If Truth Be Told

It has been nearly two months since I've written. I'd like to say that this was intentional, that I took a break to gather my thoughts or to have a creative hiatus, but that's not true. I simply couldn't write. I didn't have the energy. I didn't have the focus. Frankly, I couldn't be bothered. It wasn't for the want of trying. I have ideas. I have topics. I have issues to address, I really have issues that I need to address but I just didn't have the energy to do it. And that is essentially the heart of the problem. Writing is almost like a metaphor for how I'm feeling. It is a struggle to write because, in essence, struggling is what I am doing. Or was. It's hard to say it out loud and to make it public, because despite my outward signs of coping, I wasn't. You'll notice I'm using the past tense to that. While I still feel like I am still struggling, and I fundamentally always will, I also feel that I have turned a corner on that period. Or at least moved along the road a little.

I've had help. 

I've needed help.

But first let me describe what it has been like recently. In isolation most of the worries I have are simply the same worries that every parent has. I don't know why they snowballed in my mind, but they did. Collectively, everything just felt that little bit heavier than usual. I felt that sometimes I was being short with the kids. I hate that when I snap or even moan at them for the littlest of things. I always hear myself doing it and there's a voice inside, probably Laura's, telling me to calm down, that they are just doing what kids do. It was the overthinking afterwards that was the real issue. I would feel that I should have dealt with some situations better and in turn that would make me feel guilty and incredibly sad and annoyed with myself. I would struggle to break out of this loop. These feelings would linger long after the kids had gotten over the episode and had moved on. I still do it now but I'm trying not to linger on it so much as that feeling of guilt can be crippling.

The other part of it is just everyday stuff. Housework, shopping, finances and organising that same every day stuff, etc. Generally life. It is no coincidence that I've stopped writing since I've started working again. I got myself a job at the kids school. It's only an hour and half, Monday to Friday and as much as I love it and benefit from it mentally, it is right in the middle of the day and has totally thrown whatever routine I had been building over the last year. So I have less time to try get on top of the things I was already struggling to get on top of. I have never felt so exhausted. Even when I was working 6 days a week, shift work, sometimes with only a few hours sleep between shifts, I used to just power through. There are times now that I'm afraid to sit down as I struggle to get back up. I've been fighting this now though and I let myself sit and try not to stress about the things that I should be doing instead of having a rest.

So I asked for help. Professional help. I organised a session with a bereavement counsellor. It was a major step for me. It's a major step for anyone I guess. There is just so much stigma attached. I had to admit to myself that I'm not coping. And now I'm saying that out loud, or writing it down at least. I am no stranger to this.

The advice I was given is fairly obvious and basically I knew most of it already, or I had some idea about it, just not the actual professional terms or methods. What I didn't know was that people often find the second year is the worse or at the very least, harder. The first year is endless admin and finding your feet, all done in a seemingly endless haze. Feelings are often pushed to the side as we are immersed in finding how to live and adjust without the most important part of our lives, a irreplaceable missing part, a scale that was previously unknowingly perfectly balanced. In the second year, reality bites. In the second year I now realise that this is all very real and this road I am on, we are on, isn't actually a brightly lit road with the occasional hill and pretty scenery, lined with people ready to help direct me at a moments notice; it's an obstacle course. An ever changing obstacle course and some parts of it are so dimly lit that it's hard to see what's ahead, or beside, or behind. The hardest part of the last 18 months, and there have been many hard parts, is striving to keep things as normal as possible for the kids. I have been focused on trying to keep some semblance of continuation, to make it seem to them that nothing has really changed. Only it has. Everything has changed. And I need to recognise that more. I've been trying to hit the standards of a woman whose standards were incredibly high. I have had to admit to myself that this is impossible. It was hard enough when she was here but on my own I've given myself an unachievable task and worse, I've judged myself on it. I've actually set myself up to fail. So the advice is to change that. It won't happen overnight but I need to try to start doing things my way. I can still accomplish tasks with one eye on how Laura would have done it but I need to give myself a target that I can actually achieve. The counsellor also advised me to start leading my life again. I find it difficult to focus on me at all at times. There are occasions when I actually forget me. For example, I'll think about what they will eat for the week and it's only when I'm about to make a meal, I remember I haven't got anything for me! I haven't a clue what form this "me" will take as it's a challenge to find the actual me time but just thinking about it is the first step to doing. I don't know if I can but I said I will try and that's as good as it gets at the moment.

I was actually given similar advice from a good friend who is also fighting his own battle with cancer, successfully I hasten to add. He said these very words: 

You need to stop living up to your internal expectations. You are all over this in a good way. And you need to start taking the foot off the gas, for your own sake. You are a good man and have nothing to prove to anyone. But I get it, to a point: am I good enough dad? Yes you fucking are. 

The sentiment still draws tears to my eyes now. Am I good enough? I need to be and therefore I will be. It's all I can be. I'll still get annoyed at myself if I procrastinate and for not getting things done and I still huff and puff at the kids and hate myself for doing it. But what have I learned? I have learned that it's okay to change and no one is judging me except me. I'll now have to take the chance that they'll actually remember all the good things and only occasionally remember that the housework wasn't done, how I moaned at them for being children or how I was just too tired to give them attention on a particular occasion. I need to start leading my life and giving myself a break every so often. I know this will be a challenge as it's hard to actually put myself on any sort of level billing with the kids but Laura told me, and I've said this before, "I know you will always do the right thing by the kids." 

I have also said this before, I just need to remind myself sometimes; I am enough. What's more, we are all enough and, if truth be told, we are more than enough. 

. 

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.