The Sandwich Filler

In the beginning, all I wanted was for time to be behind me. I read with such envy, the accounts of other widows who were 3,6 or 12 months down the line. I was desperate for time to pass and for me to somehow emerge through the pain and enter into the light of the other side of the tunnel I was in.

I am ashamed to say that I was envious - after all, these people whom I had met in the new normal, all had their own heartbreaking and tragic stories of loss but I couldn't help but be jealous that they had survived and gotten to a place where I could not imagine.

That early grief was so intensely raw for me, that every minute - literally every minute, passed by so very slowly that I honestly do not know how I got to the place where I am today.

I wanted to believe others when they offered the advice to take one moment at a time, but the moments brought such extreme emotional pain that I feared I could not take it anymore.

My grief also manifested itself with hideous symptoms of anxiety that came with physical pain and frightening sensations. I actually convinced myself that I was unable to swallow and could not raise myself to stand up because my legs were numb and the more I thought about it, the worse it got.

And nearly always, this would happen in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep and I was in the depth of despair, all alone. It is difficult to explain to the uninitiated, just what that level of terror can do to your psyche but I learned that grieving is as hard physically as it is emotionally.

During those earliest days and weeks, I had an overwhelming fear that I would be feeling this depth of pain - in my heart and my body - for eternity. I voiced my fears to those to whom I was closest, that Bebe's pain had ceased but I now lived in a world where my pain would last forever. It is no wonder that so many people - catapulted into this frightening early stages of the new world, consider wanting to end their life. Suicidal thoughts are common amongst new widows it seems and I was no exception.

I explored the idea that I may be depressed. I read up on it and sought advice from 'google'. The information on grief and the link with depression threw back more than a million pages for me to ponder, all with a hefty dose of inconsistency.

From the highest order of academic dissertations on the subject to the gutter press accounts of 'How I nearly topped myself', I wasn't short of information to self diagnose. Google may not always be the most helpful of friends when you are wracked with anxiety but is is however, a friend that is available at 4am when the rest of the world is sleeping.

I was living on a diet of prawn mayonnaise sandwich fillers at the time. It is funny the things that you remember looking back but as I scooped out the pot with a teaspoon, wondering how to end it all, I suddenly had a streak of black humour that this couldn't surely be all there was to my 'last supper'.

I had consulted my doctor already about my mental state. He was sensitive and showed great empathy fortunately and primarily because he had followed my journey at close quarters from Bebe's diagnosis, last days at home and in the aftermath of his passing. He had attended our house on several occasions and was first on the scene to confirm the finality of death.

He listened to me. He carried out basic blood tests. He took my blood pressure and also tested my reflexes. His diagnosis was anxiety caused by grief. And he refused to prescribe me anything but asked me to return everyday to give him an update.

I asked him for a cure. I pleaded that surely there was something he could do to take my pain away. 'I can't swallow',  I told him. 'I can't feel my hands!'

Yet I trusted what he said. 'The only cure for grief, is grieving', he said. Now I know that he was right.

I turned again to the stories of those virtual friends from my new normal world. The widows that were further down the line from me. The people that I had envied.

Some of them really had experienced depression. They spoke openly about what their depression felt like and how they had taken medication. For some people, medication was the only way that they had got through their journey to date and I was grateful to hear their honesty.

Others had been on medication and had stopped taking it because it either had not worked or for some reason, it hadn't agreed with them.

And then there were other widows who had, for their own personal reasons and circumstances, decided that they were not going to accept any pharmaceutical help.

I realised that it didn't matter what other people had done or chosen. It soon became apparent that like the Google search, the experiences returned to me were potentially a million fold and all relative to the individual situation.  I had to make a choice about my situation.

I am not playing things down here. I wanted to die. I had told my mother this - much to her distress. You see, with Bebe gone and no children to care for, I thought in the drowsy depths of despair that I 'may as well go out on a high'.

I told my Dad 'if this was a film, then now would be an ideal time for an ice-cream and an interval'. What I meant was, 'I'm done with it - and to make this a happy ending then I will go with Bebe'.

I am sorry if this sounds tough to hear. But this is where I was.

I am not there now. Thankfully.

Maybe it was the family members on 'suicide watch' or the stories I had read from people further down the line that life did get easier if I just clung on, I don't know.

Maybe it was the thought that Bebe had been determined to live and fight the final curtain despite the odds that he was dealt.

