The Widow's Feast

I was an early reader, thanks to my sister who is 6 years my senior. I was the ever present guinea pig in her role play as teacher which resulted in me being able to decode quite a lot of words before I even started formal schooling at the age of 5.

I was utterly fascinated by the alphabet and the endless possibilities of stringing letters together to create words. Somehow, reading and in turn writing, came very naturally to me and I was totally enthused at the prospect of discovering such an amazing way to communicate.

Writing, reading and even handwriting were fun for me, as I realised these skills were quite literally the key to opening up a world that had been previously inaccessible. 

I remember my mother once telling me that the day I had learned to read, was the day that her life moved into another dimension of parenting. ‘Once you could read’ she said ‘I knew that my attempts to keep anything from you were diminished’. 

No longer could she spell things aloud to my stepfather or other adults because within moments I had worked out the critical secrets she had intended to keep from me. From spelling out ‘p.r.e.s.e.n.t’ in relation to a birthday to quietly spelling out that little ‘e.a.r.s’ were listening, her game was well and truly over.

Nanna on the other hand, was more difficult to work out.

She had grown up in the East End of London and commonly spoke in cockney rhyming slang (referring to my skills on the old Joanna). But more weirdly, as the wife of a butcher she would revert to the lesser known language known as butchers slang – which broadly meant that she would entwine normal words said backwards – a habit adopted by traders to mask the gist of the conversation from outsiders.

I was fascinated by Nanna’s conversations – particularly when I heard her talking to my stepfather. She always referred to money as ‘Yenom’ and called a leg of lamb ‘gel of bee-mal’. I first heard the term ‘yob’ from Nanna and felt a bit insulted – ‘are you still hanging around with that yob?’ she would say… only later, I clocked that she was referring quite endearingly to the ‘boy’ from the next village.

Indeed, I blame Nanna for the scorning I received at a trip to the beach one day, when I spotted a word on the café window that had been loving scribed by a finger in the condensation of its warm interior. 

‘KCUF!’ I exclaimed to my mother (who had become proud of my reading skills).

‘It doesn’t say that Elizabeth’ She replied.

‘So it must say ****’ I announced joyfully. It was the first time I had ever sworn. And the last time in my mother’s presence.

By the age of eight or so, there were very few words that I couldn’t at least make a good attempt at reading or spelling – and Nanna, along with Mother had to think very carefully about what they said or spelled out in my presence. With an ever increasing wealth of knowledge about words and language, my life had opened up as I had this wonderful skill that could connect me with the world on a grand scale.

As I ponder my love of words – of reading and of writing, it has dawned on me just how much they have contributed to shaping my life in all manner of ways. I composed a love letter to my first crush in 1979. It took all of my nine year old courage to scribe the inner feelings of my heart on a piece of pink sugar paper.

I gave it to the ‘yob’ who was a couple of years older than me and then ran away in fear that he might not feel the same way about me. I recall vividly, even now, how he stood on the steps of the portakabin-come-classroom and ripped it up in front of all of his friends as they teased him about his little admirer. I stood in the playground, hidden amongst the other kids to witness the shredding of my feelings. I was heartbroken.

I later found out that he couldn’t read.

Ironic really, that I had managed to write what was ostensibly a declaration that I thought he was the kindest, most gorgeous boy I had ever met yet to this day, he will never know what that letter had said.

Rule number one: Know your audience.

I have beautiful handwritten diaries from the age of 13 to 21. All of my secrets, hopes and dreams are packed into those notebooks and they chart my journey from teenager to adult with all of the angst, passion and opinion that shines through that passage of time.

Over the last twenty years or so, I have seldom looked back on those thoughts but when I have come across them during a clear out or house move, I have spent hours immersed in the pain and the passions of the past.

I returned briefly to writing a diary in my early thirties as a result of my abandoned schedule but it seems, as I reflect, that mostly my etchings and scribbles over time, have mostly been borne from either love or a crisis. 

So talking of a crisis…

I hadn’t left the house since the day we tied the knot. I also had not eaten. 

When my friend arrived an hour after the undertaker had departed with my husband, I was in a state of complete numbness and disbelief. She walked through to my kitchen and placed a bag of shopping onto the worktop.

‘Supplies’ she said.

A large bottle of vodka, a 2 litre bottle of coke, a bag of ice, 20 Marlboro lights and a packet of tortilla chips...

