Seasoned Widow

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

All my love

Your Hermit

XXXX

Moving Forward, Looking Back

Christmas Eve 2022

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,

I thank you for being in my life x x

I will alway be with you, my Hermit,

and you will always want me,

but you have to let go of the need for me.

Love Your Simon

x x x

Soft Inside

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.

I am stone but I am also soft inside

Simon,

You knew I would cope,

but it’s not enough anymore to just survive.

I need to also feel alive.

Love your soft hermit

x x x

I Wish You Were Here…

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.

Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?

A smile from a veil?

Do you think you can tell?

 

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees?

Hot air for a cool breeze?

Cold comfort for change?

Did you exchange

A walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

 

How I wish, how I wish you were here.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,

Running over the same old ground.

What have we found?

The same old fears.

Wish you were here.

David Gilmour and Roger Waters

Simon,

How I wish you were here…

To help me figure out this world I’m living in. This country, this town, this house… Oh, how I wish you were fucking here to figure out this house. I want you here to be my human again, to be my family, my significant other. I need you to know how I feel and understand whatever it is that is happening. I need you here to be fighting my corner, and to be on my side when the arse of life decides to call.

I wish you were here…

Here by my side… Correction, not just next to me, as this is not enough. I need you to be closer then that, so close I can feel the weight of your beating heart on mine, your breath on my skin, and your arms hugging my body. Our bodies so tangled that ‘invasion of personal body space’ is a positive action, one that we never want to unravel from.

I wish you were here…

As I’ve the same primeval drive as I did when you were alive, only now I don’t exactly know what to do with it. My dreams ignite the ‘widow’s fire’ in me and at times it’s so powerful I feel I’ll literally burst into flames. It’s a raw state of survival, to want to have connection to the earth and feel alive. To want to belong somewhere, to belong to someone but I want that to be you. This is not an option, yet the frustration is my love didn’t die when you did. I’m left with emptiness and longing.

I wish you were here…

So I can stop being in love with a dead man. These past few weeks I’ve felt a move towards my future, but it with a sadness not to have you to plan it with. I’ve shelved my grief and pain of losing you. I’m now solid rock, I’m cold hard stone, who refuses to show heartache and tears. I’ve had to as the stresses of my current life are too much to cope with grief as well. If you were here I wouldn’t have to be a pretender, who’s faking it until I figure out what to do.

I wish you were here…

So once again we can be two lost souls, stumbling around in this fucked-up world together. Life can throw shit at us and we just throw it straight back. We wouldn’t care, sticking two fingers up and shouting, ‘We are strong, because we have each other!’

If you were here we would shout ‘bolloxs’ to the world…

If you were here we can fight this war together…

If you were here we can be one again…

I wish you were here…

If only you were here…

Simon, I knew how to be lost in this world with you.

I don’t know how to do it alone,

and I don’t want to.

Wish you were here

Love your Hermit

x x x

 

 

 

The Right Words

The defects and faults of the mind are like wounds in the body; after all imaginable care has been taken to heal them up, still there will be a scar left behind, and they are in continual danger of breaking the skin and bursting out again.

Francois de La Rochefoucauld

I take another sip of coffee, to try to feel a little better, a little more human. The sun is beaming through the window and, due to the heat of the night, its unfortunately open. I say ‘unfortunate’ because it also lets the world in, with all its chaotic noise. There are cars speeding along a cobbled road, closely followed by wagons with their heavy loads. There are sirens in the distance and helicopters flying in the dry sky. There’s a man on his phone, and every other word is FUCK. There’s a bird in distress, as it calls to find its baby, who was cheeping earlier but has now gone silent.

My head is like the world, not quiet. It has been for a while but I’ve just been controlling it, holding back the sadness and a feeling of being totally lost…

‘So what’s next for you?‘ said a friend I’ve not seen since Simon’s death.

I hear the words, and the casual lighthearted tone but I don’t know how to respond. I was already in a highly anxious state, and on my way to becoming drunk. I’d gone into town by myself, walked and stood alone in a busy bar whilst people chatted in groups around me. It was good to have someone to talk to but he wasn’t saying the right words. I wasn’t in counselling, I didn’t want to be reminded of the shit state of my life, and I certainly didn’t want to feel anything. That was days ago and I still can’t get the question out of my head…

What is next for me?

