to work and not have to constantly wear a mask for an eight hour shift. I want my dad to message and not say he is bored of the same four walls and that it’s not helping my mum’s mental health. I want to experience more outdoor activities then my cat. I want to hug someone else other then my partner. Sorry love, no offence as your warm hugs are wonderful and I am forever grateful for your love and company.
I want to get on a plane, fly to Ibiza, sit on the edge of a cliff, look out to Es Vedra rock and watch the sun slowly setting across the sea.
One day I’ll get to do it… One day, hopefully soon, but until then Es Vedra will have to wait…
Dear Simon
I want to say that I’m glad you’re not here to see the world in its current poor state,
but I’m not glad.
I’m not glad because I want to hear you moaning, ranting and getting frustrated with the restrictions.
I want to feel your sadness towards the many people this has affected.
I want to see you make the most of it, wandering the countryside, using the time to read and laughing together.
I want to look forward to us going away, eating at a restaurant, and drinking at the pub.
I’ve got an uneasy feeling, deep inside. It’s a restless pressure of wanting everything to happen at once and not wanting anything to happen at all. I want to stay put but I’m so stir crazy, I just want to run away. In fact I want to go on a long train journey, destination unknown, to give me enough time to figure things out. I crave social attention, that’s the extrovert in me, but I also need time alone. My head is in so much conflict and I don’t feel I’m connecting with anything or anyone. Routine is good and has been my friend for the last few years, but there is a real lack of the unexpected. A spontaneity that gives essential lift to life.
I know grief is not straight forward. One minute I’m enjoying myself and the next I’m having a flashback to you. Sometimes it’s an okay memory and other times, like before, it’s an image of you dying. I wish for the ability to switch it off, a simple button to press and the screen goes black. I assumed, with enough time passing, this would have happened, but nearly four years on and it still isn’t easy. Triggers still trigger me. This time of year still gets to me and that feeling of widowed disconnection makes me feel like an alien. I just want to get really drunk and dance with friends, but instead I’m dancing alone in my hallway…
I’m just going to say it. Christmas can go and fuck itself. New Year too. But when it finally does arrive I know I’ll be okay, it’s the lead up that’s more like pulling painful teeth with very big spoons. I sometimes wish it would all go away and me too for that matter…
Sorry, I’ve gone to that dark place, please don’t worry. Normally I’ll edit those bits out as I don’t want to upset anyone who cares about me. It’s the grief talking, not me. It’s also frustration and pain, but in a cathartic way writing it down jolts it out of my system. It’s as though grief temporarily had its claws around my throat and my power of the written word pulled me from its clutches. Like I said, grief is complex and also a shitter. Why can’t it be straight forward and simple…
Can it be made simple? Can I just stop over complicating it and turn it into something easy? Emotions make mountains out of molehills and a mental ill health creates tension so dramatic it’s like an erupting volcano. I need to stop the escalation but I fear this is difficult to put into practise.
So, my darling Simon, I’ll take a few deep breathes and try to calm my over active mind. I’m now sat here trying to think of something quite profound to write, or a coping mechanism to manage grief effectively. The fact is it’s more about riding out the storm and focusing on what I’ve got. I know my grief well, unfortunately, yet it sometimes does get the better of me. I am grateful, as there are lots of people who have it worse. I’m also thankful but…
I miss you so incredibly much,
And not being able to talk to you absolutely destroys me.
But I’ll try and keep it simple, as the complexity of grief can often be too much for me to bear.
Lots of love, as always
Your Hermit
X x x
Ps, Solo has just come in soaking wet. I had to dry him with his small towel and it made me smile
Taken from the charity Widowed & Young who have helped me so much in the last 4 years. Thank you
I turn over in bed, feeling the space next to me. It never goes away, the empty feeling you’re no longer here. Being submerged in darkness is the perfect way to describe grief, as the colours of life are suddenly absorbed by the black. When in deep grief there is no orange in the sunset, no purple in a flower and no green in a field that’s teaming with colourless butterflies. I couldn’t see any of it, as I was stuck in a dark tunnel feeling no hope of ever getting out…
This is because you were a vibrate energy and there’s many times when I simply miss you being around. I miss taking this for granted. You made me smile with your infectious enthusiasm and the world is a dull palette without you. You will always be a part of me and
I miss your colour in this world.
