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

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

 

 

 

A Shift in the Mind

It’s a shift in the mind,

that has come over time,

but that doesn’t mean it will always be here.

It’s the gift of truth and clarity,

and sheds some light on my actual reality.

I do not question its motive no more,

whether its progress or ignorance that is at its core.

It’s just a shift in the mind for better not worse,

and it gives me a release from this wretched grief curse…

By Simon’s Hermit

I’ve been on many journeys in my life. I’ve experienced and lived in other countries, mixed with various cultures and had different relationships. I’ve also been on quite a few emotional pathways whilst I figure out, not only who I currently am, but who I want to be. My journeys have enable me to feel joy and excitement, to laugh and be happy and also to know pain, sadness and heartbreak.

Journeys are part of us all, whether they take us physically from one place to another, or be it soul searching within ourselves. An inward journey tests our mental and emotional wellbeing, to hopefully make us more resilient. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that anything I do helps to improve my state of mind, and on these bleak days everything seems hopeless. But time educates me that intense negative emotions do eventually calm, and then like clouds in the sky they pass on.

I’ve been on a grief journey for nearly 20 months. In this time I’ve realised that grief doesn’t get boxed and shelved away. Losing Simon will always be with me because he is still a part of my life. So with no closure what is left is the ability to make grief fit into my life, in order to function everyday and to let peace and happiness in.

Since moving house this year I feel a new chapter has begun. It’s bittersweet, as it’s necessary to continue on but so very sad to do it without Simon. It’s been a really bumpy transition, as I struggled to live with family again and tolerate being in a noisy environment. I’m still coping with my new surroundings and even though it’s hard to see my future, I do want purpose in my life. I want to have friendships, be happy, have a career and to also feel all the emotions that make me human. I want to be more then someone’s widow.

So in order to begin again I recently went on another journey. I went away for 5 nights and the intention was to put me back in the real world. This in its self is quite ironic, as it was at a fantasy convention but the hermit went out to be with others. I knew I would be spending a long weekend doing strange activities with strangers, and my only retreat was 2 thin layers of canvas. In the end I didn’t even have this, as the blazing hot sun meant it was impossible to stay in the tent during the day.

As I travelled down on a packed train I silently questioned what the hell was I doing. This wasn’t in my comfort zone, as I wasn’t going with anyone, nor did I know a single person at the event. Have I finally lost the plot? I thought. Probably. Yet from the moment I got a ticket, a year ago, it felt right. It was scary to think about spending time with 800 strangers but I knew I had to do it. Besides…

What could be worse then Simon being dead?

So my weekend was fun, exciting and happy. It was also stressful, tiring and manic. The first day and night were okay, and moments locked in the toilet helped to calm me. Then on the second morning my emotions became mixed, and the depressive grief monster decided to call. I didn’t feel like I fitted in as groups, old and new, formed around me. I was mindful that these thoughts were not a true representation of my reality and I needed to stick it out. I sat at breakfast on my own, conflicted as I needed to eat but also needed time away from people. The tent was already hot at 8.30am.

As I stared out of the window, a man with weather beaten tanned skin sat down outside. He put his pint of lager on the table and took a drag of his cigarette. His actions remained me so much of Simon, as he would have done the exact thing – a roll up and a pint of ‘hair of the dog’ in the sunshine. What I didn’t need, at that moment, was a tigger for my grief to come out further. How was I ever to survive the weekend if I went to pieces in front of strangers? But the shift in my mind made me accept how I was feeling and told me it was okay. It’s okay to be sad and to miss Simon. It’s natural not to feel jolly all the time, and to not attempt to keep a constant pretence for the sake of others. I felt a shift… Slowly my confident, sociable self came out to play.

People didn’t ask if I had a partner and I didn’t volunteer the information. There was a time, mainly in the early stages of grief, when I thought the whole world should know about Simon dying, from my hairdresser to the postman. Now it’s all about a balance of speaking his name, so he’s not forgotten, against not being defined by his death. Simon would agree and wouldn’t want me to spend my time being consumed with grief.