It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for 18 months. What now? Most people try to say the right words, to show concern and empathy. Sometimes they do say the right things and sometimes they don’t. I don’t take offence anymore as, in their position, I wouldn’t know what to say to me either? I don’t have the right words, and I certainly don’t have the correct answers.

Outwardly, I’m coping and I’m all the things that people say. I’m brave, I’m strong, and I’m bloody resilient. I’m fucking Ripley, as she squarely faces the alien and blasts it. Inwardly, I’m a emotional fucked-up mess. I’m venerable, broken, anxious, angry and sensitive. I’m Kane, after the alien has just burst out of his chest. I spend the majority of the day holding my grief guts in. My life is constant control, afraid to lose it for even a second. But after my night out I did, and the grief goo seeped into my reality.

It’s then that I feel it all, the utter devastation of losing Simon and the complete forfeit of my life. My one act of trying to live again has resulted in me retreating back to my hermit hole. Yet my safe cocoon is now a room in a house shared with my parents. It’s a storage unit for my things and a bed for me.

And it’s all so fucking noisy…

The other night I tried to sleep but was unsuccessful. When I did finally drift off I woke to the noise of the world beyond the open window. I decided to wear ears plugs but that didn’t stop the chaos in my mind. I cuddled into my cat, careful not to crush him but he then turned into a small kitten, and I lost him in the covers. Then I felt something wrap around me. I wrestled with it, trying to get it off my neck, body and legs. I turned to it and said, ‘who are you’ and ‘let me go,’ seeing it for the first time. It was a shadow creature that was attached to my back. On my words it flew away and I woke up…

I was terrified, my survival mode in full activation but I didn’t run or fight, instead I froze. I told myself it was only a dream, not real, a nightmare in which my brain was trying to sort things out. The problem with survival mode is it also triggers a physical response. My heart was pounding, my breathing fast and my eyes wide open…

When will this dark shadow of grief end? I’m 18 months in but it feels as though no time has passed. Simon’s the only one that can resolve my pain, yet it was with his death that caused the grief. I’m quick to add that my current state is not his fault, as he had no choice in what was ‘next’ for him. He only ever loved me with the best of his beating heart, and now I’m left wondering ‘what’s next for me’ in this world full of loud black anarchy.

What’s next?

I can’t answer this question as I don’t have the ability to access this information in my head. When I sweat the big decisions I find myself retreating back to nowhere land. It is like trying to think whilst submerged in a vat of heavy black treacle…

So what now?

Well, all I can do is…

Wake up each day, and breath in & out…

Do whatever is necessary to stay alive and to function…

When I laugh I know I’ll feel okay, and when I’m sad I’ll know that this is okay too.

I’ll communicate, I’ll care and I’ll be the best human as I can possible be, but I’ll also retreat, be grumpy and feel the rawness of loss.

I go on in my present knowing Simon is no longer there. I’ll dip back to my past because I know Simon is there, and I’ll try to not to let my uncertain future get the better of me.

The world is so rowdy and purposeless that it’s hard to hear my erratic thoughts. But do I want to? Do I want to actually hear, with clarity and with emotion? Do I really want to hear the silence once the bird has stopped calling?

Do I really want to know the answer to ‘what is next’ for me without Simon?

Because that’s the most scary part of it all…

 

You taught me to be in the present.

You also knew my strengths and potential better then I knew myself.

How can I work it out without you?

Love your lost hermit

x x x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Jigsaw of Life

My tears are always frozen
I can see the air I breathe
But my fingers painting pictures
On the glass in front of me
Lay me by the frozen river
Where the boats have passed me by
All I need is to remember
How it was to feel alive

Rest against my pillow like the aging winter sun
Only wake each morning to remember that you’re gone
So I drift away again
To winter I belong

Winter Bird – Aurora 

What is this world that I find myself in? Is it real or a dream? Or was my life with Simon the dream, one I’ve reluctantly woken from? There’s a conflict here between fact and fiction, the surreal versus reality. The chemicals in my brain wake me each day to see familiar people and to witness the world. Yet there is always this permanent haze at the peripheral of my vision. It’s a blur, a space, an emptiness to indicate that something is missing. I turn in its direction but it shifts before I can get a definite look.