Widowhood has become a heavy grey cloak, one I wear very well. I didn’t think happiness could ever thrive in the same space as sadness. It didn’t seem possible but at some point, slowly and undetected, a tiny speck of light started to glow from the black, getting bigger and brighter. It began to fill my world with colour and
Within the colour came you, my lovely blue.
I compare the warmth of your body to the early golden sun as it gently caresses my skin. Your breath is comforting, as I know you are here with me. With your touch my heart leaps high and dances with the stars in the navy sky. You love me with a strong intensity and it balances beautifully with your gentle kindness. You are my love and
The colour you bring to my world makes me feel alive.
I have two loves,
One will always be frozen in time, I can’t alter this. I have a love in my present and he’s wonderful. When I’m happy I forget my past, when I remember the sadness comes. Lately my grief has been triggered quite a few times. I’ve felt loss when I should be concentrating on what I’ve got. Then I laugh, I enjoy and I love.. It’s like being at a festival, a band you love is playing your favourite ballad. You’re so happy to be there, experiencing the moment but the song provokes all your emotions at once – euphoria, sadness, joy, and loss. That’s how I feel and it can be confusing.
But then I discovered that I don’t have to make the choice to be just one emotion at any one time. My love doesn’t work that way as it’s not singular. Emerging out of the black I now see the orange in the sunset, but I also see the dark indigo blended behind it. I’ve awaken to the green in the field, now has shadowed areas – the colourful butterflies giddily fluttering from one luminous flower to another. This is the nature of grief and as long as I can love with every ounce of my being, I can live in harmony with my mixed emotions.
It’s April and the sun has been shining for days. It takes me back to eight years ago when we got married, on that bright spring Thursday. The night before I sat on the front door steps of a pub, with my sister, drinking beer and looking forward to our big day. I’ve got so many wonderful memories of that time, from the beauty of the stained glass in the hotel, to accidentally leaving my flowers in the cafe after breakfast, and of course you dancing with your tie around your head. You were incredibly nervous at the ceremony but you spoke words of love with such sincerity. We danced and laughed with friends & family and I got beetroot on my white dress. I didn’t care as nothing else mattered. I hold the 12th April very dear to my heart and neither time or death can erase the memories made on this day. It wasn’t about the future, there was no tomorrow or any 12th of never.
Our wedding anniversary is tomorrow, another one without you. I don’t believe I will ever fully get over losing you, but I want to let you know that I am happy again. It took a long while to get to this place – with the odd stumble -and I’m no longer anger or overwhelmed with grief. I still feel the sadness for how our life together suddenly crease to exist and how my beautiful you isn’t here.
This week I’ve had panic and anxiety, as the world is not the same as when you left it. There’s lots of fear out there, and with it the conformity of lockdown. You would have hated being told what to do but it is necessary for the greater good. The last few weeks I’ve been concentrating on what’s going on around me and trying to look after those I love. Hardly anytime to reflect on you but please be assured you are not forgotten.
I know you wouldn’t want me to be sad but it was very traumatic what happened to you. But at the same time I have a lot of love in my life, with family and friends, even though I can’t see them in the current circumstances. I’ve also got romantic love, a gentle and caring partner and our connection is wonderful. I often think about how you two would have got on. I imagine you both propping up the bar and have a healthy (or heated) discussion. Putting the world to right, sharing experiences and appreciating the general chats of utter bollocks.
I was supposes to go on an adventure next weekend but the threat of C-19 virus has delayed my plans. My challenge was to walk around an island, scatter your ashes and take some time out from busy societal life. Instead I’m in lockdown, similar to my early months of grief, but at least this time it’s with more love then pain. I don’t know what you would have made of this country in its current state? You never got to see the shambles of Brexit, or who is in charge of country, or the virus that forcing us all to shut down. I do believe you would have packed lots of books, grabbed your camping gear and headed to the woods. You would have taken me with you, of course.
Anyhow, this is where I leave you for the time being. To mark our anniversary I can’t go out and climb a hill, or go to the pub where we met, so I’ll plants apple trees in my garden and scatter your ashes. I’ll try not to be too sad as our wedding day holds too many happy memories. I never want to be without them now. Instead, I’ll look back with a smile on my face, in the knowledge I did know and love you and we shared so many good times together.
Simon's Hermit 