Widow Exhaustion

Busy….busy……must keep busy.  Have a weekend to spare, must fill it.  Have a day to spare, what can I do? Have an hour to spare, there’s a job to be done.  It’s safe to say that since being in this new life, I’ve kept busy.  So busy, I crawl into bed at night so exhausted that even my toe nails ache.  I sleep well, every single night.  I wake feeling refreshed but quickly remembering that he’s dead….and then stomach punch.  So I get up and do it all over again.  Busy…..busy…….must keep busy.

Why I wonder?  Why this obsession with being so god damn busy?  It’s not like I don’t like my own company because that never really bothered me.  Is it because I am now so aware that life can change in a nano-second? Cramming in everything humanly possible before I too kick the bucket.  Is it because I’m a control freak? If I just get everything in order and perfect and just so…… my problems won’t be as big and I’ll be in control of at least something.  Is it because I’m scared that if I stop and do nothing, my life will be meaningless?  Is it because I am scared that if I stop and do nothing the empty space around me, remains empty, since he’s no longer next to me, shifting atoms and particles with his manly stance?

Positive…..positive…..must keep positive.  Busy and positive, it’s a recipe for widow burn out.  But at the time of writing I’m still going.  I’ve not burnt out yet and I’m slowly realising how exhausting it is being positive. I’ve always been terrified that if I’m miserable it will be too exhausting and I won’t be able to cope if I give in to that demon, knocking at my door.  Starting to realise that actually, perhaps it’s the other way round.  Perhaps it’s the misery demon I need to let in and the positive monster I needs to go on vacation.

Alas, I’m still sat here, positive is home.  Misery still parked up, just outside.

The Fragility of Tomorrow

Had a little slip up last night, a Saturday night on my own and desperately missing Him. He, who should have been sat next to me, bare foot with beer in hand.  Tears were not shed…..grief doesn’t always soak my face.  Instead, an empty feeling where the silence deafens.  Many friends just a phone call away, yet feeling so alone.  It’s just me, me and my wine and a silent room where his voice once filled like pleasant interludes.

This morning I woke up to the news of another terror attack in London.  Our capital city in pain.  More lives taken and more families broken.  I know my tragedy is not comparable to terror attacks, but my point here is….. we never know when tragedy will strike.  How arrogant to assume tomorrow is ours, that we own ourselves and the light that follows.  We are oh so fragile yet oh so strong.  And we carry on, making memories which will last forever.  Because we know that where life is short, a memory is long.  And it’s all we can do is make them.

7th May

Just 1 year ago today He was diagnosed and it’s already been 7 months since He’s been gone.  I don’t think I will ever get over, or accept the speed at which cancer can take a young, fit and beautiful man in a matter of months.  It’s an impossible truth that I don’t want to believe, don’t want to be real, don’t want to be ours.  I’ve been dreading today, this anniversary, when 1 year ago today, life changed forever.  I owe it to my man, to keep on fighting, keep on dreaming and keep on living.  To lead a life he would be proud of me for and be the best version of myself, that he taught me to strive for. To keep looking forwards, even though every part of my being is tugged to that day, in some attempt to process the impossible.  I know tomorrow is never promised, but tomorrow I will fight again.  Today, I lament our fate.


Smacked in the face with another event

The grief train is as punctual as ever, chugging along with its repetitive rasp.  Why can’t it pause at the last stop or take a wrong turn?  After all, the driver is a learner.

But no, it has a timetable and at the moment, it’s sticking to it.  Today is Easter Sunday and as I sit here contemplatively shouving chocolates into my mouth, I wonder why you haven’t risen again? If it was possible to rise again based on love alone, you’d be here.  You’d be here, tenfold.

C’mon Sweetheart.  There’s chocolate to be eaten.

Tomorrow is my birthday.  There’s wine to be drunk.

How Am I Coping?

I’ve had many people tell me, since becoming a widow “I don’t know what I would do if I lost my husband”.  I have a problem with that statement. Is it supposed to make me feel better? Is it supposed to make me feel bad, that I am standing there…in an upright position, wearing make up, with a coffee in my hand. Because, what you’re suggesting is if you were in my position you probably wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing, in that moment.  How could I possibly be standing there, exchanging words with another human being when my man is dead?

Truth is, I probably would have said the same thing before cancer came and took a massive shit all over my perfect life.

I usually respond with “what’s the alternative?”  This question torments me a lot and I often ask myself “how am I okay?”  This inspired me to pen the following.  Call it a poem if you want.

How am I breathing, and fast
when I’ve seen you draw your last?
How am I standing tall,
when it’s all I can do, to not fall?
How are these cheeks dry
and breast and thigh, when heavy eyes just want to cry?
How am I not bruised and burned
as I’m disgraced that the world has turned?
How can I speak instead of ball
when it’s no longer your name I can call?
How can I hear
when I still hear your voice just like it’s near?
How do I not scream
when now I only get to see you in a dream? 

I hope this answers the question to those wondering, how I cope.  I have no choice.

Whether The Weather

Under normal circumstances I love the spring, after all, I am a spring baby.  That glimpse of pink on the shoulders of trees, bulbs in bloom…even the city looks pretty. But now, but since, but after that…. Spring sings a different song.

Yes it still looks pretty, all that extra daylight bringing in extra promise and extra dreams. But underneath that sunny exterior, for me it’s still stormy inside.  With every ultra violet ray brings just another ultra vile dismay.

I feel this, not because I wish the world in shadow and without hope.  But because of the spring my man is denied.  The overwhelming sadness of a sunny day he will not see.  Shorts and shades, beats and blooms, he loved the sunny days and sunny days were his.

It’s funny how the weather has an impact on grief.  It’s funny how our emotions are in tune with it.  It’s funny how it’s always assumed that sunshine makes people happy. Without ever considering that sunshine magnifies loss.  And somehow, with the beating rain and howling wind, things feel better, better because in that moment, the weather knows how we are feeling.