I know I need to accept my reality for what it is now but I can’t. Each day I resist against what is real and what is now a distant memory. Each daily stress tests my resilience but it’s wearing me down. Life has always had its hardships but there was a time when the beauty of the world gave me hope. Now I can’t even find joy in the summer sun and in nature, which is currently bursting with colour and sound. I don’t feel it, I don’t want to be a part of it, as why should I when he is not?

It’s been 18 months since I last felt Simon in my arms. Yesterday I went to the place we first met and sat for a while. Life went on around me and I had to interact with it, but the whole time I felt I was pretending. I was a big fake in my reality because I kept how I truly felt a secret. I told no one of the significant of my day, that for the last 78 weeks my life has been an uncomplete jigsaw. I’m trying to build it back again but the pieces are all jumbled up. My future is the jigsaw’s picture but it’s not clear what it is, and the more I stare at it the less I see.

There’s a huge part of me that is wanting to control every piece of the jigsaw, from sorting the edges to making the picture clearer. The problem with control is that the pieces also include other people with their own jigsaw lives. Control has been with me for 546 days as I try to self care, grieve and live in life without him. There are times, like today, when the jigsaw pieces are scattered to the far reaching dark corners of the world, and the term ‘lost’ takes on an even greater meaning.

Simon wasn’t my whole jigsaw but he covered a large percentage of the picture. It’s not just about losing him – even though that’s the part that hurts the most –but it’s also about him suddenly disappearing and devastating my life. There is also a huge sadness that he’s not part of the beauty of the world anymore, and he’ll never be able to complete his own jigsaw.

Maybe I have to mould my jigsaw pieces so I can live and feel once again? Not so easy when the picture isn’t clear and also keeps changing. I want to be able to work on my jigsaw but I also fear it too. The fear comes with knowing that no matter how much I try to build my life it will never be complete again. There will alway be a piece missing, a blur at the corner of my reality. The hole in my jigsaw that was created by death…

A piece of my life that once had Simon is now forever lost…

Simon, All I need is to remember
How it was to feel alive
I need to remember
How it was to feel alive

Your Hermit

x x x

Pray for Time

I prayed…

Not sure to who or what?

I prayed for help to come.

I prayed I was a superhero, with magical healing powers…

Or the ability to reverse time.

I prayed for Simon’s life.

It was midnight and I went to bed on a normal festive night. A short time after Simon came to bed, stumbling in the dark to find his side. Everything was normal, we were both on holiday and preferred to be in the comfort of our home. Our New Year was going to be the same, we didn’t want to be out celebrating, just glad of the time together.

Then 2am arrived.

Simon was restless in his sleep. I may have spoken him, asking him to stop moving. I may have taken his arm, brought it down and straightened his leg. I may have got annoyed with him and ordered him to settle. I don’t know whether I did any of it, as the room was black by the night and I was blurry from sleep.

I switched the light on…

I stared at him but it still didn’t compute there was anything wrong. I asked him to open his eyes and he used his fingers to physically opened it. I’ve seen Simon do this jokingly when he’s drunk, so it was nothing unusual. With the merriments of Christmas I wondered if he stayed up longer, to have a few more beers. Despite my slow recognition, or my refusal to believe what was happening, my instincts were screaming at me…

Something is terribly wrong!

In that moment my body snapped into action and any signs of tiredness suddenly disappeared. If I had been drunk then I’m sure I would have instantly sobered up.  My adrenaline kicked in and I felt a rush through my body. I got dressed fast, not taking my eyes off him, whilst talking the whole time.

The left side of his body, his arm, leg and face, wasn’t moving. His right side had involuntary, contorted movements, as he raised his arm and leg, his fingers twisted into a claw. He pointed to his head to tell me that it hurt, his speech slurred as he forced the words to leave his mouth. I reassured him that everything was going to be okay – was everything going to be okay? – and I ran downstairs to get the phone. I needed another person but I didn’t want to leave him alone.

I rang 999 and ran through their check list of his symptoms. At this stage I knew Simon was having a stroke. With that thought came hope, with its reassuring window of 3-4 hours for a good recovery. I was told that an ambulance was on its way and to call back if his condition deteriorated further. I informed Simon about the ambulance and he pointed to his legs, to let me know they’re naked. I managed to pull his jogging pants on and also his new Christmas socks.