The widow’s feast.

I woke up on the morning of July 4^th last year with my head pounding. In the hours that followed Bebe’s departure, I drank a copious amount of vodka followed by a bottle of champagne.

The champagne was a wedding gift from just 12 days earlier and I didn’t crack it open in a symbolic way – unless you count wanting to drink enough to pass out and never wake up as such. 

For a moment, or more than a moment, I thought I was in some kind of vodka induced nightmare. 

Had I really witnessed the last breath of my husband? Had I really handed over his favourite ‘Clockwork Orange’ T-shirt for the District Nurse to dress him in?

He couldn’t be gone. He just couldn’t be gone – not forever?

I switched on my laptop and logged into Facebook. Over 100 notifications signalled that this was not a terrible nightmare. Glued to the screen, I read each comment and kept on scrolling down...

R.I.P.

Hugs xxx

So very sorry xx

He was a gentleman.

He was a true friend.

My thoughts and prayers are with you x

You know where I am if you need me…

…The list went on and on and on. 

I thought this was someone else they must be talking about. I had read these kinds of threads before and have left comments of condolence myself. 

It is simply impossible to put into words the true horror that consumed me as I slowly began to process that these words were not meant for someone else – they were about Bebe. And about me.

For someone who has often been described as eloquent, I had nothing to give. Sat in our bedroom, filled with his clothes and belongings I was utterly muted. Those damn open plan IKEA wardrobes were staring back at me with my darling’s clothes hung dutifully on the rails and his beautifully folded T-shirts on the open shelving.

His glasses and his watch on the bedside cabinet.

Where the **** do I start? How on earth can I carry on? What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do now?

I couldn’t write. I clicked to return some kind of comment but I just couldn’t write. I clicked the like button on every kind sentiment – it seemed wrong to ‘like’ RIP but for the first time in my life, I had writer’s block and I went into autopilot mode with the ‘thumbs up’ button in the absence of an ability to respond with words. 

I sent my friend away. She couldn’t deal with my pain. I couldn’t deal with it so I felt that it was easier if I was left to my own devices.

Life unfolds. Even when your world has ended and time is stood still – there is plentiful evidence to the contrary.

The post still arrived every day and it didn’t take long before literally a hundred or so cards with the kindest and warmest of words dropped through the letter box. Some people took the time to craft well thought out handwritten letters which at first I could not concentrate on reading. 

My house was filled with flowers. Two or three times a day for the first week of so, I would receive a delivery – some from as far afield as America and Australia.

I had text messages and emails from friends and family. And I noticed with stark poignancy that Bebe’s phone lay silent after weeks of constant messages.

I still could not write. I did not have the words to respond. I feared I would never be able to communicate again using the written word.

One day, in my muted, silent world – I received a letter to confirm that my membership to a charitable organisation (WAY – Widowed and Young) had been activated. I was desperate for support and I noticed that there was a Facebook page for members. 

I reached out.

I introduced myself on a new thread. It was relatively easy because I wasn’t responding – I was simply writing a few words about my loss and dipping my toes into a new kind of normality I guess. Within minutes, I had the most compassionate and supportive replies – and for the first time since Bebe had died, I felt that I could communicate again through the medium of writing. And I could read and interact with lucidity and concentration. 

At first I was unsure about sharing my innermost thoughts but I realised very quickly that this was a safe, secure and supportive space to park even the darkest of ideas. It is true that you should not judge a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes and well; some of these people had walked much further yet there was no judgement of me – only compassion.

I get it. If you haven’t suffered the loss of someone you love so dearly then you can only do so much to help. I am sincerely grateful for everyone that reached out to me despite them not really being able to empathise. 

In my new normal, I am finding a balance these days of being able to communicate again with a wider range of people, family and friends.

 

My writer’s block melted some 6 months ago and as I approach the first year without Bebe, I am able to take on new projects at work, interact with my new friends as part of a support network and am back to full banter on the pages of Facebook and other forms of social networking.

I no longer have to write my emails in the ‘round robin’ fashion which I have always despised and am able to respond honestly yet mostly upbeat in the optimistic, witty way that I feared once may never return.

I am reading again. I am reading for enjoyment and not putting all of my energies into absorbing theories and ideas about grief. I am always open to learning more about life after loss but I don’t pursue it in the desperate state of mind that I did nearly 12 months ago.

