One Year On

It has nearly been a year since I embarked on writing this blog. In that year I have reflected on the events, experiences and emotions that brought us to that Singular Moment. There is much more to be addressed in this last year that went unwritten and I may revisit those at some point in the future but for now it is time to consider the present and look, somewhat tentatively at the future. I have to admit that I find it hard to look to the future, mainly because as I have noted before, it scares me. It scares me so much that I can't bring myself to do it seriously in periods of more than three months. The main reasons for these concerns are, as ever, the children and their future wellbeing and secondly, my health. I worry, like all parents do, how they will adapt and how we will cope and work as a family unit. I also worry about my health a lot. Fundamentally, not being there for them and even the slightest notion of them losing me too is incomprehensible. Many people go through their day to day lives not giving their mortality a second thought but I think about it often. It isn't debilitating, it doesn't stop me from functioning but it is there; an ever present itch. I have mentioned before Sherry McAllister's moving piece about what it feels like to be living with the constant threat of cancer and I feel that way too, just to a lesser extent obviously. Although I have no real health worries, I do feel the constant worry of things going wrong and something happening to me. It's very much real and very much palpable. Therefore I feel this blog now needs to adapt to that and will reflect these feelings, the barriers and issues we face and how we will overcome them. 

It has always been my hope that there will be someone out there who may read my blog and find that their experiences align with ours and it may help or comfort them in some little way. I said at the very beginning, if I help at least one person then this exercise will be worthwhile. However, the focus remains the same. The children are first and foremost the reason for this blog. I want them to read this and everything else I post on social media about us and remember these times and learn and understand. I do share quite a lot on social media but I do so in the knowledge that it's out there and will stay out there and they can look back on it at anytime. Every night at bedtime we look at Laura's phone and mine for "Memories", it's a part of our bedtime routine. For me this is what social media is about now, it's a public diary of our lives. I know Laura would think I'm over sharing, as she was always, in essence, quite a private person but I feel it is a good thing to have those memories at their fingertips. We are practically making memories and recording them forever. 

Over the last year many people have said, "I can't imagine what you are going through." This is true. Unless you have been through this, or something similar, then imagining is all you can do. This isn't a slight. It's just the harsh truth. It is simply too terrible to comprehend. So if I also help those people understand the struggles and worries that cancer and bereavement brings and if I help those who are going through similar, then that understanding is a good thing. If you can try imagine what it's like and it changes your outlook for the better, then that is also a good thing. Many couples that I have spoken to have realised that either one of them takes care of all the finances etc, and my story has made them think twice about this situation. I was exactly the same. I've literally had to learn everything from finances to planning holidays to buying clothes! It's good that there are guys (usually!) now considering having a more active role when it comes to the sharing and understanding of household dynamics, due to my experiences. There are positives to be found.

This last year has also taught me how invaluable people are and how inherently good people can be. The love and affection we have experienced over the last year has been incredible. This experience has often lead me to ponder this: How many times have you wondered how a friend is but never contacted them to find out? I'm not writing this with the sole intention to make anyone feel guilty, there are many reasons why you wouldn't or can't. I'm sure those reasons are personal, individual and complex. We all lead extremely busy lives. Between work and family, free time becomes increasingly premium time. I also don't mean to simplify our behaviours by asking that question either. In the past I would do the same, I would think "I must drop so-and-so a line", then something would crop up and I'd put it off. Even if something didn't crop up I'd still put it off. It helps that I am fortunate to have had the same group of friends for decades. Some I grew up with and some I befriended in my late teens/early 20s and that core of friends has always remained the same for many, many years. We all live different lives now and live in different parts of the country, if not different countries, therefore we rarely see each other but when we meet it's like it has been no time at all. Our love and friendship isn't diluted by time or distance. So there's no pressure to drop them a line. Things have changed a little though. I know that I need to do it more. But it's not just close friends, I still get messages from people asking if we are okay and if there's anything I need. I get messages from people that I haven't heard from since school (which was a long time ago!) and from people I don't actually know, Laura's friends and work colleagues and parents from the kids' school for example. It's heart-warming to receive such messages and comforting to know there are people who are still thinking of us. People do care. It is those messages that made me think about the actual effect those messages have and the power behind them. They give me strength. They give me hope. They give me courage. They make me happy. That is why I asked that initial question. Send that message. Don't hesitate. At the risk of sounding like one of those memes with some trite inspirational phrase superimposed over an image of a beautiful sunset: pass it on, be kind. I have said this many times but the phrase "it's the thought that counts" is bandied around quite loosely but there are many occasions when it can actually help. Thank you for the messages. They all mean the world to me.

