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

Bare

My hair is long, it needs a cut. The red henna is fading and grey can be seen.

My eyebrows are bushy so I try to give them a pluck.

My eyelids have wrinkles and the eyeshadow falls into the creases.

I get spots, not like a pubescent teenager, but the odd one on my chin and nose.

My neck sags and with it a double-chin forms.

My upper arms flap like bats,

And my finger joints have painful stiff nodules.

My breasts droop slightly and one is better then the other.

Symmetrical boobs are a myth, but I still want them.

My belly gets bloated.

I’m too lazy to shave but I try to do it anyway.

I’ve cellulite, thread vines and hairy hobbit toes.

I’ve only ever had one pedicure in my life, this was on my wedding day.

I get grumpy.

When I’m tired I get really grumpy. When I’m drunk I swear a lot.

My heart feels damaged and I worried it will never heal.

At times I need to run, or hide, in order to escape the things that tries to hurt me.

Stress has completely exhausted me.

I still have grief…

Still.

It has stripped me bare.

I get so angry at the world and so fucking upset. I still can’t get my head round the unfairness of death. It’s random and cruel. It brings out the worst in me as it’s still overwhelming. It’s a never ending ticking time bomb, lying in wait for that trigger, for me to be at my most venerable.

Then boom!

Afterwards I look at my naked soul and see myself for whom I’ve become. The grey, the wrinkled, the bloated and the sagging included.

All of it.

And it’s not all bad.

I also have long hair and the flecks of natural gold & ageing silver light up in the sun.

My eyebrows are fair, so almost invisible.

I have big brown eyes and the skin around them creases when I laugh.

I’m blessed with good skin.

My arms are strong, and I’m still able to create art and stories with my hands.

My breasts are beautiful, and I’m curvy all over.

I’ve blonde hair on the small of my back that is light and fluffy.

My grumpiness is always replaced with a smile.

My heart is still beating and I love others with every inch of my soul.

I still have grief…

Yes, this part is true.

But it has also made me resilient. Death has not only shown me the fragility of life but also how precious it is too. I can have a hard exterior, but my emotions are there, just below the surface, ready to express my kindness.

I now value hope after feeling absolutely none, and I now strive onwards, with purpose, when I once felt there was no point.

I’m an ageing woman who has lost so much, but with my silver streaks, broken heart and everything laid bare I’ve so much more to give.

I am widow, hear me roar!

• 

Quite simply I miss you, Simon

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