I still have dark times down in the grief pit, but now I can see the blackness for what it really is, and as I look up I also see an opening…

I don’t know what the driving force is behind my change in attitude, or even how long it will last? Perhaps it really is a positive shift, or maybe I’m avoiding dealing with the trauma of it? After all, I still have frozen moments where I’m lost in a black memory, one where I’m trying to keep Simon alive, or at his funeral. If the ‘shift in my mind’ is just avoidance then I’m sure I’ll deal with it at some point. For now I’m content with feeling something more then grief.

And I’m coping with life without Simon the best way I can…

This is where you sat at the last convention in 2016.

Your place of solace.

I miss you but I’m still fighting on,

for your sake and mine.

Love your ‘getting out there’ 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

Echoes of Time

Written a week ago…

Dear Simon,

I’m moving…

I don’t know how I can leave this place, but I feel stuck if I stay. Such good memories were made within these walls, and as we walked across the beautiful hills around. Earlier I stood in our kitchen – now empty –and the only sound was our distant laughing from a time gone by. I lay on our bed – now a mattress on the floor – and thought about when you once held me, feeling the beat of your heart and warmth of your skin. Part of me wants to stay and hold on to these echoes of time, but the rest of me knows I need to go. I know – if you could communicate in some way – you would say ‘don’t stay here, live your life elsewhere.’

The sun is about to set and the sky is the pastel colours of pink and blue. Not the best sunset we’ve seen in our time, just evidence that another day has come to an end. I found myself frozen in our lounge, surrounded by boxes of our stuff, with the quiet countryside beyond the windows. This is a place I’ve come to know very well and yet it now feels alien. We should be packing up together, not me, myself, on my own, independently doing it. This was supposes to be our life together, for fuck sake. Now I’m struggling to find the right shape stones to make a path for the future. I’m so tempted – whilst I express my feelings on the virtual page – to pour myself another drink. Another vin – as we called it – or another single malt whisky, but I can’t make my mind up. I just want to get bombed out of my mind and forget about sorting, packing, painting, cleaning and moving. I want to but I know it won’t do me any good. It doesn’t make me forget you’re no longer here, that I’ll move and leave our last place behind.

It’s so quiet I can hear my shallow breathing, a familiar sound when I’m anxious. I’ve had panic attacks in the middle of the night, ones where it felt like I was dying, and there was no one to say that I wasn’t. How in the cotton-picking-hell do I leave? Yet how can I stay? So far this lonely journey has been difficult, as I follow a cracked, uneven yellow brick road of grief. The route through my version of the land of oz is without my scarecrow to make all the decisions. I don’t have my compassionate tin man, or my lion to rescue me. Sometimes I wish my world was as clear as the basic colours of the rainbow, and that all I need to do is click my heels three times and wish for home.

Click, click click…

There’s no place like home…

Click, click…

There’s no place like…

Click…

There’s no place…

That’s the problem…there is no place that I call home anymore…

And now…

Simon, I now sit in a temporary dwelling, most of our possessions are in storage, some are squeezed into make-do places. Even though I’m with family, I’m invading their space and routine. The sun is shining through the window but I don’t feel its warmth. The clock is ticking loudly, and with each second it reminds me that time will always continue on. I hear a tick, and then its forever lost in the past. The next tock moves from the future and also into history, and the pause in-between the tick-tocks is where I sit now. If I had Dorothy’s ruby slippers, I would wish to go back to the echoes of time and be home with you.

Click, click, click…

There’s no place like home…

Click, click…

There’s no place like home…

Click…

But there’s no home without you…

Simon, thank you for the memories.

Our echoes of time will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Love your hermit

x x x

 

 

Doing Delia with Yogurt

Grief is like making sourdough bread.

It’s messy and sticks to everything.