Finally, I have also been grieving for a year now. I feel my grief will be a long drawn out affair. I guess all grief is. Some peoples grief wanes over time and for some it stays with them forever. My grief comes in waves. It is ever present and is always there in some form or another. It has a baseline but, somewhat worryingly, no perceivable depth. I unashamedly admit to bottling mine up. I feel I have to for the children. I may be wrong in doing this. There will be those out there who think I need to show the kids that it's okay to cry, that it's good to let it out. But, for good or bad, it's not that path I've chosen. This may and possibly will change over time and as they get older but for now it is going to be this way. The kids know how I feel as I tell them that I miss Laura often, just as they tell me, I just don't let it all out; my sadness, my worry, my guilt. I just don't think it will benefit anyone at this moment. It still sneaks up on me from time to time and hits me low, but surprisingly, it also gives me strength. It makes me take a deep breath and allows me to focus on the things I need to do. It corrects me. It guides me. I still do the same things I did before; things that I know aren't in my best interest, or anyone else's, but my grief guides me now. It shows me the way I should be. The way I need to be. I need to find positives where ever I can. And it can be found in the lessons I have learned. It can be found in the love of family and friends. It can be found in the understanding and deeds of relative strangers. And can be found in the most unlikeliest of places, my grief.  

The Moment

It was 8pm Tuesday 14th June 2022. Laura's mam and sister had been at her side when I came into the room. As they left me and Laura alone I noticed her breathing had slowed a little. Our room was warm and bathed in the late evening sun. I opened the window wider to let some more air into the room. The evening was quiet, broken only by the birds singing their love songs to each other in the trees outside. Kneeling on the floor next to the bed, I held her hand and I told her how much of a nice evening it was. I told her the kids were okay and downstairs with family. I told her that we love her. Then I was silent for a while, listening to her slow, peaceful breathing, grateful that she was no longer feeling the pain that she had experienced over the weekend. 

The weekend had been awful. Even the word awful is a gross understatement. Throughout Friday night to Saturday morning she was up constantly in extreme pain. I didn't know what to do. I was woefully underprepared. When we fell asleep on the Friday night after coming back from hospital, I fully expected her to wake up and be communicative and lucid, despite her pain and confusion in the days previous, but that wasn't to be.  During the night the liquid morphine she had been taking gave her some relief but it wasn't long before she would wake up again, doubled over and crying out in agony. I was frightened that her cries would wake the kids. I was at a complete loss. I didn't know who to call or what to do to help. Up until then it was the worse thing I'd ever faced in my life. In her pain, she was more incoherent than ever. There were times during the night when she wanted to go to the toilet, or she led be to believe she did, but just trying to get her to sit upright on the edge of the bed was incredibly difficult. She would cry out in pain, saying she wanted to lie back down, then an instant later she would want back up. She was so confused and I was having to guess what she actually wanted. When she did want to go to the toilet it took ages again to get her to sit upright on the edge of the bed and then up to a standing position. Her pain was excruciating and my heart couldn't deal with the agony she was going through. We slowly walked, step after agonising step, and got through the door to the toilet. Just getting her there and back took half an hour. To this day I'm unsure if the kids actually heard it all. It would be a miracle of they didn't. This fact sits heavy with me. Laura didn't want to be here, the plan was to go to a hospice. She didn't want to house "tarnished" by this event but we had no option, such was the speed in which it happened. I have said many times that it's a sign of Laura's indomitable spirit that she only had to let her guard down once for her very aggressive cancer to take her. It was the first of too many long, painful nights. 