Maybe it was the memory of him fighting for every last breath and his words to me that I must carry on and live the life that he would have appreciated.

In truth, it was most likely a combination of them all that led me to fight for myself and my own life now.

I will be honest, those dark thoughts did not lift over night. It took a while - a couple of months at least before the fog began to clear. I did as I was told. I kept breathing, I kept taking each moment as it arrived and I kept connected with the people who were further on than me.

If you want to survive, then surround yourself with survivors. Believe what they say. 
I don't envy them now. I am so very thankful that they are there.

For Bebe: Your biggest fear for me was that I would lose my spark for life as a result of you leaving. I cannot pretend that in the early days, I did not fear that spark was extinguished and I know that this would have deeply upset you. I will strive to be a credit to you by appreciating that I am living and make an effort to appreciate the world around me, knowing how much you loved life. I have come this far and I resolve to go further in your memory.

The Total Eclipse

I remember the year 1999 very well indeed. There was an overwhelming hype that the new millennium was approaching and plenty of talk about how the world of technology would cope at the strike of midnight as the media had gone into overdrive that the systems would not cope with the change over and we would all be sent into some kind of oblivion as a result.

My mother was sent into her own oblivion that year, when in June, her husband passed away.

My stepfather, whom had been a 'father figure' to me for most of my life, died within a week of going into hospital for an outpatient procedure that went horribly wrong.

I was 29 years old when I stepped into a role that was more adult than I felt capable of, as my mother crumbled into widowhood, just days before she was due to retire. I was so consumed in holding it together for her sake that I barely took stock or allowed myself any time to grieve.

That summer was the total eclipse of the sun. I made the journey down to Cornwall, my childhood home, to spend a few days with my mum. By August, she had already moved to a new home that her and my stepfather had chosen.

It was a cloudy day on the whole. The media had pitched themselves along several coastal vantage points and there were parties in full swing from early that morning. As the time approached, the commentary on the radio remained upbeat but the disappointment was felt by so many as the clouds were insistent on covering the disappearing sun.

My mother couldn't face the crowds that day, so we sat on deckchairs peering up at the sky in hope that we may witness something amazing. Firstly, the birds began to quieten and a stillness and hush filled the air. For a brief moment, that was long enough for us to appreciate, there was a parting of the clouds to reveal the last moments of the 'diamond' ring before the world around us fell into darkness.

'I can feel Daddy around us' my mother said, 'I know he is here with us.'

My mother had never referred to my stepfather as 'Daddy' before and it made me feel uncomfortable.
I had called him 'Dad' for as long as I could remember but mum in her grief had renamed him for me.

I am ashamed to say that I felt uncomfortable talking about someone who had meant so much. I didn't know how to handle the subject of his death and most of the time, I consciously dodged it by offering distractions and cliches. Had it been a friend who was grieving, then I am more ashamed to say that I would have avoided it altogether - except for the customary and polite acknowledgement.

But this was my mother. I had no choice but to listen at close quarters to what she had to say and I witnessed at equally close quarters how she handled herself in the aftermath of his passing.

I remember being shocked that she had cleared out his belongings in the process of the move. All that was there physically to represent that he had once existed was his cardigan and dressing gown. And a couple of pictures of him on the dresser. I also remember being quite horrified that she handed to me a briefcase with all his writing and memoirs in.

'What am I supposed to do with this?' I thought, 'It doesn't belong to me!'

Looking back, I held an opinion or a judgement on everything she did in those early days. I didn't share them with her but I held them all the same. And worst of all, I wished that she would finally stop talking about him or recalling every little thing he had said or done in their 25 years together.

He was dead. He wasn't coming back. And all I wanted her to do was to get over it and move on. It was easier for me of course because I could drive away - back up North to my cosy life and my husband who would console me and listen to me processing my grief.

And now I am where she was.

In my new normal I am fully aware that most people don't understand my needs. I already feel an air of impatience around me, whether real or imagined, that I really need to start talking about something different.

I have felt a tangible sense of avoidance from some people who, just like me all those years ago, simply don't know how to handle my soul mate passing. My own next door neighbour has never acknowledged that Bebe has died. She scuttles in and out of her house like it is some sort of covert operation and it has led to me doing the same thing. After more than seven months have passed by, it seems almost ridiculous that I dread to bump into her. But that is what death can do to you.