His breathing then became laboured and short, as he struggled to get air through his blocked nostrils. His jaw clamped shut and his voice just a mumble. His condition then took a rapid decline and he started to vomit. I rolled him onto his side and forced open his jaw. In-between vomiting, Simon responded to my voice by squeezing my hand. Breathing is virtually impossible for him now and I believe he would have die that night if I hadn’t been with him. I felt his panic, his desperation to not be in control, as he blurted out my name through gritted teeth. This is survival to keep him alive whilst I wait for help…

Help that took a good hour to come.

The ambulance arrived with flashing lights and two paramedics take over. It then turned in to a surreal nightmare, as they assessed and talked to Simon, and I automatically told them what had happened. After they’ve opened his airways and connected him to an ECG machine, the paramedics strapped Simon to a portable chair.

I went downstairs and, to this day, I don’t know how I managed to check the back door was locked and the cats had food out. I don’t know what went through my mind as I put my shoes and coat on. I made sure I had my purse, both our phones, and that all the lights were out before leaving.

It was all and then it was nothing. I sat there, in a surreal daze, not taking my eyes of Simon, but occasionally glanced at the road ahead. The more time that past, the more he slipped further into unconsciousness. We arrived at the hospital, it must have been at least 4am but I’m not sure. I still visualise the brightness of the stripe lights, the plastic cold chairs, and the pattern on the curtains in A&E.

Simon was taken to X-ray for a CT scan and I was shown to a waiting room. It was in darkness with just one man sat alone. I didn’t like the idea of sitting with a stranger in the dark, so I wandered the corridors. There were people waiting to be seen, some in hospital beds, with their loved ones by their side. It was like a scene from a disaster movie, the reality of British hospitals.

I found myself in an open waiting area, which was empty of people, just more cold chairs. The TV news announced Carrie Fisher’s mother had died. I remembered thinking how incredibly sad that most be for her family, to lose them both in such a short space of time. A man came out of his bay demanding to be seen. I didn’t know what was wrong but he was erratic, so I moved away. I felt I had nowhere to go, the dark room with the lone man, the hallways where people slept or stared at me, or the rantings of a mad man in front of a TV with news about death.

I ended up in waiting in X-ray and then back in A&E with Simon. The CT scan determined the severity of his condition and my 3-4 hour window of recovery was instantly smashed by the result. It was a brain haemorrhage and the bled was inside his brain, right in the control centre. His brain was flooded with blood and no surgery could rectify it. I called my parents and Simon’s brother, it was painful to do but a relief to finally tell someone.

Later that morning more family came, a total of 13 people. We were all stuck in one small room where the doctor informed us of Simon’s prognosis and plan of care. He was to rest for 24 hours, then taken off sedation in order to have neurological tests. Simon’s dad took me to one side and asked for a priest to come and give last rites.

Last rites to Simon, who wasn’t religious and currently not dead.

I can’t put into words how I felt about being asked that.

I went home on that day, but only to pick up some items and to feed my cats. My mother stripped the bed and soaked the bedding in the bath. I returned to the hospital after just a couple of hours away. After 24 hours the doctors did their tests but Simon responded to brain stimuli. This brought hope to his family as I explained it to them. I tried to be blunt, to say this didn’t mean he was going to recovery and the burden grew on my shoulders. It meant another 24 hours of waiting, of torment and of dealing with people’s hopes and expectations. The next lot of tests showed no response. He was officially declared brain dead.

He had officially gone.

On New Years Eve I lay on the bed with Simon and pretended he was doing the breathing, not the machine. Later I sat in an reclining chair next to him, as the night staff gathered round the work station, to bring in the New Year. One nurse came over to me and wished me a Happy New Year. I let her hug me, out of politeness, and reframed from telling her to fuck off.

I talked to Simon.

I held his hand.

I kissed his forehead,

And I whispered in his ear…It’s okay. This wasn’t your fault. I know if you had the choice you would never leave me.

He was ‘artificially’ alive for organ donation. He went to theatre in the early hours where they removed his heart and liver. I went to the small hospital bedroom and drank whisky that both my sister and best friend had smuggled in.

The sun rose on New Year day and I waited to see him one last time. My sister, brother in law and niece arrived and kept me company. At lunchtime I went to the mortuary with my sister. There were no tubes or wires but his body was still warm. I talked to him once more, I held his hand and I wanted to stay there forever. I knew the days of waiting, crying and fighting were over. I then walked away, a past life gone and a future forever changed.