I’m a novice to widowhood…

So my knowledge has been based on the stages of grief. I’m often lost and confused to how I should be feeling. I read, reflect and seek guidance in others, in order to gain some understanding. Now, after a year of wrestling with this monster, I’ve realised that widowhood is truly a personal experience, one that each individual should do at their own pace. This sounds so obvious but in practise it’s hard not to compare, and it’s difficult not to add a timeframe to be ‘better.’

You see, I just want to be cured of this pain.

Denial 

My first few months of grief involved intense denial. But denial didn’t completely stop after this time, and even now I dip back into its secure cocoon. The whole of last year felt completely pointless without him, and all I could do was survive each day. Denial has helped me to cope when life gets too much, but sometimes I become so numb that I can’t feel anything. Nowadays I don’t like to go to the extreme of an emotional shut down, and instead try to feel my love for others. I try to create a balance between self-protection and empathy.

Anger

An emotion that is often viewed as a negative. I believe anger isn’t bad, it just how it’s sometimes abused by the person in pain. Last year my anger was like a hundred screaming banshees, trapped in the fire pit of hell. I kept it to myself, as I feared what I would do with it if I let it out. I did indirectly punish people, especially if they reacted to me in a negative way. But anger has also given me strength and determination to not be beaten by grief. I’ve still got anger and an unjust feeling, but my banshee is much quieter now.

Bargaining

At the hospital I prayed to any god or spiritual being to save Simon. I would have gone to the devil’s crossroad and exchanged my soul for his life, if this had been an option. After that the guilt came, and I found myself asking the ‘if only’ questions…

If only I’d noticed signs before his brain haemorrhaged?

If only the ambulance had got to him sooner?

If only the bled had been somewhere different in his head?

No amount of guilt and bargaining is every going to bring Simon back, and I can no longer let the ‘if only’ affect my life. It’s hard not to do as my regrets are still strong, but I try to concentrate on what good I did for him, in his life and also death.

Depression

My doctor suggested medication to help me with my grief, but I’m not depressed…

I’m a widow.

When I experience the depressive side of grief I have to withdrawal from the ‘outside world’ that’s beyond my front door. I need to do this in order to cope, so the stresses don’t overwhelm me. Nowadays I try to be okay with feeling sad. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather not have the sadness that comes from loss, but I’m not going to pretend to be happy when I’m not. Besides chasing happiness is like trying to outrun the borg in Star Trek…it’s futile. It’s okay to not be okay, really it is, and Simon dying was truly a sad event.

Acceptance

I wrestle with ‘acceptance’ because I’ve always viewed it as the ‘end’ of the grieving process.

‘Accept his death and then I’m done with grief…’

But it doesn’t work like that.

Last year my counsellor said there’s ‘rational’ acceptance and ’emotional’ acceptance. Rational acceptance is the practical side of grief, which is Simon is dead…Fact! Now the emotional side of acceptance is much difficult to do, as my brain struggles to make sense of his death. I don’t think I’ll ever fully accept that Simon is no longer here, but I do need to learn to be okay with my new reality. I’m not there yet but I have more good days then bad, and this is part of acceptance. Time has helped by enabling me to adapt to my new life, but it has also hindered when I add expectations. At six months I wanted to be done with denial, but I still wasn’t ready to face reality. At twelve months I put pressure on myself to move on but I was just at the sourdough stage. It may sound like I’m stuck, refusing to lead a life without him but he can’t be put in a box and left behind. In two, three, six and ten plus years I’ll still be living with the sobering fact that my husband died. I’ll still be coping with this loss, and still be living an alternative life to the one planned with him.

Like grief, I’m a novice at making sourdough bread. The first loaf was a disaster, as I muddle through with dough stuck to myself and every surface. It would have been so easy to give up but instead I sort help from professionals, like Delia Smith, taking on their knowledge and then adapting it to my individual needs. My need was to use yogurt instead of buttermilk. I’m now at the stage where I’ve got the necessary skills to make bread, but it still takes practise, and it doesn’t always turn out how I want it to.

