bereavement

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All is not as it seems

Small candle
Just as a light starts to shine, the darkness of grief descends once again

I had been warned that the second year of grieving could be worse than the first. I did not believe this as overall these last eleven months after the first anniversary of Michael’s death have been ok, and sometimes more than ok, with moments of real joy and sense of achievement and progress outweighing the dark moments.

But then I had not factored in the Christmas season, never my favourite before Michael died, so if I could confine it to Room 101 now I would. But it seems there’s no escaping the general atmosphere of jollity attached to December, believe me I’ve tried, it’s hard work.

It’s not that I’m a Scrooge but I have for quite a few years now had a feeling that all the excesses and seemingly hedonistic gift giving was so out of step with the reality of a huge proportion of the world’s population, it felt somewhat false and wrong.

But I digress…

I have been busy living and helping my children thrive rather than merely existing and in that process the grieving got pushed to one side, “don’t have time for that” I kind of said to myself.

As time has started to draw nearer to Michael’s second anniversary I have the inevitable hump of Christmas and New Year’s Eve (also Michael’s birthday, he would have been 58 this year) to get over. I am finding that with more time and a clearer mind to reflect, the grief monster has once again reared its head, grabbing me by the throat and pinned me to the wall with a very clear message: “you will grieve, you will feel this pain, because you cannot run away from it forever”.

So I find myself unable to function and not wanting to make decisions, wanting to simply wave some kind of magic wand to make this month disappear from the calendar, wanting to hide, as any form of human contact right now is a painful reminder of the man whom I loved, still love and who is no longer here.

Gallery

Unexpected, unsolicited, relentless…

I wrote this post on 29 January 2017, but never published it, it was too raw, too difficult for me to read back, let alone to allow it to be read by people out there in the ether of the online world.  I have done a lot of personal healing and growing since this very bleak day earlier this year, so now I feel I am ready to let it go and allow others to see the raw emotions that made me write it in the first place.

It was spring and something changed; I had survived my first winter in a foreign land. Cold like I’d never experienced in my life, the kind that gets inside your bones and sinews and no matter what you do it never leaves you. The culture shock! I spoke the language but somehow couldn’t communicate with people, words seemed to have a different meaning to the one assigned to them in the dictionary. Sarcasm, irony and mockery were the order of the day but it made understanding people’s intentions nigh on impossible, were they being friendly or trying to take advantage of me? I was working so hard just to keep the wolf away, money was tight (sometimes not enough to feed myself) and yet I knew that if I could hang on for a little longer I would make it a success. I hadn’t migrated nearly five thousand miles searching for a better life just to flounder at the first hurdle.

We met one Sunday morning, I had travelled from up north to London; for the first time since arriving in this country I had the opportunity to see the big city and marvel at its amazing buildings new and old and bear witness to what every migrant must feel when faced with its famous streets, that indeed they are paved in gold! Oh the opportunities!

My friend, your friend, our friend, had arranged a meet up for breakfast at your local cafe, where we were to meet you and his sister.  I assumed you and our friend’s sister were a couple, so was taken aback when your attention seemed to be solely directed at me and my daughter, but hey I was in a foreign land and when in Rome do as the romans. So I reciprocated by directing all my attention, out of politeness, to you, ignoring our mutual friend and his sister. That didn’t go down very well with our friend, so instead of building bridges I had burnt one. Of course I didn’t realise at the time that our friend’s interest in me was more than for friendship, I was naive.

Unexpected, unsolicited, relentless… you made your way into my life and took a keen interest in everything I did, planned and dreamt of. I had no idea what your intentions were and had far too much turmoil in my personal life to really pay attention, so I just dismissed your efforts. I didn’t know where admiration ended and mockery started, so I remained distant. But you didn’t give up, nowadays your behaviour would be considered stalking, back then it was just sweet, I was naive.

I was not looking for a relationship, I was already in one which I wanted desperately to end. So no jumping out of the pan and straight into the fire, I said to myself. But you wouldn’t give up, it was so hard for me not to give in. And when I did, your love was beautiful, gentle, tender, all-consuming, loyal; I was not used to it, until that point in my life love had been hurtful, deceiving, betraying. Your kind of love made me feel scared because it was so different, unexpected, unsolicited, relentless.