Death brings about almost complete isolation on a physical and emotional level. People who used to feel at ease in your company, make excuses about not being in contact or worse still, cease contact altogether. For a while, I was pleased that I was left alone but when the fog begins to clear, the social landscape is as dark as the day of that full eclipse.

Other people completely and utterly surprise me in other ways. They reach out and genuinely ask how it feels now Bebe has gone. Often these people are new friends that I have made either virtually or in real life as I moved into the new world that is secret to everybody except the grieving.

But sometimes it has been from the farthest flung territory of social networking where people have taken the time out to offer company through a message or a chat, regardless that they have sat on my friends list with no previous interactions for many years. These people are my unsung heroes. They do not know quite what to say and they know there is nothing much that they can do, but they step up to the plate and appear like figures in the fog of my grief to reach out and just connect.

It has made me wonder would I have done the same for them? I fear that I would not have stepped up. I fear that I would have been exactly the same as many others who, after the news of the 'blow', and the final farewells of the funeral disappear like the sun behind the clouds. Maybe I wouldn't have been like that at all - after all, we never know until moments in life present us with our chance to demonstrate our support and compassion.

As I look out of the window onto the landscape of my new normality, I have learnt that death is a test for the living. Death separates the living from the living - but it can also unite us.

But above all, I understand that there is no blueprint for dealing with the loss of your loved one. My widowed mother dealt with things her way and I will deal with losing my husband in the way that is right for me.

There is no blueprint for the grieving of others. Friends and loved ones of Bebe all have their own unique way of dealing with their loss and I respect this wholeheartedly. It is as unique as their relationship with him. It cannot be predicted or replicated by others.

I am grieving not only the loss of my soul mate, the future we had planned and the joy of our relationship. I am suffering other losses along the way, like friendships I expected more from in my time of need and the stark reality that my social circle itself will never look or feel the same again.

For Bebe: I understand that my relationships with people may change now that you are not here. I know your passing will isolate me from some and unite me with others. I promise that I will do my very best to communicate what this is like for me but also have the compassion to understand that many people feel a great sense of loss now that you have gone. And I will always leave the door open to those who have found this time difficult because one day they may need me to reach out to them.

The Feedback

Many years ago, I delivered a keynote speech at an education conference in the South of England. There must have been more than 500 people in the room to hear my pearls of wisdom on 'Transition and Coping with Change' and the whole affair filled me with excitement and dread in equal measure.

At the end of the day, everyone who attended was asked to fill in a feedback form and grade the quality of the speakers and their messages to allow the organisers to evaluate the impact and quality of the event.

A week later, the organiser of the conference called to give me feedback on my speech. I am always keen to know how my messages are perceived because it helps me improve my work and adapt it where it may be necessary to do so.

On the whole, the feedback was excellent and I was thrilled to note that some 350 delegates had found my messages useful and inspiring. On a scale of 1 - 10, my speech had scored top marks and people had been very taken with what I had to say.

One person was disenchanted. They had scored me a 7 on the scale with a comment that read 'This speaker did not meet my needs and I didn't learn that much from her.'

I was gutted. It was all I could do to focus on the negative response and totally ignore the other lovely comments and I remember being so affected by it that I actually considered that my work was worthless.

For the first few months of my new normal, I realise that I still had the propensity to focus only on the negative aspects of my old life. And believe me, there were not many negatives.

My old life was truly amazing - it really was. I know that it is easy to look back on the past with rose tinted spectacles but before I took the train to this new normality, I had so much to be grateful for and happy about.  I had the best part of eight years with Bebe and we lived a life of true adventure together.

We were the absolute best of friends for a start, and couple that with shared dreams, a zest for life, the deepest level of trust and the joyful intimacy that comes with such a relationship then it may be difficult for you to imagine why I found myself in a loop of negative thought after my soul mate died.

And you would be right to wonder.

The negative and depressing thoughts that saturated me in the early days, weeks and months, stemmed from the last couple of days we had together. I cannot even begin to describe how traumatic it is to see the man you love most in the world, slip into such heartbreaking decline in physical and mental health.

In our makeshift bedroom that was previously our dining room, he lay sleeping for most of the time. The nurses came a few times a day to give pain relief and the carers came to make him comfortable. Night turned into day and then into night once again - and I did not leave his side for more than a brief moment.

