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
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,
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.
This photo is from a time when all I knew was innocent play, and my only stress was to developed the skills required to be a good citizen. My parents, two strong role models, helped me reach adulthood and were my constant support. It was an age of running around bare-footed in Africa and dodging home schooling. I look back with fondness, as it was the best childhood anyone could ever have. Be it a little unconventional, but to me it was my normal.
I’m the one at the front with the pigtails and binoculars. My mum wore these big sepia coloured sunglasses and I thought she had the answers to everything. I didn’t realise she was only human and doing the best she could. My dad taught me how to swim, to dance dad style and to defend myself from bullies. He had a tough exterior from years of growing up with older brothers, and further hardening from his army years. But internally he was, and still is, marshmallow. He’s always had limitless patience and love for his free-spirited daughters.
The other day I stood a few feet from my parent’s doorstep, in order to communicate to my dad. This is what’s required, to keep them safe from the Covid-19. I happened to spy on my mum through the window. She was stood in the kitchen staring out to the back garden. She didn’t come to the door on hearing my voice, or get distracted with something else. She just stood motionless, lost in her own head or whatever was going on beyond the window. This is her new normal.
She was diagnosed with Alzheimers six months ago, after a year of trying to get her assessed. She’s fiercely stubborn and refuses to believe anything is wrong. Once it was confirmed she took a decline and she stayed indoors for five and a half months. During this time we craved the old normality we had with her, but recently she showing some improvements. She now wants to go out and my dad is also keen to interact normally with his wife again…
Then the country went in to lockdown. Both my parents are in their 70’s and need to stay in. My dad is coping with my mum on his own, and all I can do is get their shopping, talk to them on the doorstep and hope they don’t get ill. It’s frustrating for them to be restricted and heartbreaking to witness the recent light of hope, for a sense of normality, is now dim.
I didn’t expect this current shut down to have such an impact on me. The reason for this is I’ve done long term isolation before, so what’s the difference now? When Simon died I automatically went into lockdown, as I was living away from my family and friends. I also couldn’t cope in a world that progressed onwards whilst I remained grieving. But a week this new isolation and I’ve discovered it’s not the same as my early grief jail term. This time it’s not just me, it’s a massive world halt. All of us are restricted in our movements and confined to our homes. We all have to stay 2 metres apart in a supermarkets, or have someone else do our shopping. We all have to wash our god damn fucking hands. The world suddenly has to get use to a new normal and needs to do it quickly.
In lot of ways widowhood has prepared me for this. I’m applying the skills gained from my first solitude experience. I more resilient, self-sufficient and know how to occupy my mind. Yet these independent traits have also enabled me to be more active within society once more. After isolation I ventured out and embrace new experiences. I created a new norm, with new habits that merged in with a background of old experiences, to create something familiar and secure…
Covi-19 has suddenly burst in and knocked this normal off its hinges. Security was lost, replaced with anxiety and fear. The body and mind went into high alert as stress hormones took over. Rational responses turned into irrational reactions. Insecurities, for an unknown future, took charge of our thought process. We are dealing in a world that is trying to survive, whilst grieving for the normal we knew so well. With this new threat we’ve already seen the best and worse in people, as everyone tries to cope the best way they can.
But here’s the thing, we may not like the circumstances placed on us but we will eventually fit in with it. It will become our new way of life for however long it lasts and then we’ll adapt to what will come next, be it good or bad. The good thing is our body can’t run on adrenaline forever and eventually this will calm. The bad thing is chronic long term stress can have a devastating impact on our health and shouldn’t be overlooked.
We need to give the mind a rest from the bombardment of news. A balance is required with keeping up-to-dated and staying sane. Self care is paramount as if you don’t look after yourself, you can’t aid anyone else. So get up and have a routine each day. Do any necessary work but then turn to an activity you love. Wash, eat well and be mindful.
We also need to look after one another and communicate in anyway the restrictions allow. In a time of social isolation we need each other even more. Spend quality time with those in quarantine with you. Whether you’re on your own or not, converse on social media, text, message, video link and/or talk. It doesn’t matter, just communicate.
We can’t fight against this for the moment it’s bigger than us, so we need to adapt our lives around it. It can be uncomfortable and sometimes upsetting but it’s absolutely vital if we have any chance of creating a new normal in the future.
What I gained from losing Simon is strength. It came from the darkness of places, and at times when I didn’t think I could even stand up. It’s there waiting for us when we’re ready, and all we have to do is grab hold of its light.
Take care and stay safe.
Simon,
who’s knows what you would have thought of all this?
You probably would have embraced the introvert in you, stayed in and read lots of books.
Either that or grabbed your tent and hidden in the woods.
It’s now only 6 weeks before I walk around the island of Ibiza. I’m really looking forward to it but also feeling a bit overwhelmed. The total walk is between 250-280 km’s over 12 days. I’ve been told to expect different terrains from cliffs to beaches, forests to built up towns. I’ll be walking between 18-32 km per day depending on where we are on the island. Ibiza is hilly and will complete over 8000m of total climb. It will also be wild camping so no toilets or showers, but the tents will be pitched in lovely locations with stunning views.