You showed me how to be kind to myself, how to accept the kindness of others, you brought calm to my soul and held my heart safely in your hands. You made me happy. You made my world complete. You made me a better person and because of your love I was able to love you back in the same beautiful, gentle, tender, all-costuming and loyal way you loved me.

And so we started our lives together, enjoying each other’s quirks, making each other stronger, making plans, falling in love.  You were in a hurry, you said, you were not getting any younger and until you found me you never thought you were going to marry or have a family; you were so happy to be a father to my daughter and proclaimed that I was the best mother you had ever met. Marriage, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us apart, we promised; followed swiftly by two beautiful children and making our forever home together, I still hungry for adventure, you content with allowing me space to follow my dreams, because as you said, yours had come true the day we met.

And so fifteen years of domesticity, every day hum drum, paying the bills, bringing up the children, “who is doing the shopping this week?”, “shall I cook tonight?”, “it’s in the calendar, so it’s happening”, just trying our best to keep the love alive.

And then everything changed, dammed blasted alien took hold of you, unexpected, unsolicited, relentless, invading your body and your soul. It attempted to destroy everything we had worked so hard to build together. It really did try its hardest to get in between us, and I had to put all my strength into reminding you of our sweet, tender, all-consuming love; our promise was tested, oh we were tested! And just as we thought there could be no more tests, we had shown our promise to be as strong as iron, the same invading alien took hold of my body. It devastated you, as you knew the alien was robbing you of your life and your strength at the very moment when I needed to be cared for, yet you couldn’t be there for me. Your body was ravaged, where once stood a strong, athletic, powerful man, the alien consumed you, leaving a paralysed mumbling wreck, taking you away from me, from your children, from your friends, to a land where we are not allowed to visit

And now you’re no longer here, I try so hard to hold on to the memories; eighteen years and yet all I can see is how everything changed.

Enamoured 

I am not enamoured
Of hospitals, syringes, medicines
Or stinging
Or of the smell of disinfectant
On wounds slowly healing

I am not enamoured
Of you fucking cancer
As you slowly
Robbed
The father
Of my children

I am not enamoured
Of you fucking cancer
As you stealthily attempt
To take me away
From my children

I am enamoured
Of laughter
Of loving, of living
Dancing, prancing, kissing
Cuddling, hugging, thinking
Smooching, running, writing
Breathing

I’m not enamoured
Of you
Fucking cancer

I am enamoured of
Sandy toes, tangled hair
The smell of sea air
The sound of waves
The taste of salty kisses

I am enamoured of skies
The rumble of thunder
The flashes of lighting
The giggles of children

I am enamoured of chatter
Natter, gossip, friendship
Of a hot cuppa
Of companionship

I’m enamoured of my life
And you fucking cancer
Cannot defeat me

Wings in my heart….

Today is 18 months since Michael died….it’s really hard to type these words, I haven’t been able to actually utter them in public, only one person has heard me say them (if you’re reading, you know who you are).

I have cried several times today; whilst not as intense as the first few hours, days, weeks or even months, the pain of the last 18 months of his absence is indescribable. My life, and the person I am today, has been irrevocably shaped by the 18 years I spent with Michael by my side. We moulded and changed to fit in with and compliment the other to the point that when he died I felt as if one half of my body, my identity, my being had died with him. I can safely say that, for at least the first year, I didn’t know who I was anymore, I was lost in a boundless, shoreless sea, constantly swimming against a tide that was forever changing, whilst at the same time trying to keep my children safe from drowning; it was exhausting.

I have encountered, at various stages of my grieving process, boundless kindness, the type that made me weep because I didn’t feel worthy of it (yes, grief has the ability to strip you off your self-esteem and sense of worthiness). If I should draw a positive aspect of grieving, this has certainly been one for which I am grateful because in the process some unbelievably amazing people have entered my life and made camp in my heart, and I have no intention of letting them go. I have also experienced deeper conversations and connections with people in subjects as varied as what is love, and whether it is fair that the UK is set on leaving the European Union; whilst not all conversations ended in agreement they have been all mind expanding and welcomed; keep them coming.

