The Outside In The Inside Out.

On the outside everything is okay. On the outside I keep busy and do all the things I'm meant to do. On the outside I'm smiling and laughing and, on the outside, I'm being strong and I'm being organised. 

On the outside I'm coping with everything. Even though on the outside that everything is a list unending. On the outside my determination never falters. On the outside there is life, love and the willpower to go on. 

On the outside there is no silent, debilitating pain. On the outside there is no struggle or turmoil. On the outside there is no fear of the future and no guilt of the past. And on the outside there are no regrets.

On the outside there is no worry or stress or turmoil. On the outside there is no anger. On the outside there are no visible tears or sadness to see. On the outside no one can tell that my heart is breaking every other minute. 

On the outside life goes on. 

And it does, without you.

On the inside, and from the inside, the world exists without you but in the inside you are still here. From the inside I can see everything. I see the world turning, the days pass and life is as it was to everyone. On the inside I don't see those everyday things as painful, constant reminders that you have gone as you are always here inside with me. On the inside I hear you whispering comforts in my ear. On the inside I feel the calm touch of your hand touching mine. On the inside I sense, beside me, your infinite presence. 

Inside another world and another life exists. A world no-one will understand. A world complete and whole. So why let the outside in and turn the inside out? The outside is a mirror that only reflects what the world wants to see. So I'll stay in here a while longer. And a while longer again. Where you are. Safe inside the inside. Delaying that life without you that awaits. Delaying the pain and the sadness and the worries and the fear.

Delaying the evitable day when we have to turn the world outside in, inside out.

#WorldMentalHealthDay2023 

The Messy Drawer

I wrote this earlier this year. It's just another example of my "weirdo ways" as Laura called it. The idea just came out of nowhere as I was driving. By the next morning it had pretty much written itself. It happens sometimes. Stuff just pops into my head. I tried to explain it to her more than once. I have his strange inner dialogue that makes me think about colours and words and ideas while I go about my day. I could be walking along and I would notice the light and shade of a tree. I'm captivated by it. My mind will drift and I'll think about the colours and the light and shade. I don't just see a brown trunk and green leaves, I see blues in the shadows and a myriad of yellows, oranges and greens. It's true, I probably talk a better art game than the actual act, but it happens still. It's not like I'm drifting off into some psychedelic hippy daydream, I'm talking seconds. It's the same with words. Little phrases come out of nowhere and I think that's a nice idea or they lend themselves to a nice image. I need to be quick to remember them as, like my dreams, they can disappear as quick as the came. This is once such example. Anyway, these little moments used to get an "eye roll" or the Laura Look as it is now called since Hallie started to perfect it. I'm sure this would get the same. I understood that the look wasn't disapproval, she just didn't like things to be out there, as it were. She was quite private and this may have broken that code! However, here it is. I feel like it belongs here.

The Messy Drawer

There's a messy drawer at home.

I know you've got one too.

Mine is in the kitchen,

Near the fridge,

Full of reminders of you.

A messy drawer of memories

It's full to the brim.

The drawer,

Like my heart,

Can't fit any more in.

Cards for a birthday that you'll never sign.

Notes, accounts and numbers now exclusively mine.

Shopping lists of things that now I won't buy,

Handwritten by you that I touch with a sigh.

Those little things that belong in a memory box,

Your key, never again, will marry its lock.

A hair band, a bauble of red and of black,

Missing your hand to tie her hair back.

A brush, and some lip balm, a small Lego toy,

Bought for the child who is now a grown boy.

Letters from school, the council, the bank,

Kids party invites, the replies remain blank.

A stone, a shell, a green sea glass shard,

A doodled red heart, I Love You on the card.

A purse, passport pictures, tissues, some gum,

A keyring as a gift, the world's greatest mum.

Receipts, bills and pictures now frozen in time.

And all those things now exclusively mine.

A letter from the doctor, informing us when,

The contents of the drawer won't be the same again.

I've a messy drawer full of memories

In the kitchen at home.

The drawer,

like my heart

Is best left alone.

Rule The World

It was unexpected generally. I mean those closest to me know I'm partial to a bit of pop music but I'm not sure if anyone really expected us to have Rule The World by Take That as our first dance on our wedding day. My taste in music has always been of an "avant garde" persuasion, a point that was made by my Best Man in his speech. It was just another one of those opposite things that me and Laura had. Earlier in the day, during my speech, I remarked that it's the opposites that made our dynamic work. We were opposites in many ways in the things that we liked but all those things were exactly that, just things. They didn't define us. I said in my speech we didn't have to see eye to eye in such trivial subjects, after all it's more important to be facing the same direction than looking at each other or behind us. That wasn't the way we were going.

You light the skies up above me. A star so bright you blind me.  