In the morning, when the kids woke up, I jumped up and took them downstairs. I quickly made sure they were settled. I must have been downstairs no longer than a minute when I heard movement upstairs. I ran up to find that she had gotten up and went to the toilet herself. She was still in severe pain but her pride and that inner strength got her there on her own. The task that drained both of us during the night, she pushed herself to do on her own. I couldn't believe it. Yet I could. As I helped her back bed I noticed that she was even more confused and incoherent but added to that she was now becoming upset and angry. I made her as comfortable as I could then I got the numbers I needed and called every number available to me for help. The Macmillan nurses were there in no time. They helped settle her, changed and cleaned her and upped her meds. I hoped she wouldn't have another night like that but sadly I was wrong. The following night was worse. Far worse. Fortunately, my sister stayed over to help me with the kids. That night I called the nurses out 4 times. Even though they had upped her painkillers, the threshold seemed to change along with the dose. I was reminded of when she was in labour with Aden. Nothing could take away her pain; gas and air, painkillers, epidural. Everything they tried during labour didn't seem to even touch the sides of her pain. This situation was similar in a lot of ways. Her pain seemed to increase exponentially with the dosage. 

On the Saturday afternoon I decided it was time to tell the kids. I gathered them close on the sofa and told them as best I could. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I can't even remember what I said. We cried and hugged. They said they wanted to see her but when we got upstairs to the bedroom door they changed their minds. Inwardly, I was glad and I know Laura would have been too. She, we, wanted them to remember her before she was ill. We wanted that to be the lasting memory. We made a deal outside the bedroom door. We would always be there for each other. We would try not to keep our feelings bottled up. We would cry if we wanted to and when we did, we would always have a cuddle. We invented our little mantra of "cuddles cure cries". It hasn't always been perfect but it has served us well.

I also made the decision not to let anyone outside family visit her. This was an incredibly hard decision, because out with the kids and family, her friends were her life but she was so distressed that I didn't want to risk upsetting her and upsetting anyone that visited. I also know that, like the kids, she wouldn't have wanted any of them to see her in this way. She had said this to me many times. It was her wish and I hope that her friends will forgive me.

The following nights were still distressing and I had to call the nurses out again on more than a few occasions. On Monday, unable to cope with seeing her in constant pain, I requested that they increase her painkillers fully and let her go in peace. All I wanted was for her pain to end. It had been too much to bear. 

It was time. 

At a few minutes past 8, in our bright and sunny bedroom, when I broke the silence once again to tell her that everything would be okay, that she needn't worry, that we loved her, I noticed her breathing had slowed even more. Then at 5 past 8, time stood still for a moment. Just a fleeting, peaceful moment. There was no sound. A momentary pause. Silence. Then the silence grew. It grew beyond the room. It enveloped everything around me and everything the sun touched. Everything stood still. Everything I know, everything I knew and everything I am, was contained in that fleeting moment. My world stopped. Our world stopped.

And then in another second, when nature willed the world back to life, there was just me. Me, alone. Only Laura remained in that moment that was, fixed and frozen in time. The only sound that marked that moment passing was the deafening hush of my heart breaking; the only sign, the unending torrent of my tears. 

This Time Last Year

Every day when I wake up one of my first thoughts is: This Time Last Year. I look at Laura's phone every morning and check her On This Day on Facebook but mostly I look on her calendar. She always documented what she or we were doing, our plans, how she felt and what treatments she was on, especially since she was first diagnosed. On this day last year we were informed by our oncologist that she now had months, possibly weeks, left. It is a day I'll never forget no matter how much my mind constantly tries to erase the details.

It's been a hard year. I'm under no illusions that the years to come will be hard too. But soon we will come to the end of this year. This Time Last Year will literally be a thing of the past. Any other variations of reflecting on the last year in the future will still happen but with possibly less regret, sadness and loss. However, I'm not sure if it will be by much less. 