The straw that broke the camel's back and the overriding moment that I have until recently been trapped in, was the decision to administer the anti-anxiety medicine.

When someone is so desperately poorly and the morphine dose is so high, it most likely causes frightening hallucinations, terror and confusion. The medicine at that point comes in the form of a highly powerful sedative and instead of injection, it is administered via a driver that constantly feeds this into their system.

It brings calm to the sufferer immediately. But for those of us left in a state of consciousness it heralds the beginning of a stark realisation that the point of no return has been reached.

When we first returned from the hospital, not really knowing how much time we had ahead of us, we began to talk about and process the news that we had received. We had always done this kind of thing together, through the ups and downs that life had delivered but this time we stopped short in our analysis.

'I never want us to think or talk about what happened at the hospital ever again,' Bebe said 'I just want to live my life and get the best out of it that I can.'

He made a choice that day. The choice to only focus on what he could do. The choice of refusing to go over the trauma of diagnosis again and again in his head or in any discussion with me or anyone else.

 'We are where we are' he said.

After he died, I was indeed where I was. Completely and utterly stuck in the last 24 hours of my life with him. My brain refused to playback the images of our beautiful holidays in the hills of Andalusia, or dancing in the kitchen together every Friday evening. It seemed to have blocked out any memories of my tall, dark, handsome husband curled up with laughter when watching our favourite comedies or proudly announcing that he had been offered an opportunity to work for a great company.

No matter how I tried to conjure them up, my mind would not replay the joy and pride of his dutiful day as a godfather to his niece and neither would it afford me the happy memories of him neck deep in bubbles when he underestimated the power of a jacuzzi and radox at our holiday cottage - the time I had to scoop them out with a saucepan as he sat screeching with laughter because he couldn't work out how to turn it off.

Instead, I was gifted with the memories of the final and difficult 24 hours. They haunted my waking hours and my thoughts were only relieved by sleeping pills, as I lay in the bed that we once shared so cosily.

After a couple of months, the doctor refused to give me any more sleeping pills for fear that they were addictive. No shit Sherlock.

It was at that point that I realised I had to do something about my thinking. If Bebe had given me so much strength and joy in life then began to realise he could bring me the same strength and joy despite our now separate worlds.

As I lay there in bed, unable to sleep, I reached out to his spirit in hope that he may inspire me. I asked myself what might he say to me, if he knew that I was trapped in those final hours. And I could hear his voice. Not literally you understand, but in my head I could recall his deep, matter of fact but gentle tone.

And in the stillness of the room, and the quietness of the night, I stopped crying. I closed my eyes and imagined him looking at me, with his 100 yard stare and deep brown eyes. I visualised him smiling and taking my hands in his hands. And then I heard him speak to me.

This is what he said:

'What on earth are you doing Honey?
Why are you reducing my whole life with you, that was full of so much energy and laughter, to some pathetic moments before I died?
What was the point of me living, if all you will remember is me dying?
You have to stop this now. We promised that we wouldn't go over it again and again. 
I know how much you love me. I know you were there for me.
Honestly, you have to let this go because it breaks my heart to see you reliving it.
If you are going to remember me then for goodness sake choose some decent images - you have plenty to choose from. Most of all, I shudder to think that you are remembering me like that. I was better than that. I am better than that. 
And so are you.'

These words did not come beyond the grave. I do not believe they were sent from heaven or spirited in from some afterlife. I don't believe in such things and they do not bring me comfort. In the new normal, everyone has their own belief of what happens after death. We respect that we all have the right to believe whatever feels right for us.

I do believe however, that these are his words. When Bebe died, part of me went with him. But more importantly, part of him has stayed with me.

And for that, I am thankful.

For Bebe: I refuse to do you a disservice by obsessing over those final hours. I will honour your life by remembering only the best of you. I will share good memories with those who knew you and bring your tales to life with those who did not know you.

The Lion Tamer

At first I was angry about so many things in my new normal life. I felt I had every right to be angry because I had lost everything that I held dear in this little rented terrace. I was so angry. I screamed and used the most inappropriate language to anyone who was brave enough to enter the darkness and try to connect with me. My mother in particular was the receiver of my wrath.

I upset almost anyone and everyone that crossed my path. Some deserved it but others did not.
The reason why I was so angry with other people is clearer to me now. I was furious that they did not understand what I was going through.