So Take That came as a little surprise. We had watched the movie Stardust leading up to the Big Day and had liked the song when it was in the charts, so I suggested it and Laura agreed. That was that. Another thing ticked off the wedding list. To be honest it was possibly the only input I had! Well, that and writing the names on the place cards.

I always thought the lyrics to be apt as a first dance song. It says everything you have to say. It's uplifting and full of promise.

Yeah, you and me we can ride on a star. If you stay with me, girl, we can rule the world.

13 years later the lyrics have taken on a whole new meaning. I didn't consider for a single moment back then that the words "don't close your eyes, don't fade away" would hurt my heart so much as they do now. The lyrics of the song are now completely about the loss of Laura. Rarely a day goes by when I don't listen to it. At first it was difficult but I played it anyway. On my own. On repeat. I would play it even though it hurt me to the core. I'd try to sing along but my voice would always break or I simply couldn't breathe due to the lump in my throat and the heaviness in my chest. But play it I did. I played it whilst doing chores around the house, crying over the kitchen sink wiping away tears with an already wet hand or stopping while hoovering, too weak with sadness to push the damn thing. It elicited feelings of anger and frustration, of sorrow and futility. It was like I was exorcising my grief. Those little episodes were the only occasions that it actually started to show. In the house, on my own, I'd let it out just enough to stop it totally debilitating me. I can play it more now without the almost overwhelming feeling of devastating heartbreak but I still feel every single syllable of those lyrics.

You saved my soul. Don't leave me now.

Although the song now describes perfectly the irreplaceable loss of Laura, the image that fills my head isn't the song playing as we said our final goodbyes at the funeral. What I see is us on a dance floor, me lifting her up and spinning her around at the chorus and that feeling of unbridled happiness we both shared 13 years ago today, 21st August 2010.

All the stars are coming out tonight, they're lighting up the sky tonight, for you.

For you.

 

The Unwritten

Laura's clothes are still in the drawers in our bedroom and still hang in the wardrobe. Her stuff is in the top two drawers and mine in the bottom two. In one of her drawers, hidden underneath the side with her headbands and hats, I found writing paper. Lots of writing paper. She had told me she had ordered loads and I'd forgotten all about it until I came across it when looking through her stuff. It was her intention to write letters to everyone; family, all her friends and the kids. She told me she also wanted to record videos too but was worried that she wouldn't have the nerve to say what she wanted to say without breaking down, so letters were the best solution.

Unfortunately, those letters went unwritten.

When she was given a year, she thought she had at least a year. We both did. We both hoped and wished for longer. We actually didn't consider that it would be less. Within those hopes and wishes there was time to think about what the contents of those letters would be and to actually write them. But it was not to be.

A few years ago, when my oldest friend was diagnosed with cancer and was told that he didn't have much time left, he wrote me a letter and it's an incredibly precious thing. I keep it in the drawer beside my bed and every so often I get it out. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I just look at it. I don't necessarily have to open it and read it as the feel of it suffices. Just holding the envelope itself is sometimes enough. It is a real and palpable gift of love and friendship and such a beautiful thing. Heartbreakingly beautiful but beautiful nonetheless. It is also deeply personal. What that letter is can never be understated. He took the time to write and reaffirm our bond and our love. I will treasure it forever.

I am saddened that the recipients of Laura's Letters won't have that token. Especially the kids. Not that I needed a letter to measure my love for my oldest friend and nor will they. However, it's nice to have something personal and individual. We all know love isn't measured by such things. Love lives long in the memory and there are many things that reignite that memory just when it seems to have faded even slightly.

It was once said to me that as devastating as cancer is, at least you do get the chance to say goodbye. That I suppose is true in the majority of cases. In the 5 months we did get, Laura accomplished so much, even given her very poor health towards the end. We may not have gotten our letters but she left us with hope and the courage to go on. And so much more. While we all would like to leave something behind, something to be remembered by, some sort of legacy, sometimes it is enough to have left that; courage, love and hope. It doesn't need to be written down if those you care for know how much you loved them. Just don't let what goes unwritten go unsaid. 

The Holiday

A couple of weeks ago we went on holiday for eight days in Majorca. This was the first major holiday that I've been away with them on my own. I have to admit that I was becoming more and more nervous in the weeks leading up to our departure as there are just so many things to consider prior to leaving; clothes and getting it all packed, transfers, getting to the airport, how they are going to be on the flight, the whole airport check in malarkey and customs. Needless to say I worried about these things a little more that I should have as it all went fairly smoothly, or as smooth as I could have wished for anyway. In the past all this stuff, like everything else, was Laura's remit. She applied her usual high organisational skills to holidays in the same way she organised birthdays, Christmas, parties, other people's parties, you name it, she organised it. Basically I was only there for the heavy lifting. So with that in mind, I found it a bit of a challenge. 