Throughout the last year people always ask me how I am and I always say I'm okay. I'm not lying, I am okay. But I'm most likely okay in that moment because asking me if I'm okay makes me feel okay. But there are many times when I'm not okay. At first I couldn't say it, "I'm not okay." The words would stick in my throat. To say anything otherwise seemed to be counterproductive, like admitting weakness, like saying I couldn't cope. Here it is, I am not okay. Every day is a struggle. But a struggle to varying degrees. Sometimes those struggles have pushed me to the very limit and even though I have been to such limits, it is still difficult to ask for help and it's difficult to accept help. I have no idea why. It's the way I'm wired. This isn't to anyone's detriment. It's not me being so stubborn that I'd risk the kids or my own welfare. I know in myself if it all became too much that I would ask. It's just that in those moments I'm too busy trying to work it out that picking the phone up would be the last thing on my mind. I know that when friends read this they will urge me not to hesitate. Don't worry I won't. I don't know what my coping mechanism is. I don't know if it works. I don't know what works. I don't know how it works. It does seem to work. I'm pretty much day to day and for the last year this is exactly how it has been.

The irony is that I talk about being glad that the kids aren't bottling up things too much but I do. I feel I have too. Not many will understand this: I don't mind anyone giving me advice and I really appreciate it but there's a strong possibility I'm not going to take it. Taking "time for myself" isn't happening and when I do, in what ever form it takes, I more often than not, feel guilty for sitting on my ass. The house work can wait. Yes, so I've got twice as much to do tomorrow. I'm eating and drinking, so yes, I'm looking after myself. This may sound wholly ungrateful. It's not. I will never be able to express how grateful I am that people actually care to offer advice, message me and offer help but this is how I feel and this is who I am. The daily challenges of being a grieving single parent range from the seemingly mundane to the earth shattering. Everyday I'm learning to adapt, everyday I'm having to learn, everyday I'm trying to be both of us. Big and small, they are all challenges. All equally exhausting mentally and physically. I simply get through them. I'm not expecting an award. I'm not the only one going through this. Again, it's how I'm wired but asking me if I'm okay actually makes me feel okay. So thank you.

While the last year has been difficult to reflect on, it is equally as hard to look to the future. The future scares me. I feel that it's best not to. Every so often I afford myself a little glimpse; I imagine the kids growing, how we will deal with the challenges and how we will cope. But then I close it down. It's simply too overwhelming.

This time last year, when we were given the news, Laura told me I had to be prepared. She told me I could do it, that I'll find a way. Despite how daunting it seemed at the time, here we are.

I just want to put it out there. To say it out loud. I struggled this last year. I'll most likely struggle next year and the year after too. Some will do it differently. Some would have done it differently. I'm doing it, I'm coping, just like she said I would. Not solely because she had faith in me but because I have to. It's a struggle but I'm finding a way to get through to this time next year and all those other years.

Love Will Prevail

When Laura was at her lowest, Macmillan or Marie Curie nurses were always on call, night and day. On one such occasion, I called them out, again, in the very early hours of the morning. There were always two of them. They covered the whole of the county but always seemed to get there fairly quickly, which, given Laura's condition, was a blessing. That morning, it must have been about 2 or 3am, they came and tended to Laura with their usual professional dignity and care. The older of the two nurses took a look at me when they were about done and suggested I come downstairs with her for a little chat while the other nurse finished taking the details and writing her notes.

Downstairs in the kitchen I was expecting her to update me on Laura's condition but instead this softly spoken Irish nurse told me about her experiences both on a personal and professional level. She told me how she had seen people deal with cancer differently on many occasions. She spoke about her own family and the effect cancer had on them. She honestly told me how difficult it was and how it would be for me, not just then but in the future. She knew I'd hardly slept a wink over the last few days but urged me to try get some rest. She gave me little bits of advice, even second guessing me that any advice that she gave to me in regards to my own wellbeing would probably be ignored, given that all I cared about in that moment in time was Laura and the kids. I was a distant third. And by some distance. She knew this. But she had such a comforting manner that the words she said made that distance lessen a little. Finally, she said those three words to me that have been with me for nearly a year now and will be with me for the rest of my life: love will prevail. She said it so softly but with a certain conviction that I knew she had complete faith in what she said. 