Anger is a complex emotion. It is very different from the feeling of losing ones temper because that, at least, is an outburst which leads to some sort of outcome. The anger I felt in the early days and months was such an overwhelming sense of outrage and fury that I questioned my own character.

But still, I raged on. I was snappy, impatient and antagonistic. And most of the time I didn't care. I had lost the capacity to care for others and I certainly didn't care about myself. When the person you love so deeply and intimately dies, I am afraid that this is what is can do to you. I became somebody that I didn't recognise and worst of all, I was someone that I did not like.

I came to realise after entering my new normal that I had never truly been angry before Bebe died. I had lost my temper only once in the 8 years we had together. I had felt the pressure building and it led to an angry outburst which was not my finest moment - but it was directed at somebody else. In the cinema, during a film. Yep.

So somewhere between Bebe dying and where I am now, I began to take stock. I did this because I began to truly understand that I have a choice in these matters. I knew that I did not want to continue treating people around me, particularly the ones who were trying to reach out, like they had done something wrong.

I was angry because I wanted somebody or something to blame for my situation. I thought I would blame cancer - that vile, incomprehensible and silent hijacker of life but that just made me feel even more powerless.

My thoughts turned to how powerless I had become over my emotions. I understood that I needed to cry and be sad because after tears, all encompassing as they were, I always felt slightly calmer.

But anger was a different animal. It was a lion that strolled through my being as if it owned the place and it was the cancer that was giving this animal the freedom to my city. It had to stop.

Cancer had taken the life of my loved one. The anger was a reaction and I refused that it would hitch a lift on the back of my attempt to survive.

And with that, I battled it away. I went to bed one night and I talked myself down from the trees. My life is precious. The people who love me deserve the best of me.

I deserve the best of me.

For Bebe: I was never angry in all those years we were together and we had a great life. I cannot promise that I won't get annoyed as these times are very testing for me. But I promise that I will continue to let go of this anger and not let it spoil me or my relationships with others.



 

The New Normal

As I started my journey, the road ahead was laden with thick fog. There were days when I could not see a hand in front of me and I remembering being terrified at what further obstacles I might encounter. The path was uneven, winding and completely unfamiliar but I had been told that if I kept going I would reach the gates where people from my tribe would welcome me and understand my pain.

I had been travelling for so long when I finally arrived at the outreach post.
The journey had seemed endless and I had totally lost my bearings. I was scared, utterly disoriented and completely unsure what to expect at the other end.

During the journey, it had been so dark. I don't recall seeing many people at the roadside - there were a few people I recognised and they were waving me on. I can't be absolutely certain but I think there was some cheering but by the same token, I heard some of them crying too and I remember thinking that it was very strange.

The easiest part of the journey was when I slept. All long haul travel is less burdensome if you can break it up with periods of slumber and so I figured that this trip may be the same.

But even during sleep, I had an overwhelming feeling in my subconscious that I hadn't packed the right things. I knew that I had forgotten something and it made me feel uneasy. My sleep was broken and despite my exhaustion it often evaded me entirely.

I thought it may be a good idea to stop off along the way and try to figure out if I was on the right track. This proved to be more unsettling because when I asked for directions, I realised that nobody could understand what I was saying. This seemed ridiculous and frustrating because essentially I was speaking the same language and everyone I encountered looked at me with confusion and panic. They didn't know how to help me, They didn't know which direction to point me in. Many of them turned away or scurried into their houses which were warmly lit and filled with the laughter of family and love.

I continued to struggle onward. I knew at some point that surely I would find a stranger who may be able to understand what I was saying, yet the route seemed to get less crowded and I was fearful that I was entering a deserted area where there would be literally nobody to help me answer my questions at all.

Finally, when I was on the verge of giving up, I arrived at the outreach post.

I was so very tired and in floods of tears. I looked a mess after weeks of not sleeping or eating properly. I was heartbroken and lonely. I was desperate.

There was a gatekeeper who asked me for my details.

She asked me 'Are you qualified to enter this world?'

I couldn't believe that there, in the still of the night was somebody who seemed to be expecting me.

'I'm sorry that you qualify to enter' she said 'but I am glad you have found us.'

I staggered through the checkpoint and was immediately welcomed.
I was helped through the gate with all of my bags of sadness. My baggage was laden with trauma, anxiety, heartbreak, fear and distress. Those things are not light to bear even though they are invisible. I was grateful beyond measure.