I have also faced criticism, judgment, and downright negative comments from people who, in their ignorance of what grieving can really do to you, have uttered the most unhelpful, unkind, and hurtful words I could ever imagine, and definitely didn’t need. I truly believe they did not intend nor understand the pain those words caused me. This experience has taught me to live by the maxim:

Before you say something about a person ask yourself:

  • Is it true?
  • Is it good?
  • Is it useful?

Socrates

So with this in mind, I set to justify my last paragraph, because admittedly it does not meet all the three criterion Socrates set.

It is true that the words and actions of some people I have encountered in my grieving journey have hurt me and have caused me to retreat into my cave licking my wounds.

It is not good that I am publicly decrying the words and actions of those people, although I am not naming them individually, I am not narrating specifics here, and would never do so, I am doing this because I believe it to be useful, to me at least, but hopefully to others too.

I will explain.  The person who is grieving the death of a loved one, is temporarily (and for an unspecified length of time) taken into a warped planet where all societal rules of common sense, politeness and normality are suspended and replaced by a warbled mass of confusion, pain, anger, desperation and hopelessness wrapped in barbed wire; imagined trying to escape that planet to get back to earth!  First of all it takes an insurmountable amount of strength and courage to want to escape, second when one has gathered the strength and /or courage, every time one tries to escape, one gets caught in the barbed wire, lashing the already lascerated skin. So next time you encounter someone who is grieving, make sure to either be prepared to speak through the barbed wire so the person doesn’t feel they have to jump through it, or get yourself really big wire cutters, cotton wool dressings and a big pot of kindness salve with you to apply to their wounds. They’ll need it and will be forever grateful.

Thankfully, I encountered many more kind people with big wire cutters and the most magical kindness salve, than unkind people.

These last 18 months have forced me to develop and use tools and skills I didn’t know I possessed or even thought existed. I have had to push through physical and emotional pain, turmoil, and sadness. I have had to re-assess my priorities in life, I have had to see my life’s own script being re-written with seemingly no control whatsoever as to the plot or the characters within it; but most of all I have had to learn to let go, to live each day as it comes, to grab onto every little moment of joy because I don’t know when the next one will come along, and to trust the journey.

There have been moments of utter sadness and desperation, but as time is passing I have learnt to live with the Michael shaped hole which is slowly becoming a scar in my heart, his mark forever there to be seen.

And as time is passing my children are also learning to live with joy too; continuing to develop into kind, rounded individuals, constantly challenging me as their only parent. I often find myself asking “how would Michael deal with this situation?” and actually voicing it to my children…. the truth is that there would have been a discussion between the two of us which would invariably end up with him saying “you seem to have it all under control, gorgeous” I miss that.

Their academic, sporting and social achievements have been many and as a proud mother I can probably write a whole essay enumerating them, but I won’t bore you with those. The one thing I am proudest is of seeing them, having had the roughest 18 months, pick themselves up, dust themselves off and walk with their heads held up high, whilst being aware of the world around them being kind, positive, polite, respectful and above all happy, it makes my heart swell with pride.

I am continuing to run as often as my body allows it and fitting it around my continuing treatment, combined with nearly every day yoga practice, I can see and feel the benefits. My body is coping with and recovering from treatment much better, my sleeping, eating and emotions are in balance and I’m managing to control my body weight. Today I ran my fastest 5 km ever, officially 25:44 (and came third in my age category!)…. as I was running every step was dedicated to Michael and the people I love who I believe give wings to my heart.

Those wings have recently been strengthened by a new special person entering my life and making me believe that it is possible to love again after widowhood. Eighteen months ago I would not have believed that my heart would have the capacity to heal and expand to accommodate a new love again; well today I know it’s possible. Loving again at the age of 45 feels no different to what it felt to love as a teenager, only now I have the life experience behind me which makes me more aware of making sure I grab every moment of joy, every smile, every word said, every moment spent together, and enjoy it. If you are reading, thank you for coming into my life, for accepting me, my past, my present and my uncertain future, and for loving me just as I am.