Her words moved me. They renewed my strength. They helped me breathe again. No words could ever remove the pain in my heart but I found something there. I found the strength to go on. I would endure. The kids needed me to be strong. Her words and her manner helped in so many ways that it is hard to describe their power. They were simply that, powerful.

There have been times over the last year I had asked myself what does it actually mean. What does love will prevail mean? Life can be cruel and unfair, even for those that know love, that have love in their hearts, that know only love and that are undeserving of such hardships. Why is it that love isn't impervious to pain and hurt and tragedy? I've been angry enough to think what good is love if it can still undone by such cruel fate. Maybe we should just enjoy love as a concept but never fully commit to it as it doesn't seem as strong and as all powerful as we all hope. Yet, here we are. With love. Our love is made strong because of diversity. It doesn't diminish. All that happens is that we, like I have done on many occasions, doubted or questioned it. But it remains. It waits in the wings. Even in tragedy. Even in pain. It's there. Waiting for us to rediscover it again. Knowing full well that its existence is made even stronger when we find it again and realise that through all our hardships and pain, love never truly left us. 

On our wedding day the celebrant read to us an excerpt from Corinthians 1 Chapter 13. She asked us to read it on every anniversary. Sadly we never did probably because we felt we didn't need to. Now we never will but I have always remembered the words. But more, the part that she didn't read states: Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Now, nearly a year on, I still may never understand the true depth of its meaning but I'm more than willing to believe in the ideal. Through our children and family and friends I will always find comfort in the words, love will prevail.

The Week Before

It was Monday 6th of June 2022. We had just got back from our trip to Edinburgh the night before and unsurprisingly Laura was exhausted. It had been a nightmare due to her ill health and the catastrophe that was the NHS, but we, especially her, put on the bravest of faces and made the long weekend a special one. I still marvel at her willpower. I marvel at the inner strength that saw her take on all the trials that the weekend threw at her; she walked the Royal Mile with the kids, went to Edinburgh Zoo, we visited our friends in Glasgow, as well as the various hospital trips. But now, back home, she was really suffering. The bloods that she got taken in Edinburgh were apparently no good, so we had to go to hospital again on Monday to get more done, rendering the many torturous journeys to hospital in Edinburgh a complete waste of time. She basically spent Monday and Tuesday in bed unable to move and feeling poorly. We had an appointment on Wednesday morning with the oncologist to discuss chemo, which, due to her ill-health she had had a two week break from. She was determined to get to this appointment, so she could get the go ahead for chemo on Friday and start to feel a little better. 

However, on Wednesday morning, things didn't go as we had hoped. We sat in silence as our oncologist told us that given the results from her bloods, her liver function was deteriorating. The cancer had become very aggressive and in her opinion, Laura's prognosis had changed from months to weeks. I remember hearing these words and not quite understanding them, as if said in another language. I had just gotten used to a year and now everything had changed. Again. We both sat stunned. My head was spinning. The oncologist then gave us a choice. She could take the chemo and hope that it slowed the cancer a little or refuse the chemo and rely on meds to make her comfortable then go into palliative care. We asked what the implications were in regards to time for both options. She told us that chemo could extend this time but it could also shorten it. It was a huge risk. She told us that if Laura was in general good health then the chance of more time would be higher, however Laura wasn't quite in that category. She was strong of character but her general health didn't match that. She left us alone for a while to discuss this. For the majority of this time we sat holding each other, crying and confused, then Laura told me what she wanted to do. I had discussed with my brothers and sisters many times about regretting the fact that my mum had chemo. With hindsight, my mums last days would have been, with proper medication, more comfortable. But this was different, Laura was half my mums age. She had made up her mind, she wanted to do it. We decided there was no right or wrong decision here. She wanted to give herself the chance to spend more time with us and I agreed. We had to take that chance. Chemo was booked for Thursday morning. The oncologist also booked another scan and was determined to ensure that she would try make her decision the best shot she had.