The town was packed with people - men and women, all quite young really - nobody much more than the age of fifty. Many more were nowhere near fifty. Some of the people were very young - much younger than me.

Some of the townsfolk had children. One lady had 4 beautiful children, all under the age of ten and one of them was just a babe in arms. There were other women who were pregnant.
Others were crying because they never had the chance to be parents at all.

There were lots of dogs and cats. It seemed quite chaotic.

I noticed several women were wearing a wedding dress, just like me. I was still wearing mine as I had only been married for 12 days.
Some women were crying about the wedding they never got to have and there were plenty of men and women, who just like me, had no children.

For a moment, I could not quite believe where I had ended up. I hadn't expected this and I certainly never planned for it. None of the people in this town had a husband or a wife or a partner anymore and they were all so very sad.
There were hundreds and hundreds of them - thousands even. All with their own special memories, heartbreaking stories, hopes and fears.

Yet they all came. One by one to welcome me. It was like each and every one had been expecting me. They understood what I said. They listened to me and they didn't try and fix me. They told me that this was something that could not be fixed. They spoke my language.

There was a small group in the corner that looked a little brighter. Some of them were sharing a joke and managing to laugh a little.

Some of them said they only visit here now and again, because they live somewhere else these days. I couldn't ever imagine living anywhere else but here. Not even one day but never.
I had found my new home. My tribe. 

When I had gathered my thoughts, I told them my story. I told them of Bebe and how he had caught a different train and that there was nothing we could do to stop it leaving. I also told them of my terrible journey into the unknown and how frightened I was to be without him.

'Is this normal?' I asked.

'This is the new normal.' they replied.
And as strange as it felt, it was the most normal I had felt in what had seemed a very long time.
So I unpacked and I settled in. Unaware that in a few days from then, I would be welcoming weary travellers to carry their bags of sadness through the gates.

For Bebe:
I am living in my new normal. I have connected with people who understand what it is like to lose a spouse or partner. My loss is unique because you were an incredible soulmate. But that level of unique loss it is not as uncommon as I had imagined at that moment you took your final breath. I don't want you to worry because I know I will be looked after here. x

The mono-rail

Life in my new normal world still has some sort of familiarity. 

Today I did my weekly shop in the same supermarket I have frequented for the past year, although the list is different. I have slowly got to grips with shopping for one.

At the checkout, I was behind a mother who was in the throes of trying desperately to placate her toddler who was throwing the most almighty tantrum.

I had not witnessed the start of the battle but it had escalated to such an extent that the little boy had thrown himself onto the floor and was having a meltdown.

‘Why?’ he screamed, amidst his snotty gurgles. 

‘Because that is why!’ said his mother, as she multi-tasked packing the frozen foods whilst half leaning over and trying to coax her child back to his feet.

I was pretty sure that her answer was not going to cut it with her little lad. If he was in such a fit of rage, he was clearly expecting a much better answer to his question than the one that she was offering.

‘But why?’ he persisted, or rather it was more ‘But WHYYYYYYYYY?’ 

At this point, I started to put my toothpaste and bubble bath neatly on the conveyor belt, behind one of those nice plastic barriers that denotes that my goods are separate. I noticed that the little fella had put so much effort and emotion into his query, that his face was almost the colour of my pickled beetroot.

With her shopping packed up and her bill paid, the mother then bent down and scooped up her child. He was still kicking and screaming. He was still asking ‘why?’ and she was still adamant in her response. ‘…because that is why!’

It struck me today, right there at the checkout, that the toddler in me is still living too. Okay, I am a grown woman and have the grace not to put on a full scale drama show and crumble to my knees screaming ‘Why?’ at the Sainsbury’s checkout.

But behind closed doors, I have asked the same question as that kid, with all the tears and snot and rage. In fact, I have done it many times since ‘the blow’ – never in front of Bebe but certainly in front of the mirror in the middle of the night. Back then, I screamed the question silently with a pain so deep in my soul, I thought that I myself may die from it.

I never thought that I was capable of displaying my emotions so silently. Anger, I thought, was something that showed itself with sound. 

After he died, the emotion came with sound. It also came with volume. It wasn’t in public but it was in my home and yes, I was like that child – crumbled on the floor in a pitiful heap of sorrow and rage.