I now look at the future, which is in no way certain or without challenges, and I am not afraid because I have wings in my heart.

Twelve months 

Twelve months have passed since you, my love, took your last breath. I thought in my naivety that, because I’d known for a long time that you were going to die, I was ready to face life without you. How wrong!
You brought light into my life, you always had laughter on your face and there hasn’t been a day since your dying that I haven’t thought about you, missed your hugs and wished that I would be granted another minute with you just to hear your voice.

So many unrealised dreams and plans, so many hopes dashed in one cruel moment.
You would be so proud of your beautiful children my darling, they’re honouring your life and your memory by being funny, kind and sensitive souls. Seeing them grow without you here to share my pride leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and my heart. So many milestones you will not get to see, I can’t bear this thought.
I thought I had cried enough tears and yet my heart is so broken and in pain that I can’t do no better but cry. I love you…

What’s in a name?

I’ve been hesitant to write about how this December is shaping up for me and my family but it struck me today that although we have received many good wishes, generous gifts and a few Christmas cards, only one person has actually said to me that Michael is being missed. Up to that point I had quite realised that people no longer mention his name when they speak to me.

I don’t understand people’s reluctance to say his name, it’s as if he never existed. People have got round by saying “we know it’s difficult” or “thinking of you” and whilst I appreciate the sentiments it makes me sad that people have stopped talking about Michael, and I’m finding it extremely difficult to accept it.
Life without Michael will never be the same again, more than 11 months after his death I’m still not sure what shape this life is supposed to be taking. Talking about him and the memories I have of him is essential to me and my children, when other people who knew him, far longer than I did, fail to mention his name it hurts.

Christmas has been cancelled in our home. There are no decorations, at the specific request of my children, we’re not having the traditional Christmas meal.  I was never bothered by turkey, but was happy to cook it for Michael for whom Christmas was the best thing that could ever happen to him, he relished the whole thing indulging excessively in food, drink and gift giving, but much more than that he embraced Christmas with the enthusiasm of an overgrown child.

As it is my children are going to have more christmasses without their father than they did with him. This is painful for me and beyond comprehension.

Tonight we sat down to watch Michael’s favourite Christmas film, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I had never watched it from beginning to end, being as I always was busy wrapping presents, cooking, decorating or last minute shopping. I understand the moral of the story and now also get why Michael loved this film so much.

I’m not looking forward to Christmas morning without him by my side. I fear all joy has completely abandoned our family and I can’t bear the thought of him not being with us, being silly, singing at the top of his voice and getting overexcited at the prospect of opening his presents.

I have mixed feelings about the year which is about to end. Every day, week and month that passes is yet more time further away from the last time I heard his voice, held his hand, hugged him. On one hand I can’t wait to see the back of 2016 off, on the other I want time to freeze as I don’t wish that gap to continue to grow. It’s a dilemma I can’t seem to be able to reconcile.

Counting days

10k medal

Today is an awful day for me. It’s one year exactly since I was diagnosed with Neuroendocrine cancer.  Just two days before I had run my first half-marathon surprising myself by completing it a good 13 minutes faster than my predicted time. So as you can imagine a cancer diagnosis was not what I had expected to receive when I was asked by the consultant endocrinologist to return to the hospital two weeks after a CT scan.

Since that fateful Tuesday all I ever  seem to do is count the days till the next appointment, or the days since I last felt well, or the days till the next injection. My life now revolves around meticulously recording symptoms and side effects so next time I see my oncologist or specialist nurse I can discuss at length whether the treatment is working or not. But the truth is no one knows, the truth is I must wait until the next scan where they will be able to see or not whether the cancer has spread. There’s no guarantee and sometimes the severity of the side effects is such that makes me ask myself is it really worth it? How much time is all of this actually buying me? I have been told many times “there’s no cure, your cancer is advanced”.

Having seen my husband suffer through so much invasive and debilitating treatment, I don’t think I want to go through yet more unnecessary pain and discomfort, nor do I want to be spending precious time away from my children whilst undergoing yet more treatment. I want quality of life.