On Thursday Laura had chemo and was typically run down with it, She was also still in considerable pain. I was concerned that the existing meds she had were no longer helping her. She spent the day in bed while I looked after the kids and her. That night my concerns grew as Laura seemed increasingly confused and forgetful. I was annoyed at myself as I didn't take the time to memorise what tablets she was meant to take and when. Although she had a daily dose box, she seemed to be getting them mixed up and the confusion lead to frustration and in turn, her frustration to anger. I felt hopeless and unable to help with both her pain and her condition. I was glad when she eventually got some sleep and although she struggled throughout the night, we were due a visit from our Macmillan nurse the following morning, so I knew we could discuss everything then. However on Friday morning, after I'd taken the kids to school, I noticed a yellowing at the edges of her eyes. My heart was breaking as I knew what this meant. The increasing pain was making her even more confused and irritable and in between those times she looked incredibly sad and lost. When the nurse came I gave her an update on Laura's condition before she went upstairs. After her routine check up the nurse suggested that Laura needed to go to hospital. She didn't want to go, she was heartsick of hospital by this stage but we both managed to convince her. I got her stuff together and left her and the nurse to take her stats. As we drove to hospital in near silence, our sadness filling the whole car, Laura said to me "did you hear what she said? She said I need to prepare myself as I may only have a week" I couldn't answer. I felt ill. I took her hand and turned to look at her and saw it in her eyes for the first time. Resignation. Throughout the last two years not once had she faltered. She was always wholly determined and focused. Although she had moments, this was the first time I saw that look. I had no words. All I could muster was an urge not to give up, that we love her. We drove the rest of the way in sad silence, our hearts both quietly breaking as we faced forward.

I had to leave her at A&E, with a promise I'd be back once I sorted the kids from school and arranged for them to be looked after. I watched her walk slowly away with a nurse and unable to keep my tears at bay any longer I walked back to the car where I sat upset and angry that this was actually happening. It wasn't right. It was too unfair.

I returned that evening and they took me to the room where she was by herself. She seemed less confused, whatever meds they had given her had settled her. We were told to wait for the doctor. Through the tears and sadness we discussed the kids. She talked at length about what she wanted and what I'd have to do. She discussed her plans, what she had put into place and she tried her utmost to convince me that I'd be okay. Typically she was also upset that she may have to miss one of her best friends 40th birthday party the following day.

"There is no easy way to say this". The doctor said sadly, "but there's nothing else we can do, it's best your husband takes you home to be with your family." The rest is a blur, locked in sadness. A memory too difficult to unlock. I don't remember driving home. I don't remember our conversation. We got home about 9. Laura's mum was there. They sat close to each other on the sofa, an exhausted Laura holding her mams hand as she drifted in and out of sleep. When they left, we slowly went up to see the kids in bed, then I helped her into bed. We spoke a little, too sad and tired to say more than I love you and don't worry about the kids. We said would talk more in the morning. When you are told there isn't much time left, there is always the feeling, the hope, that you have more time than you thought. Little did I know that these few sentences before she drifted off to sleep that night would be the last coherent words we would ever share. 

Dear Laura

Hey,

Just thought I'd give you a little update on how things are. We are okay. Well, as okay as can be. Time marches on. The nights are getting brighter and our bedroom is once again flooded in sunlight, when it is actually sunny, in the early evening. You know I've never had any sort of seasonal disorder, each season for me has it's own uniqueness that triggers happy memories and inspires and heralds change. However, you spent a lot of time in bed this time last year and the change in the season hit me a little unexpectedly. I recall those bright, sunnier evenings whether you were up there resting and I'd come up to check on you or when we were all up there doing homework, drying hair or just laughing, reading and playing. The warmth and light that fills the room is still beautiful but I have a little empty feeling deep inside. Don't fret though, they fill it when they come upstairs and start jumping on the bed! I even allow Teddy to come up occasionally.