‘Why?’ is probably the first question we learn to ask as we are growing up. 

‘Why’ is a powerful because it demands a reason. 

We always want to know the reason. We always want to know why, because somehow we think that if we have the reason for something that can’t, might, will or has happened then we have this sense that it will be easier to accept.

But if we continue to ask the question and we don’t get an explanation or a reason then we continue to feel desperate for an answer. For months, I was in that loop. It is a horrible place to be – like I was on a monorail at a grief theme-park and it just kept bringing me back to the place I had alighted.

For the past couple of months, I have refused to engage with the question. I have accepted that there is no reasonable explanation of why Bebe got so ill, so quickly and so silently. I have stopped asking ‘why didn’t we realise that something was so terribly wrong?’

And I have also realised, that even if you attempt to ask the first question, it really only leads to a chain of other equally frustrating ‘whys’ and the worst one of all is ‘Why him?’

I refuse to ask any longer because firstly, there is no acceptable reason and secondly, it changes nothing.

If I continue to ask the questions, then I continue to be frozen in time and paralysed with fear and pain. I choose now to move forward and I know that he would want that.

The thing is, he never asked the question ‘Why me?’

He did the direct opposite and asked ‘Why not me?’

I remember him saying it very early on. And he said it with a surprising nonchalance.

The mother at the checkout was more accurate than she may have even realised today. Her response was ‘because that is why’

She had a point.

For Bebe: I have stopped asking ‘Why?’ There will never be an answer. Like you always said – ‘It is what it is.’

The Sandcastle

Nobody can ever imagine what it is like to lose your love but I cannot ignore the elephant in the room if I am going to blog my journey.

So I have chosen to share my experience through an analogy. It is rather a long analogy but I hope you will bear with me as I try to paint a picture of my loss by telling you a story I have written…

One day, a little girl was playing on the beach and decided to build a sandcastle. She only had one bucket and she knew that although it was possible to build a castle with her bucket, she had far bigger plans.

You see, this girl didn’t want to just settle for the kind of sandcastle that appears after a few firm taps on the bottom of the bucket because she had bigger ideas. She wanted turrets, and a fortress wall and a drawbridge and a moat and well…the list goes on.

Anyway, she gets to work on it. She spends a bit of time carefully mapping out the boundaries and deciding how she is going to build this masterpiece and uses her finger to draw an outline in the sand where she will make the walls.

A little boy has noticed what she is doing. He is all alone, just like she is and although he is shy, he plucks up the courage to ask her if he can join in. She likes the look of him and also on a practical note, she sees that he has a bucket too and she agrees that they will work together and make this lovely castle.

All afternoon, they play together on the beach and craft the most wonderful castle. They dig out the moat and squeal with laughter as they run back and forth to the sea with water and try to fill it up.

Later on, as the sun goes down, both of them know that the end of their fun is nearing as they will be called back to their family to be told that it is time to go home. And so quickly, they both use the shells they have gathered to put the finishing touches on their castle and without noticing that the tide is coming in, they stand back and admire their construction.

It is quite simply the best castle that anyone could ever make and they are both so proud that they built it together.

But suddenly, from nowhere or so it seems, a massive wave comes crashing over it and in one mighty swipe, the castle has gone.

It is absolutely obliterated.

The little girl looks on in horror. She feels an overwhelming sense of disbelief as her whole body feels like it has gone into shock. She couldn’t see that coming and there was nothing she could do about it.

She stares at what was once the castle. That beautiful castle that she had been crafting so lovingly with her mate in what felt to her like a lifetime. 

She can just about make out the boundaries of it but the walls and the turrets and the drawbridge have all gone. The shells are scattered all over the place – just fragments of a reminder that just moments ago, things had been so very different.

And now she starts to shiver and cry. She turns for comfort to her mate.

But he has gone.

She falls to her knees and scrambles around trying to pick up a tiny shell. And holding it in her hand, she knows already that as small as it may be, it will serve as a reminder of what once was.

At that moment in time, the whole day just seems wasted. All of that effort to be left with nothing and no-one that will ever truly understand just how magnificent that castle was.

She vows to tell people about that castle. And the day on the beach with her mate who helped her build it. But she knows that they will never really understand. They will never really get it.

For Bebe. I can’t rebuild the castle without you.

I will build another castle. It won’t be the same but it will still be magnificent.