I’ve had a whirlwind of emotions brewing up in the run up of this anniversary, compounded by my having to drive my eldest daughter back to her university accommodation earlier last week, as she prepares to return to the world of academia after a well deserved break following Michael’s death. I was able to keep it together all the way there, however once I was on the way back I cried constantly until I parked my car at home. I was emotionally drained for a few days after that.

At the end of last week I endured a heart wrenching 24 hours period when I realised I had lost my engagement and Michael’s wedding rings. I have been wearing his ring on my ring finger together with my engagement and wedding rings as well as one his ancestors wedding ring. That’s four rings on one finger. Luckily after posting a public appeal on Facebook a local couple contacted me to let me know they’d found them and I was reunited with my rings 24 hours after realising I had lost them. After this experience I’m now looking into how I can get four rings customised into one or two rings to make sure I never go through this horrible experience again. If you know of a jeweller in the sunny South of the UK who’d be up for the challenge, please let me know by commenting below, thank you.

img_8275As a last-minute decision I entered the 10k race part of the Bournemouth Marathon Festival. My aims were to:

  • test my body
  • complete the race injury free
  • run the distance without stopping
  • get round in 63 minutes

Well I can report I achieved three of the four aims. I ran the whole course, non-stop in 64:50 minutes and I’m injury free, I’ve got the medal to prove it too!. All of this just five months after surgery. I believe these are all good signs that my body will be able to cope with the 10 miles on 10 November; I’m counting the days.

Finally today has also been a reminder of how awful this grieving process is.  If the only way people can understand grief is to experience the loss of a loved one I wish I had a superpower that allowed me to stop anyone ever to have to go through it.

Last night the kids started complaining that he house felt cold, well of course it’s october and whilst the days are still mild, the nights are definitely not and as soon as the sun sets a chilly air enters our home.  So I started up the central heating system.

There’s a process involved with it, which Michael used to be in charge of, mainly by calling a plumber who would spend a good hour going up and down our attic, up and down our staircase, checking each radiator, firing up the boiler, turning off the boiler, etc, etc, etc. Michael (or I) never bothered to check what the plumber did, just paid the guy and off he went never to be seen again for another year.

Well this year I realised perhaps I had left it too late to call anyone in, they’re all already fully booked and I’d probably have to wait at least a week before someone could come in to get the heating going. Mmmmhh… maybe it was time to take action.  I bled the radiators, I knew that was an essential, I also knew that if I shut down all the radiators but the one furthest from the boiler any air bubbles would travel to the one still switched on and it would be easier to get the air out.  Well this radiator happens to be in the upstairs bathroom so cue frantic running up and down the stairs, checking the boiler, bleeding the radiator, switching on, switching off, back upstairs, back downstairs, whilst kids complaining it is still cold mummy!

Last night I was knackered, it was 9:30 pm, I hadn’t yet had a shower after cooking dinner, coming back from a run, feeding the children, the dog had yet to be walked, aaaaarrrrgh! so I gave up, but not for long.  This morning, I gave up my yoga class as I was determined to get the heating going before the children came back from school.  I did some research, Mr Google and Mr YouTube are lifesavers, found out that probably there wasn’t enough water in the system, checked the tank, aha! that’s why the plumber goes in the attic! Tank refilled, I proceeded to repeat all of last night’s actions until tadah! the heating started working.  Hence the reason I can sit comfortably in the study to type this post.

However at the end of this (minor) ordeal I sat down and cried, I suddenly missed Michael so much I ached all over.  He would have been so proud, he would have given me a big hug and a kiss and would have said that because I had saved him £40 on call out charges, he’d take me out to dinner or go out and get me flowers, or both.  I miss him, it hurts.

Instead I’m off to the hospital to be reminded once again how ill I am, to be given a very painful injection, which purports to be keeping the cancer at bay, to start counting the days until I must have the next one.

Grief with life in between

It has been a while since my last post, a lot of things have happened:

So this post is going to be longer than usual.
The thing with grief is that it is deceiving; it has often happened since Michael’s death when I think to myself that I am coping so brilliantly that I wonder what is it that people
complain  so much about the grieving process. And then as if to make sure I do not get so cocky about my own ability to overcome
adversity, POWit hits me squarely on the forehead and floors me, without notice, rhyme nor reason.