They are still sleeping in here with me. I have suggested that we try one night in their own rooms but that was knocked on the head due to Hallie having a little wobble recently. She started crying a lot and didn't want to leave me to go to school. She has struggled a bit of late, not in school, they both had great feedback at the Parents Evening, it's just the idea of leaving me it seems. It took me a while to realise what brought it on but I'm guessing that it was due to Mothers Day. I imagine it brought it home to her when all the kids in her class were making Mothers Day stuff. They did make some Mothers Day things but mainly they made more stuff for me instead. Sorry! It seems I'm getting the joy of Mothers Day and Fathers Day. I don't want to her to cry and get upset but in some ways I'm glad she is as it signals that she has started to process things. Her journey has begun. We draw little things on our the palm of our hands with Sharpies in the morning, a "cuddle button" it's called. When she feels sad she can press it and I'll press mine at home too. In true Hallie style it started with one love heart but it has now morphed into both hands and a selection of stars, smiley faces, Minions and animals. She has also asked to take a picture of me in. So I punched a hole in a passport photo and she wears it on a chain around her neck. I know. Don't make that face. She's happy and it works. The fear is what she'll add to the chain! The school are turning a blind eye to it I think as jewellery probably isn't allowed and she doesn't wear it on PE days. They both tell me how much they miss you more often and there are a few tears. We still look at your phone every evening and I've never been so grateful for all your saved Snapchats as I am now. They often replace the tears with smiles. You always said that we should do more videos. I need to remember to do that. The ones we have are priceless. 

Aden is okay. I've finished his room at last. It's very cool. I'm sure you, well, I hope you would approve of what I done. Little grown up touches just like you wanted. I've put a shelf above his bed with cool stuff on it and now he has his PS5 in there he's spending a bit more time in it. Due to FIFA23 he's suddenly taken in interest in football and every time he comes home from school he goes out the back garden to kick his ball about. It's a little less screen time so I'm happy that he does that.

Hallie is still drawing and crafting. The only time she stops is to go on her exercise bar. Oh, I forgot to say, she won gold medal at her first gymnastics competition! I was in tears. Aden was cuddling me when he saw I was crying. He knew I wasn't upset but happy and his reaction on top of my pride in Hallie's achievement just made the whole experience a whole lot better. I so wished you were there to see it. My heart was bursting. I let out a Yes! when they said her name, like Celtic had scored a last minute winner or Josh Allen nailed a touchdown! It's another one of those occasions to add to the unending list of "wish you were here" moments.

They both enjoyed our Easter trip to Butlins. I felt it a little bittersweet at times as I remembered our trip with them but it was still lots of fun. However, one night, as we were all squashed into our double bed, Aden asked me what cancer actually is, as to him, you appeared healthy. I explained as best I could and basically told them that you/we were very unlucky. I knew right there where this was going and I had no way of stopping it as Hallie said, "but you are healthy too Daddy." And down the rabbit hole we went. Don't worry, they were okay. I convinced them, rightly or wrongly, that I'm going to be here for a long time as we are a team and that you were still looking after us. The thought is probably still there but it's just about managing it as I go. 

Generally, I feel my routine with them is improving. Bedtimes in particular are getting better. However I still get frustrated at times and I'm prone to snapping at them. We always make up though with the obligatory kisses and cuddles. I'm doing my best. I always hope that they know that. I know you do.

I've been thinking more and more about work and finances recently too. Don't panic, it's not like I haven't always been thinking about our finances. I know that that sentence alone has got you worried. Finances and all that were always your thing. Sometimes, I'll admit, I worry too. Then I think why should I? We've got to enjoy this life. They've got to enjoy this life. I know you were frugal, always had that rainy day fund. I always thought you worried a bit too much about that rainy day if truth be told, even though you were ultimately right in doing so. But we have had our rainy day and as much as I worry about their future, you made me promise to make sure they lived their lives as full as possible, so that I'm doing. There will always be rainy days ahead, so even if we don't have an umbrella it's okay to get a little wet sometimes. I'll go back to work at some point. I know, another worrying sentence. I'm just not ready. It's as simple as that. What's the sense in even going part-time with the summer holidays fast approaching? The DWP seem to understand that, although every week they are making me jump through more hoops and tick more boxes to get to that point. So I'll wait until the holidays are over. Again, don't panic. I have a plan. A loose plan. Let's call it fluid. You know what I'm like. 

As I said at the beginning, time marches on. We are getting closer to that date. I have an eye on it. In the meantime we are filling our time and planning, we are growing and learning. The kids planted tulips for you in the planter outside last October and how they have bloomed. They are both colourful and vibrant. There is no clever metaphor here, so you don't need to roll your eyes and call me a smartass. Your cherry tree, like the tulips, is blooming too. You provided the colour, warmth and beauty both inside and out. We still feel it and still see it. 