Unlike sourdough bread, grief doesn’t have an end to it, as it forever runs parallel with my life. The times I find grief hard to manage is when I don’t understand the true nature of it, and when I fight against it. Death has changed who I am and altered my life, so how can there ever be an end to grief? It’s a part of me now, but I believe that grief won’t always be as intense, or as raw. I’ll learn to live with the loss the best I can, but I’ll need to do it in my own way, and in my own time.

It’s now about my own recipe…

in bread,

in grief,

and in life.

 

And despite what I’ve said about getting use to not having you,

I do miss you, Simon,

So very, very much.

Love always, your sad and sometimes okay hermit

x x x

Simon in the S-Now

I watch the snow fall from the doorway, as it covers the ground with its white purity. It’s lovely but I feel an emotional chill, so I reluctantly shut the world out. I put the ‘heavy’ hatch down on the staircase, I pin two blankets up against the front door and use rolled-up beach towels as draft excluders. Only then does the cold wind stop blowing through the cracks. The nights are equally frosty, so I sleep with a hat on, my cat firmly pressed into my back.

During the cold snap, I reflected on how I’m doing, so far, in this icy world without Simon. I’ve changed but it’s not because I’ve now ‘moved on’ or that I’m fully ‘better,’ but more of an adaptation to my new life. I’ve not noticed my independent evolution, as it’s been a slow adjustment each day. A few people have asked how I managed when Storm Emma came with her icy rage, and I realised that I was fine. I dealt with problems, I looked after myself, and I coped in the exact same way as I’ve done for the last 14 months.

It’s been 438 days of coping…

Nowadays, I find I don’t go to pieces when life throws shit at me. I feel I’m ‘better’ at dealing with things, but I also cope by living in a protective bubble. I use the word ‘better’ deliberately but please don’t misinterpret by believing it’s used to mean I’m now healed. The definition of ‘better’ includes ‘partly’ and ‘fully’ recovered, and I use it to say I’ve ‘improved’ but I’m nowhere near restored. I also don’t use it to say I’ve now ‘accepted’ that Simon is dead, as I don’t fully believe this either. As I’ve not emotionally accepted his death, I also cope by distracting myself from the truth, avoiding my grief, and retreating back to my secure pod.

To cope means to deal ‘effectively’ with something difficult, and I know I do this everyday. But I miss Simon dearly, and my body hurts when I think that he’s no longer here. Coping by distracting and avoiding means I hardly ever cry these days, and feel almost robotic when I deal with people and complete activities. So I also cope by trying to stay focus in the present, which is hard to do and takes practise.

What I really want is to be able to cope with Simon in the ‘Now.’ He wasn’t there when I watched the snow fall from the backdoor, where he once use to sit. I want to enjoy the moment, to feel the warmth of the energy he once brought, not the cold that was delivered by his death. This is what I see as acceptance, to know he was part of this world, and to feel ok when I look out on it again. But at the moment the loss is too overwhelming, so I go back and fore from the mindful ‘now,’ to the emotionless cocoon. You see, my grief is still raw and there are too many triggers to not completely avoid the pain.

Now that the snow has gone I see the first newborn lambs in the field. Soon the buds on the trees will open and the sun will take longer to leave each day. Time moves on, the year will grow old and then the snow will appear once again.

Nature waits for no one…

Not even for me to accept that he has really gone,

But I cope…

Simon, your boots are still at the door.

Love Your Cold 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 Prodigal Son Returns

Dear Simon,

Our cat came back after being gone for 5 months. He just turned up one night, a little scared but eventually came into the house, tired and hungry. I know you’d be so happy if you were alive to see this. I am too but can I be honest with you, as I know you’d understand my confused emotions? I should have felt instant happiness, instead I was blinded by stress, I saw complications and had flashbacks to the early days of losing you.