It is the smallest of things such as the fact that four years ago we were all in London enjoying the Olympic Games together as a family of five people, cheering on the amazing athletes and marvelling at their ability to perform at their sport making it look simultaneously easy and extremely difficult at the same time.

This time the Rio Olympics have brought home how different our lives are, without Michael here to watch the whole range of events, the little enjoyment I have experienced is always tinged with the acute sadness of his absence.

Meet Marlo, our puppy

A few months before Michael died, we were at the beach enjoying an unusual spell of warm weather; it was October 2015.  As we watched people walk by with a whole range of different dog breeds both youngest daughter and I begged him to agree to us getting a puppy.  It had been a recurring conversation whenever we went out for a walk, to which Michael always replied no; however this time the conversation ended differently, he said: “when I am gone, you can get a puppy, you can even call him Michael if you like”.

The night Michael died, our youngest daughter had been staying with friends.  She did not like visiting the hospice, as in her words “it was a sad place”.  I telephoned with the news that Michael had died, so it came down to our friends to tell her, after the initial shock and sadness, daughter reportedly said “it is ok as we can now have a puppy”.

IMG_7209So late in July we travelled to Brittany in France to collect our beautiful puppy, Marlo, he is a Brittany Spaniel.

He is the kindest, most placid and affectionate creature, very quickly establishing that I am the leader of the pack, to be obeyed and followed everywhere I go.  He manages to capture people’s attention when we are out walking by just looking at them with those beautiful puppy eyes.

He is a very quick learner (I have the dog trainer’s word on this one) and so far very well behaved when out and about; he is also exemplar at home, except when it comes to the sofa, what is it with dogs and sofas?

A birthday without daddy

So youngest daughter turned 12 in July.  We had agreed that Marlo would be her birthday ‘present’; however there had been discussions as to what she would like to do as a birthday celebration.

When it came to it she decided she did not want any fuss on the day, no birthday cake, no special event.  I understood how she felt.

I reached my 44th birthday this June and a combination of my birthday falling on Father’s Day and three weeks after major surgery, meant that I did not want any celebrations and instead wanted to scape as far away as possible from everything that reminded me that the love of my life is no longer here.

Whilst my daughter was unable to express her feelings about her first “without daddy” birthday , I could read the pain in her eyes, so we did exactly as she asked, nothing.

Time flies, yet stands still

On August 15th marked seven months since Michael’s death.  For some reason youngest daughter wanted me to watch “Miss You Already” which you might want to avoid if you or someone you love have been affected by cancer.  Of my three children, she has found it the most difficult to talk about her feelings during her daddy’s illness and after his death, so it took me by surprise that during the film she started talking about how chemotherapy had affected him, how she remembers the hospice and the effect his death has had on us.  The film acted as a catalyst for her; as I sit here analysing the experience I guess it became a non-threatening form of dialogue for her.  I was also surprised by how it was me who could not stop the streaming tears and had both the dog and my daughter comforting me.

I shed tears for Michael everyday, I am astonished by how many tears I can still produce and how very small things can set me off.  For example as we started out on our trip to France to collect Marlo, I had packed the children and our luggage in the car, stopped to get petrol and made sure I went through the “Michael travelling checklist”, money (tick), passports (tick), tickets (tick).

As we left the outer boundaries of our town the song we played at his funeral “Somewhere Over the Rainbow / What a Wonderful World” by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole came on the radio, cue streaming tears.  I couldn’t help but feel both his absence and his presence, as if this was Michael’s way of saying that what were about to do was ok, but of course he was not coming with us.

Every anniversary, landmark, event in our lives now has a bittersweet taste to it.  We are, as a family, doing things we did not do with Michael and it feels wrong and out of balance, an integral part of this finely tuned machinery is missing.   At times it feels as if the chapter of our lives together was somehow a dream that I made up, and then I look at our children and realise it couldn’t just have been a dream.