Love you always,

Us x

The Return

At Easter I took the kids to Butlins for a little break. This was five years after Laura and I took them to the same resort. Prior to booking I didn't quite anticipate how much returning there, to a place we'd been before, would effect me. On numerous occasions I watched the 2018 us in the same way Hollywood depicts a dream or memory scene with the main character watching himself in the past as if he was present in both timelines while the past version was totally unaware of his existence. 

On one occasion I was standing at the window of our second floor apartment room looking down at us as we walked along the path between the accommodation blocks. It was early evening, Laura was laughing and joking with an animated four year old Aden, who was pulling her along by the hand, excited about the evening ahead. I was walking behind her, carrying Hallie, who had probably walked a few yards before asking to be picked up. I was turning around in circles as I walked, her laugh while being spun around barely audible from the distance. We were probably on our way to dinner and a show as we were all dressed smartly. The scene was fleeting as they passed by, obscured by trees.

The sun was shining and me and the kids were walking along by The Diner and the ice cream parlour on the way to the swimming when I watched all of us go by on a Go Kart for four. It was one of those with a canopied roof. The kids were strapped into the front and we were in the seats behind them. Although it looked like we were both pedalling, it was obvious that I was doing the work and Laura was going through the motions. She was leaning forward trying to take photos of them on her phone. The kids were pointing at the ice cream parlour and as they pedalled by and I could hear Laura saying "Okay when we bring the Kart back we'll go if you face me for a photo". I was turning to say something to her but by that time they had gone past and I watched over my shoulder as they turned a corner and disappeared out of sight. 

We were standing in the queue to get our pictures taken with Peppa Pig and George in front of the green screen and ahead of us I watched us getting our pictures taken with Billy and Bonnie, the Butlins bears. I was standing with Aden in front of me with a hand on his shoulder and Laura was beside me holding Hallie in her arms. Both the kids had their toy Billy and Bonnie bears and Laura looked lovely in a red top and long back skirt. I watched myself ask if I could quickly take a picture of them with my phone before the next people in the queue were ushered forward by the Red Coat. I then watched us walk away into the crowd, Laura still carrying Hallie, the sky blue of her Monsoon dress brightly contrasted against Laura's red. 

I'm sitting at a table on my own while the kids are sitting on the floor in front of the stage watching The Skyline Gang perform one of their many song and dance routines. From a distance I'm watching the kids like a hawk. They are happy; Aden is jumping up to see if he can get a high five from one of the Gang and Hallie is waving her flag of Rainbow the Dog from their act and holding her Rainbow cuddly toy, a sure sign to the Gang that she was a fan. Sitting at the table I turn around to the seat beside me in the same way that I still do when I'm driving, but it's empty. Laura-less. My heart sinks. I look around me. Every single table is taken up by complete family units. Happy, smiling, family units. I'm smiling through it. I'm smiling because I have to, because I need to. Returning has been difficult, I just didn't realise how difficult it would be. It is somehow different from frequenting restaurants or the cinema or other places we all used to go together. I don't know why. They are as much a happy together memory as Butlins. It just seems different. More emotional. I had those types of flashback all weekend. All of us at the arcades. All of us sitting eating fish and chips. All of us queuing to go see a show. All of us at the swimming. All equally as vivid. All equally as sad and sigh worthy. All causing me to repeatedly swallow the lump in my throat. However, I pushed it back, held it down and kept it in. A brave face is the default face. They need me to be strong. They need to know that everything will be okay. There will be times when the façade needs to be dropped. Times when we can cry together, feel sad together and let it out together. Holiday isn't one of those times. 

As we left after the show to go back to our apartment I had a quick glance over my shoulder a few times in the hope that I should spy a slightly older me in the crowd looking in our direction. Hoping that that version of me would acknowledge me with a nod and a slight smile and a look that said "you're doing okay". I didn't see him. But Laura was there. Hidden somewhere in the crowd. 

Watching. As always.