It has been nearly eleven months since those four days at the hospital. It feels like a life time ago and yet I can remember it as though it was yesterday. It still haunts me, how he was in our bed, how he was in hospital and my emotional turmoil. I don’t want it to dominate and block my other memories of him, but it does.

I still pray…

but I know it’s not to any god.

I pray…

I’ll one day remember the good memories, instead of the end.

I pray…

That I’ll accept that his love is now interwoven with losing him, and I’ll be okay with that…one day.

I pray…

When I think of him, it will be with a smile instead of sadness.

I pray that time will give me all this…

One day.

Simon,

This wasn’t you fault. It was out of both our control.

Love your hermit

x x x

The Route of Less Resistance

As I move further away from Simon, I find myself adapting and evolving to a new life. I don’t want to do this but I have no choice. With each new self-discovery, it always seems to come back to one thing. I have to do what’s best for my happiness, and in order to get there I have to take the route of less resistance. This route doesn’t mean I’m now going to sail through grief. Fucking hell! I wish it were that easy. Less resistance means keeping my complex & confusing grief as simple as possible. I have to turn my overly sensitive switch to off when it comes to other people’s reactions, or lack of reactions.

In their defence, I’m aware that I’ve been overly emotional. People have been ‘damned if they do’, and ‘damned if they don’t’, as I haven’t always known what I want from them. Society doesn’t always know how to respond to grief. They don’t know what to say and how to act. They don’t know that a lack of response can also be damaging.

I know I’m adapting slowly to my new norm, as I use to be so concern about other people’s happiness, sometimes at the expense of mine. But when it came to my crisis, when I needed people the most, some weren’t there. This is not necessarily their fault, just their reactions not meeting my expectations.

Currently, I can’t be proactive in maintaining friendships, as it’s all too stressful. Maybe this will change one day, I don’t know. My whole life has fallen apart and it’s hard to be normal. I don’t blame myself or anyone else, just the shit situation. Saying that, I still have to deal with it and now I’d rather choose the route of less resistance.

I find myself at a transition point. I’m recognising that Simon has died. This acceptance has only been in the practical sense. Practically saying, ‘Simon is dead’. Now it’s the slow emotional acceptance of believing in death, in believing that Simon is no longer alive in this world. My denial is less, but I still get it on a daily basis. I’m starting to remember my past life and this is a problem for my denial friend. I’m remembering Simon before he died, his face and his laugh. The way he said my name and the feel of his hand as he stroked my hair. I’m also remembering the night he died. I remember how he was, being alone with him, the ambulance and then the nightmare of the hospital. I remember the amount of people there, my reactions to it all and their responses.

Some family & friends were fire fighters, coming in, at a time of crisis. Loving, supporting and feeding me. Some couldn’t do this, as it was too much, their grief was too much. That’s ok, as it was a shock for all, and it was very intense and very stressful. After the hospital, the fire fighters continued to swoop in, I can’t remember for how long, 3-4 weeks maybe. People visited, helped me out with his funeral and continued to make sure I was ok. I remember all the fire fighters.

Then the main crisis was over and everyone went back to their lives. I now see this as normal, what else can people do? The problem here was my life was far from normal, and so I struggled with my grief and the reactions around me.

After the fire fighters, the builders came. These are the people who helped to slowly build my life back, one brick at a time. These are the ones who are in it for the long haul. My builders are a mixture of family & friends and continue to help and support me. Just a handful of people can be both fire fighters & builders. I think it’s extremely hard to be both, especially if you’re grieving too. I shall always be grateful to my builders and fire fighters.

I’m trying to emotionally accept Simon death, and with it I need to accept everything that has happened in the last 6 months. I can’t carry negative thoughts and emotions with me anymore, as it just too much. I have to struggle on, with the loss of Simon, but I need to stop making it harder for myself.

I want the route of less resistance.

So I have to let go, not of Simon but of all the reactions of grief, both within myself and within my social network. Into my future I take the builders and the fire fighters, but I’ll leave the bystanders behind. I don’t think I’m being harsh or punishing anyone. To be honest, if I thought I was, then I’ve obviously not turned my switch off.