This is what I’ve been sent
The Good: Amazing experience, New Friends, Detaching from so called normal life for 12 day, Wonderful homemade food, Keeping warm by the camp-fire, Being in nature, Going to the toilet in nature, Smelling natural, Swimming in the sea to keep clean, connecting with nature, enjoying the journey, laughing, seeing the real Ibiza, the smells of the island, learning about yourself.
The Bad: Not liking someone in the group, Getting wet if it rains, Getting sunburnt, Phone running out so not able to take photos, Going to the toilet in nature, Getting very sweaty and dirty. Bad Pillow choices, Feeling tired and still many km’s to walk.
The Ugly: Feeling crap, No energy, Blisters, Heavy backpack, Not sleeping well.
I’m doing the good, the bad and the ugly for a few reasons. Anyone reading this who has lost a partner to death knows the devastating impact this has on their life. For the first two years I was frozen and lost; grief was all consuming but slowly I’ve learnt how to cope and function again. Now I’ve got a lot in my life that gives me purpose. I don’t just want to survive anymore, but I want to thrive. I want to see the world and have many adventures. I want to love, be loved and interact with amazing people. I want to continue to work on the person that Simon once fell in love with, and not just be his widow. I want challenges and feel resilience to something other than grief. So with all this I physically, mentally and emotionally walk for myself.
I’m walking for Simon, in order to see this world because he can’t. There was a time when I couldn’t look on a sunset, or see a flower in full bloom. I had the attitude of ‘what’s the point’ if Simon wasn’t here to see it too. I’m still angry at death for choosing to take him, but I’ve made my peace with the lack of control I had. Simon loved the outdoors and valued the beauty in even the smallest things. I owe it to myself and him to fall in love with nature again.
I’m also walking for WAY (widowed & young).
WAY is the only national charity in the UK for people aged 50 or under when their partner died. It’s a peer-to-peer support group operating with a network of volunteers who have been bereaved at a young age themselves, so they understand exactly what other members are going through.
WAY was founded in 1997 and now has more than 3,400 members across England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. WAY aims to provide peer-to-peer emotional and practical support to young widowed people – married or not, with or without children, whatever their sexual orientation – as they adjust to life after the death of their partner.
From the WAY website
WAY has been a constant support to me over the last 3 years and continue to do so. The charity has helped so many bereaved people and families. Our current system is broken leaving a lot of widows and widowers without the support they need, emotionally, practically and financially. We also live in a culture where we shy away from death and grief. We put on a brave face and believe, when sufficient time has passed, there is closure. This attitude leaves those widowed feeling isolated and hurt. I’ve discovered we are not stuck or being awkward for not moving on, nor can we put grief in a box marked ‘dealt with’. The best we can do is learn from each other, in order to learn to live around it. Communicating with widows & widowers has provided me with a greater understanding of grief. Simon is never forgotten, he’ll always be with me and I now know I can be happy despite carrying sadness.
WAY is a lifeline community to those who suddenly find themselves coping with loss and life alone. There isn’t a day goes by where I don’t have some contact with WAY; be it in a group chat, an event, or a quick check with a friend. None of us want to be members of this exclusive group but we’re so very glad we have each other.
It is a charity, relying on donations, so if you can please support me in this worthy cause. I didn’t expect to lose Simon so prematurely and it was reassuring to find out I wasn’t such a freak in my reaction to grief. WAY has helped me get through the worse and in doing so brought me so much love and friendship.
Thank you WAY x
Please click on the links below for my fundraising page and for more information on WAY.
I hold my breath and whisper, ‘go lightly’. That’s all I need to do now, as the significant sad dates have passed again. I let the lightness take hold, enabling me to break free of the chains of loss. My soul skipped in time with my steps and I felt as bright as the blue sky. I value these moments, as they’re so precious and don’t last. This particular day I was content and a truce was declared with grief. But the next day the thick clouds creeped in, and the wind became so strong it knocked me off my feet. The lightness became weighed as I heard the screams and the desperate anxiety. My body went straight to crisis mode, with no time to think or feel.
All is stone.
It took all my strength to keep upright but I didn’t flinch or crumble. I didn’t want the dark to see what I was hiding, to feel the knot in my winter soul. I push against it, protecting myself from the pain that was about to come.
Once dealt with I retreated and tried to calm my flight or fight mode. I was too far gone to achieve an instant response as my head had returned to the traumatic time when Simon fell ill. The following day I try to take my protective armour off but it remained welded tight. It wasn’t until a few days later that it hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t stop crying and I didn’t want to go out in a world that delivers pain.
All is soft inside.
Despite feeling like I couldn’t cope I’m a different person compared to three years ago. The softness inside won’t let me go back to a place of stone. Losing Simon and surviving it has taught me that self care is not just about physical wellness, but mental and emotional too.
I stood up and with each self care action I shed a piece of my invisible forcefield. I had breakfast and took a shower. I got dressed and tidied up. Not only did I acknowledge the state of my emotions but I accepted them too. I gained clarity and wasn’t harsh with myself that I didn’t bounce back straight away. I was then able to go out into the big bad world.
A week later I’m back to my normal self, even though it still hurts. I know there will be other times when the world dishes out stress, but life also provides times of lightness too. I am resilient, I’ve learnt to be and have the ability to get myself back on track. Once I’ve done this I can truly enbrace those moments of happiness.
Simon's Hermit 