Running again

On July 30, nine weeks after major surgery, I ran at my local parkrun which are organised freeIMG_7930, weekly, 5km timed runs around the world. They are open to everyone, free, and are safe and easy to take part in.

I am a stats mad type of runner and keep a record for every run I do.  My personal best for 5km stands at 28:07 and it’s nearly a year since I set it.  Of course I was under no illusion that getting back to running after surgery was going to be easy and did not expect to even be able to complete the run, so I was very pleasantly surprised and proud to have completed the 5km without stopping in a time of 38:53.  I have been running twice a week since returning and have managed to get my time down to 32:48 in the space of three weeks.  I hope improvements will continue and aim to increase the frequency to three times a week very soon.

Sadly a side effect of my treatment is that my energy levels and reserves are depleted very quickly to the point that a couple of hours of normal activity, nothing strenuous, means I need to take regular naps during the day, so after running I am good for nothing for about three to four hours.  I am hoping this will eventually improve and I am in constant discussions with my consultant and specialist nurse as to the best way to manage.  I do not want to give up exercise or running, it makes me feel better in my head.

On the road

Oldest daughter is legal to drive, it was not easy and it took several attempts for her to pass but it is finally done.  Not that she is in any hurry to buy a car as to be able to insure young drivers in the UK a mortgage is required.

She had been practising her driving in Michael’s car which I had kept for that sole purpose, however as she prepares to return to university to finish her degree it is both impractical and financially non-sensical for me to keep hold of two cars, so “Stickers”, as it is affectionately known by us, has to go.

 

I didn’t choose bravery 

I belong to two private online forums, one for people diagnosed with cancer in their 20s, 30s and 40s, Shine Cancer Support, the other for people aged under 50 who are grieving the death of their partner, WAY Widowed and Young.

I’m yet to find one online forum combining both criteria, young cancer patient and young widow; I’m sure I’m not the only one going through the same circumstances but perhaps it would be too sad to find myself in an even smaller minority. [UPDATE September 2017]  I have since discovered that at least seven other young widows are going or have undergone cancer treatment, either whilst caring for their dying husband or since windowing…an exclusive club indeed.

In these forums we share our experiences in a safe, supportive environment with other people who are going through similar circumstances in their lives, without prejudices or fear of recrimination. It is remarkable how similar some of the discussions are in both forums. One that comes up often, and which seems to leave a lot of us riling, is people in general telling us how brave we are for carrying on with our lives, for still being able to function and I guess for not “having lost the plot”.

I want to dispel a myth, I didn’t choose bravery. The circumstances of my life just happened, there was no plan, heck who would plan such a life? Anyway, there was a time when I did have a neat little plan, an expectation which did not turn out as I’d thought.

But I digress, back to bravery.

No I am not brave.

Brave are the refugees fleeing war-torn countries, risking life and limb in the hope they will carve out a better life for their families in a far away land. Brave are the doctors and nurses who risk their health to care for sick people wherever their vocation takes them. Brave are those who speak out against injustice whichever form it takes.

I am sure there are many more worthy examples of bravery that you can think of.

No, I am not brave.

I continue with life as best I can. It is not perfect, and if ever you see me and have the compulsion to say “you are doing so well!”, please know it is just a facade, an illusion, the mask that I must wear everyday to make sure I am not left behind, because life still goes on. This is the performance I have become accustomed to so that I can make it through each day. As the saying goes, fake it ’till you make it.

This does not mean I never take the mask off or that I don’t stop performing, oh I do, everyday! And when I do, those around me get to see how brave really I am not. But I have had to plough through because there is no choice, because the world does not stop, because not carrying on would be cowardice, and that’s definitely a label I am not willing to carry.

#WearSomethingYellow day

Friday 17th June is “wear something yellow day” to raise awareness of the great work hospices do in looking after patients with life limiting and terminal illnesses as well as their families.
I will be doing my bit by wearing something yellow; watch this space!

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Forest Holme Hospice

 

So on Friday 17th:

  1. wear something yellow
  2. take a selfie, post it on social media with the hashtag #WearSomethingYellow
  3. donate £1 to Forest Holme by visiting my Justgiving page, that’s it easy peassy, squeeze the lemon!