And finally of course, I am writing my blog. Those of you who are following my ramblings will know that I began my journey from survival to revival right here …    http://thefuschiatree.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/the-fuschia-tree.html

In those early days on the support forums, I was told to take each day as it comes. Minute by minute, hour by hour if necessary.

Nana would say ‘Would you Adam and Eve it?’

Time has passed. I am making progress.

For Bebe: I worried that if my pain lessened and I started to feel a sense of peace that it may be a sign that I either did not love you enough or that I am still in denial that you are gone. But I know that these are both ridiculous thoughts that do nothing but hijack my efforts to live the kind of life that I deserve or a life that you would be proud of. So instead, even when I am struggling to hang on as the rollercoaster dips – I recognise that even the roughest of rides will end up on the level once again. 

For Nana: You lived so many years without Grandpa – I wish I could have understood how brave and strong you were and listened more respectfully when you wanted to talk about him. I get it now.

The Schedule

I approached my thirties with a grand degree of optimism. The previous decade had been an absolute joy and so utterly carefree that I never felt an ounce of apprehension as the big ‘three zero’ approached because I had every reason to believe that my life was on track. 

I always had this ‘thing’ that I would say to myself which went along the lines of ‘if I was to die right now, then I have reached every goal and achieved all that I wanted to do by this time in my life so far’.  

It wasn’t that I was particularly ambitious or that I had consciously set myself a host of goals but I had sketched some sort of vision of how my life might be and I had a rough plan of how I might negotiate the journey. As I look back, I guess I had some kind of tick box that was tucked away in my subconscious. 

So, the big things in life were sorted by 30. 

I had got married 3 years previously (to the one before Bebe) in a kind of ‘act in haste, repent at leisure’ kind of way.

Don’t get me wrong, it was love. But in hindsight, which we know is a perfect science, it was probably a little hasty to get engaged in less than 2 weeks and married just a few months later. But like my sleep habits, falling in love was a kind of boom and bust thing for me back then – and I was clearly in a boom period.

The bust bit came a few years later and not without complexity. Following a magnificent thirtieth birthday, we had settled down to start a family. But a series of tragic and life changing circumstances completely de-railed the love train.

My closest friend had taken her own life just months before. She had suffered with depression for her whole adult life and made a choice to leave this world. I understand now that she didn’t want to cause us any pain but at the time, I was so full of anger. I was the one who found her and my then husband was the one who tried to resuscitate her. It was a horrific experience that I hoped with all of my heart would bring us even closer together. I equally feared that it would not.

Despite living with the nightmare of post-traumatic stress, we twice entered the heavenly heights of anticipated parenthood together. I was pregnant during the inquest but collapsed a few days later at work, only to wake up in recovery with the dreadful news that I had suffered a ruptured ectopic pregnancy at the life-threatening stage of 13 weeks. I had lost 2 litres of blood, along with our baby and was left with the stark realisation that this thirties lark was going to be harder than I had imagined.

The second loss tipped us over the edge. We lived in the most beautiful house and were financially stable, with both our careers looking promising. I climbed on the grief train and he fell off the wagon. Living in a dream home and going on expensive holidays to far flung destinations don’t fix that kind of thing as it turns out. 

We had both been so badly damaged that the only fix was to be separate. In the early hours of yet another morning, when he hadn’t come home – I packed all that was precious into my car and I drove away. On reflection, it was an act of love for us both.

The schedule was wiped. However, I was able to gradually sort myself out after the obligatory chaotic party period (yes the thirties crisis had hit!) and I just seemed to bounce back. Being on my own was something of a therapy. I landed a job, I bought my own house which was tiny and modest, and filled it with second hand furniture. I dated the most unsuitable men and had a sumptuous fling with an old flame. I got to a place where I was thankful that I had inadvertently been gifted with a new chance at life. 

With life’s timeline in shreds, my timings on a smaller scale had also become a little shaky. I would arrive at work within a shrapnel of a moment to spare but yet be the last to leave. It didn’t seem to matter how much time I would allow myself to get ready for an appointment because there was always a sudden dash at the last moment because I had dilly dallied and failed to keep a close enough eye on the clock.

I would always be a little late to the ball or get lost on the way and turn up as the lights came on. Either way, I went out looking like Cinderella but returned home looking like maleficent. Snow White I was not.