All I did was fall in love and then watch him die. I had no option when it came to death, but I do have a choice in life. I can make it easier or harder, that’s the control I have. So as I step forward, on my new path, I take with me those who bring happiness, who bring support and who bring less resistance to my life.

 

Simon, you knew. You always knew what was important.

Thank you for showing me in life and unfortunately in death too.

Love your Hermit

x x x

Two – Half a Year, Half a Life.

As I stare up at a cairn of stones, perched on top of a peaty hill, I wonder how on earth did I get to this point. It’s uphill, I know that, but how did I manage it? Where has the strength come from? It’s a winding rocky pathway of steep stones, slippery dirt and free flowing water. The plants are overgrown around me and if I step off this path, I’d be lost forever. The journey, so far, has been rough, and it’s not over yet. Sometimes I stop, to catch my breath, thinking that will do. I’ve come as far as I can, but I can’t turn back, as my past life has disappeared. No other way to go, just the hard path in front of me.

It’s been 26 Thursdays, 26 weeks and half of a year that Simon has never seen. I can’t even get my head round the fact it’s been this long since he was here. That doesn’t seem right? I would have never thought I would be here now, in 2017, standing on a large rock, on top of a hill, at a place he never got to see.

What a year 2012 was. We got married, Simon turned 40, he got a new job and we moved away. As we explored our new home, Simon came across a plaque showing landmarks of places all around us.

‘There’s a hill called Simon’s Seat’, he said excited. ‘We’ve got to go there.’

‘We will,’ I replied, laughing at him as he jumped up and down…

He never did make it there. We thought we would, as we thought we had more time. We didn’t. I miss him and all the stuff we never got around to do. I know we did so much together, and Simon experienced more, in his half life, then a lot of people do in a whole life time.

Two – Half a Year, Half a Life.

As I step on one steep stone after another, wading through a mini waterfall and dodging the odd fern, I thought,

Simon would have loved this walk.

I say ‘walk’ but it was more of a climb. Once at the top, I realised it was a reflection of what I’ve done these last few months. Death plummeted my life down a deep hole. The dark was suffocating and the screams of despair were deafening. I struggled, barely holding on, whilst clambering up through a sticky, black web of grief. I’ve slipped down, many times and felt as though there is no way out. What has helped me is basic survival, shock and denial. Coping mechanisms that I still have but now wearing off, slowly. I’m struggling on with the reality that it really did happen. Simon once existed in my life, and now he’s dead.

He’s gone.

I cry every day, sometime 2-3 times, when I remember him. I cry when I’m triggered by a song or a moment in my daily life that reminds me of him. I imagined climbing to Simon’s seat with him, hearing his comments and feeling his enthusiasm. It had everything he wanted in a walk. The challenge of the steep incline, the interesting pathways, the breathtaking views, and finally, the triumph of reaching the top. He would have sat on a rock, rolled a cigarette, took a sip from his hip flask, smiled smugly at the world and said,

This is my seat.

As I stood, looking out at the English countryside, all I had were his ashes to scatter and these words.

Well Si, we finally made it here.

I nearly cried but there were people around. Old men, with walking sticks, coming to see this landmark, to gaze on the scenery. These men had no idea why I was there and what this place now means to me. What it would have meant to Simon if we just had more time. I left part of him there, to view the world on his throne.

 

6 months, darling, can you believe it?

No, me neither.

Love your Hermit

x x x

The Privileged Life of Grief.

I had a WFT moment on Friday. It was just an instant reaction to something that I struggle with, something I don’t want to be. It’s my harsh reality, a slap in my face,

International Widows Day!

What The absolute Fuck!

You’ve got to be shitting me, was my immediate thought. Commercialism was jumping on the widow’s band wagon. So I disregarded it, as I didn’t want any part of it. I don’t want to be included, as I don’t want to be Simon’s widow. It’s a group no one wants to join. A group where you don’t willingly volunteer to become a member. But I’m afraid the label is mine to wear, branded, a traumatic painful burn that will never heal.

Being part of WAY (widow and young) means I communicate with other widows & widowers. Through this group, I’ve discovered what International Widow’s Day is all about.