There was also the underlying aspect that not only was this holiday my first on my own with them but I knew in my heart that it would be difficult mentally without her. Being on your own with the kids as the only adult can be quite lonely in some aspects, there's obviously going to be times when I'd overthink it and miss her presence more than normal. It turns out I was right and I did. She would have loved it. I know this as a fact because she actually chose the resort. It transpired that when I was looking at the options for a suitable resort, I had narrowed it down to two. The one I liked was a little more expensive but I was still drawn to it. In the end I just decided to go for it. The travel agent, who is also a friend that advised Laura on many occasions before, told me after I had chosen that specific one that Laura had wanted to go to that exact resort instead of the one we went to 6 years ago. Unfortunately, back then the dates didn't work out, so Laura chose elsewhere. So Laura had made the decision. I, as normal, was just trusting her choice. Some will say that it was A Sign and I'm completely happy to go along with that. Either way, she chose well. The resort was great and the kids loved it. That made it all the more bittersweet. Everything we did I felt Laura's presence with us. Every morning and generally throughout the day, I had a some inner dialogue with her on what should I do and what was the best plan. On the second day they got a bit of sunburn. It was incredibly hot and I did try to keep the factor 50 topped up but to no avail. I felt terrible and could hear Laura chastising me in my head constantly. It would take another 24 hours before she stopped! I actually told the kids that Mam is raging with me. 

On another occasion I was sitting in the shade of the swim up bar sipping a cocktail. Yes, a cocktail. I had allowed myself a little drink now and then. The kids had drunk their milkshakes and we're now messing around with each other in the pool in front of me. It was very hot and the warm sun was shining, music was playing behind the bar and there was the general buzz of happy people enjoying their holiday. I looked to my side to say to Laura how wonderful it is to see them playing with each other like this, that they are having such a great time and how much it warms my heart to see them happy and laughing. But like the many scenarios like this that I experience often, Laura isn't there. It still happens when I'm driving. I look to my left only to see an the empty seat. It also happens when I'm on the sofa watching TV. I turn to look to my right where Laura always sat and she isn't there on her phone and watching the soaps at the same time. These times have become the norm but being on holiday is completely different. Holidays are for family. It was her time. The effort she put into the planning would be rewarded by times likes these; smiling happy kids. Sitting there on my own at the pool bar my heart sunk to unimaginable depths. Sadness shadowed me, my eyes grateful to be hidden behind my sunglasses. The kids shouted me, rescuing me from the sinking feeling in my chest. I put my half drunk cocktail on the bar, packed my grief away once more and swam over to them, my face smiling and happy.

The kids make friends easily. It's a very pleasing part of their character. Aden made friends with a boy who was on holiday with his parents. As this boy didn't have a sister, Hallie was feeling a little left out. However she befriended one of the girls in the entertainment team. The girl, Alicia, was very open to her friendship, always giving her a cuddle or a wave whenever she saw Hallie and Hallie constantly told me that she wanted to give her little gifts and things that she made. Unfortunately the night before we left Hallie got very upset because she realised that she'd never see Alicia again. It wasn't long ago that Hallie, during a little down moment, told me that she didn't like being the only girl in the family now. I felt incredibly sad for her. Much to my shame I'd never once considered that angle. This sprung to my mind when she got upset that night. I guess she misses that female element sometimes, and on this holiday there was a lack of opportunity to make any girl friends. It's something I need to be wary of more. It's important that she doesn't feel that way, or she doesn't feel disadvantaged by it. I made an important note to self.

When you get married you always imagine the holidays you'll hopefully go on together and later as a family. Me and Laura travelled to some amazing places and we often spoke about the places we'd like to take them and even spoke of the places we'd like to go on our own once they were grown up. Now when I see holiday adverts on tv with couples or happy family groups and it makes me miss her even more. Little things like these catch you unaware sometimes. Just knowing that that is gone now is quite hard to deal with. But again, like I did at the pool bar, and all those other fairly innocuous examples, I tuck it away and remember a Whatsapp message Laura sent to me from hospital when we first got The News, "you've got them, you can do it. Make sure they have a full and happy life".

So secretly I am fairly pleased with the way the week went. There were a few issues here and there but generally it went as well as it could. I feel now that I've done it that I have learned a little more about myself, how I'm coping and how things are going. While going on holiday isn't the definitive gauge, it is another step in the right direction. It's easy to be hard on myself on occasion and I know that I certainly can be guilty of that but we make a good team. We've still got a long way to go but maybe I'm beginning to feel like I'm actually getting more right than I am wrong and I am going to do everything I can to make sure that they both have those full and happy lives.

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.