So it was no surprise to me at least that when I met Bebe, he was early to pick me up for our date and I was running ridiculously late getting ready. 

I had been chatting on the phone to a friend, getting a last minute pep talk on how to apparently ‘Wow!’ my suitor that I had completely lost track of time and when the doorbell rang, I was half clothed, half made up and not in the slightest bit ‘Wow!’ at all.

But as he stepped through the door, he didn’t bat an eye lid. It was like he had come home.
He wrapped his arms around me and I stood on tiptoes to reach him as we kissed. He seemed to tower above me in his 6ft frame and when we sank into the sofa, it was already clear that my tiny house was not only filled with junk furniture – it was also filled with love.

In my new normal, one of the most challenging questions to come to terms with has been the one of ‘what if?’ 

More specifically, I have battled with the ‘what if I had done this?’ or ‘what if I had done that?’

What if I had spotted something was wrong earlier?
What if I had urged him to go to the doctor sooner instead of supporting his mission at the physiotherapist? 
What if I had realised that he was losing weight before it was so obvious in the week before diagnosis?
What if I had noticed that he was eating a little less than normal?

I have already talked about what ifs but they still creep in, nearly one year on.
But they aren’t helpful to me. 
They are questions I will never know the answer to and I have already addressed the excruciating frustration of the why and the wherefore in my previous post http://thefuschiatree.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/the-mono-rail.html

 

I can not go on like this with these questions haunting me.
I refuse to punish myself even more and live on this monorail of torture. 
When you love someone so deeply it is magical - but does not bring the kind of magic that comes with having a crystal ball.
Bad things happen to really good people. 
It sucks beyond description but it is what it is. 

I commit myself to asking only the questions that are helpful for me to move forward.
It is up to me to change my own thinking. I have the power to do this.
In my new normal, I have lost the power or control to do so much but I am in charge of my brain and I can make it my enemy or ensure that it is my friend.
I refuse to be unkind to myself any longer. I am sad enough and I have mountains to climb here.
I need will not beat myself up with guilt in a world where quite frankly shit just happens.

So. Instead - the questions I ask are now in reverse.
I ask myself 'What if I had not..?'

 

What if I hadn’t experienced such tragedy in my life?

What if I hadn’t experienced the loss of my babies?

What if I hadn’t been through the heartache of realising that I couldn’t survive in my first marriage?

What if I hadn’t had the courage to walk away and start again with nothing?

What if I hadn’t moved back to Manchester after those miserable years of living in Sheffield?

What if I hadn’t taken the chance to meet Bebe because he was 6 years younger than me and he lived too far away?

What if I hadn’t abandoned my schedule and pressed on regardless?

These are the questions that are helpful to me. I have answers to them now and see clearly that all of these cruel events and the terribly difficult decisions that I made with a tired and tattered heard were an important part of my journey that preceded meeting the one that really mattered.

If I had not been through these traumas and if I had not abandoned my schedule, then I would never have lived the truly wonderful life that we had together and I would not have known the real meaning of love.

Real love does not disappear because difficult times are pressed upon us. It doesn’t begin to slip away but rather it continues to grow. The roots of this kind of love deepen, they bond you together and hold you steadfast.  The harder life gets, the stronger love becomes.

It doesn’t weaken, or crumble or thin out when life vomits tragedy.

Instead, it rises up and proves itself with magnificent authenticity.

That kind of love screams out - yet you can’t hear it.

You feel it. You trust it.

I know the love between Bebe and I was real. It showed me that previously it never really existed. No matter how hard I clung on to it or tried to mould it.

Our love was not malleable. It was like water because it naturally found its own way by seeping to the very roots of our relationship where it nourished us and gave us room to grow stronger together.

It lasted on earth until the end. And still it continues after death in so many ways because it is eternal.

For Bebe: When my thinking becomes unhelpful to my progress, I seek to reprogram my thoughts and reverse them as promptly as possible. I am thankful for the traumas I experienced before we met and recognise that they were all part of the jigsaw that brought us together. They helped build my resilience and led me to recognise real love. If I had not been through such pain, I would have been a different person and in an entirely different place.

 The pain I am learning to live with now that you are gone, is nothing in comparison to the torture of imagining a world in which you and I never met. And I continue to move forward with you in my heart.