I last saw our cat on the 10th April, a Monday morning. He ate, he went out and didn’t come back. At first I wasn’t worried as, since New Year, he had only been coming home 1-2 times a week and not stopping long. As you know, prior to this, he would go off for 3-4 days at a time, even in the cold winter. You would be concerned and look for him on day 3, sometimes bringing him home. If you had been alive these last 5 months, you would have been searching endlessly for him, and out of your mind with worry.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go out of my mind with worry, as it was all too much. I’d lost you at the start of the year, then I managed to get through my Birthday, the special date we met, our wedding anniversary, and your Birthday, whilst grieving. Then at month 4, our first cat that we got together, decided not to return. I tried, Simon, I really tried but I didn’t have the energy or strength to cope with another loss. I had nothing left, heavy in denial and completely broken. To add to this, our cats were fighting fiercely, which was incredibly stressful & upsetting to deal with alone. When he disappeared everything went calm. Eventually I had to accept that, if nothing terrible had already happened to our cat, then he’d found a new home and was happier there.

Then the prodigal son returned and it should have been like a scene from Homeward Bound. After a long journey the animals finally found home again, and recieve a warm welcome. My reality wasn’t like that. Instead I had a hissing, growling alien of a cat and the memories came flooding back to me. I remembered being in the kitchen, trying to break two fighting cats apart and desperately wanting you to be there.

For 3 days now I’ve maintained peace in my home, doing everything I can to give attention to both cats. I’ve kept them apart for 3 nights and had broken sleep as a result. I truly love both cats, as you did and I’m very glad he’s safe and sound, but I wasn’t expecting the impact he’s had turning up once more. I found myself saying to him, its not you fault, you didn’t cause any of this hurt.

This isn’t your fault, Simon, and it’s not mine either.

Yet, I’ve suffered the aftermath of death, the pain that came with it, and stress of daily life and I can’t do it again. I don’t have anything in reserve, my stress hormones are burnt out.

Simon, I still haven’t fully accepted what happened to you, and I’m not sure if I ever will. With our cat I came to terms with whatever fate had fallen on him, and thought he was gone for good. Now I realise that he was still out there and I could have brought him home earlier. I know you would have done this and this is where my guilt now lays. I’m also afraid he will do it again, go off for days, weeks and even months, leaving me and my other cat to continue on, wondering if he’ll come back one day.

I’ve been told he’s ‘just a cat’ and this made me wonder, am I being silly about my reaction? Am I making too much of the situation and this is just trivial, as he’s just a cat…

Just a cat.

But it’s not just a cat, it’s what it represents. I’ve been reconstructing my life without you and it’s been the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do. My other cat and I have new routines and new habits. We have become in sync with each other and it’s helped to make life bearable. Now our new foundations were shaken when a third member suddenly showed up. It triggered memories of raw grief and of my old life. I then thought, why can’t our fourth member also return?

But you can’t return, like our cat did. He didn’t die but you did.

That’s my stark reality.

I don’t accept that you died, Simon, but you did.

I did accept that our cat was gone, and he wasn’t.

That has totally fucked with my head.

I know I’ll have days of being ok, of progression and calm. I also know that the waves of grief would come at anytime and anything can trigger them. I really didn’t expect our missing cat to be such a big trigger, catching me off guard and pulling the rug from under my feet.

So what do I do now?

I feel only time will decided how things play out, whether our cats get on, and I’ll just have to deal with any issues, as and when they present themselves. At the moment our cat is staying close to home, but I’m not sure whether this will last. I also have to keep in mind that he is a cat doing what a cat does best.

Simon, you always use to say, ‘my cat’ as he suited your character and you both had a special bond. You would go off exploring and so would our cat, sometimes together. He’s doing what comes natural to him and he came back because he needed to. He’s a cat truly made for the outdoors, a nomad, a cat that seeks out life. Just like you did.

Your cat, Loki.

 

Yours truly, your hermit

x x x