International Widows Day was established by The Loomba Foundation to raise awareness of the issue of widowhood. One of the foundation’s key goals is to highlight what it describes as an invisible calamity. A 2010 book, Invisible, Forgotten Sufferers: The Plight of Widows Around the World, estimates that there are 245 million widows worldwide, 115 million of whom live in poverty and suffer from social stigmatization and economic deprivation purely because they have lost their husbands.

wikipedia

The UN calls them the “invisible women.” In some cultures, they’re stigmatised because it is believed they are the cause of their husband’s death. A lot live in poverty due to losing their only source of income and find themselves without support. I don’t want to ignore men (or widowers) here, as I know there are many out there suffering too.

My WTF moment turned into guilt. This is the worst time of my life and yet I’m in a privileged position to be dealing with my grief. I can’t believe I just put the words ‘privileged’ and ‘grief’ in the same sentence. My reality, though it does feel very surreal, is that I have the basic needs to live and yet, everyday it feels like survival. I’m not going to now dismiss my grief as it sounds less then someone who is in poverty, and shunted by their family. Every widow & widower have their own individual issues to deal with, on top of their grief. International Widows Day was set up with a specific intention, linked to widows and their personal circumstances in certain cultures. In our western society we share (men and women) some of these issues.

Financial instability & future worries.

Supporting children, emotionally & economically.

Social isolation.

Social beliefs & myths on grief.

Day to day stress of living & working with grief.

I’m sure other widows/widowers can add to this.

So what affects me the most, a female, privileged,  childless, widow of 43? What do I have to struggle with, other than the loss of my husband?

Social isolation.

I’ve got some wonderful supportive family & friends, including the WAY group. Yet, once able to walk into a unfamiliar pub alone, and have a drink, I can’t do this at the moment. Deciding to eat out at a restaurant, on the spare of the moment, is not an option. Not only do I not want to eat alone but I don’t want people staring at me. You may think these are trivial issues, but it affects self-confidence and esteem. How many young women do you see eating alone on a Saturday night? I live a privilege life and yet I don’t feel able do a lot of the privileged things alone. Then there’s social awkwardness. I have it when people ask me if I have a partner and then they don’t like dealing with the answer they get. I’ve have people who don’t know what to say to me, for fear they will say the wrong thing. Then there are some who stay away, to avoid dealing with me altogether.

Stigmatised. Guess what? Awkwardness is your shit, not mine.

All I want is your awareness and understanding, not your issues.

Social beliefs of grieving.

There is a general expectation that there’s a time frame to grieve. The pressure to be ‘better’ within a certain time is very real. This isn’t just from society but within myself, but I must have learnt this from somewhere. I rush myself to be better, to be normal, whatever the fuck normal is? The government say the time period is 18 months. They have cut bereavement child benefit from, up to 18 years, to just 18 months. Widows and children grieve for years and may never get over it. I know time will make it easier for me to live with losing Simon, and the intensity will reduce but I’ll never fully get over it.

Day to day stress.

I sometimes feel invisible, or I want to be invisible, so I don’t have to deal with society. I want be this strong, independent single female. Girl power! Yet, I’m not and a long way off being one. The day to day shit is harder as Simon isn’t here with me, to support and to share it with. A lot of people often don’t understand the complexities & difficulties of trying to live “normally.” My ability to cope with the slightest thing that happens in a day is zero. I’ve crumbled at the littlest thing, caved in and left crying, at the most inappropriate time. What widows & widowers all share is that our venerability is wide open, our sensitivity is heighten, our emotions raw, and our resilience to get over things is non existent.

I went self employed 6 weeks before Simon died. I’ve not been able to get it up and running again. Everything I do, every day I’m dealing with on my own, or that’s how it feels. It’s like carrying an huge stone bolder on my back, that only I can see. I honestly don’t know how other widows & widowers are doing it, as I don’t fucking know how I’m doing it every day. Bare in mind I’ve only being doing this for 6 months, after living with Simon for 10 years.

We come together in times of conflict, in times of disaster, when the calamity is at its greatest. In times like these we do need each other, but there are also people that the calamity is happening to now. Remember loss is loss, no matter how it happens, and we have to stand together, day in and day out. There are people all around you, coping with loss, appearing as though they’re okay, when they’re truly broken inside.

So for all those suffering this burden, of loss & grief, I shall support you. Awareness is needed in our society, to share this dedicated day and in every day. Next year I will not ignore International Widows day as, like it or not, it is a part of me now.

 

Simon, I will always be your wife, that will never change.

Unfortunately I’ll always be your widow too.

Love your Hermit

x x x