Berlin

3 years since we were in Berlin. It held promise. Inspired hope. It was the culmination of 6 months of hard work. Fundraising, training, blogging, interviews. A day we had been scared would never come. 

He had hoped to run this marathon again, getting a place, deferring, now running in another sphere. I wonder if you can run there? In the place where things are made perfect, is there a need? Here, we have to keep moving. I sometimes imagine he is enjoying the stillness now offered to him. 

The familiar streets bring the memories flooding back. I seek out the places we shared. I don’t want to hide from them. I absorb the emotions, this strange combination of joy and pain that is grief. I love that I can temember him here yet so desperately wish he was with me. 

My eyes prickle and my heart stops. 

Every red vest that rushes past me could be him. I seek them out automatically as my eyes scan the crowds. The thrill and the excitement of the race is a stark contrast to the calmness of the surrounding streets as I hurry to see her. 

This friend who recognised him on a train. Who heard our story. Who understood. She runs for him, leaving behind the competitive spirit, stopping for photos, to hug, slowing to enjoy the sights. Breathing in the city and the weight of grief which equally slows and drives her. 

I feel him, with a renewed devotion I never thought possible. How is it I can love him even more now his is not holding my hand? Now he isn’t here to recite the history he was so passionate about? How can someone be so fully present and absent simultaneously? 

I don’t know how I feel. I take photos. Who will I show them to? This strange tour of places we visited in another life. Who else will understand? They exist as evidence of a broken heart, seeking out the places he might be. 

But he isn’t in the cafe or the bar we drank in. He isn’t among the runners or waiting at the finish line. Yet somehow I always find him.  He is in the quiet spaces that are deep in my heart. In the tranquil peace as I close my eyes and the runners rush by. 

A night out

Standing in the hall, I attempt to apply mascara while Heidi uses my long red dress as a tent. Gleefully peeping out at me giggling. I see Ben at the top of the stairs in his dinner jacket. I reach to pick the invisible hair from his collar. I breathe. 

Stepping out of the taxi, I can’t resist walking across the prom to admire the sunset. The light shimmering on the sea. Flecks of gold and silver. We don’t speak as his fingers interlock with mine. 

Up the red carpet, Blackpool Tower Ballroom is stunning. The people, the excitement, the architecture. We chat. I’m introduced to people who seem to exist in another world, hoping they may be able to help me in mine. Food arrives, wine is poured, I take in the atmosphere. Ben would have loved this. 

We sneak out in between courses to watch the fireworks. I love fireworks. When I was 11 I couldn’t go out for bonfire night because I’d just had my tonsils removed. I remember watching through the dining room window. The sparks fizzing and popping, the expectant waiting for the next bang. Ben and I stood on the bridge the first new year we were together hoping for fireworks. There weren’t any in the sky, but his kisses ignited my soul and gave me hope of a glorious future. 

We imagine our loved ones shooting off into the sky like a firework, leaving a shining imprint in our eyes. But death isn’t like that. You can’t really plan. You can’t decide. You don’t even want to light the fuse. 

But the world does look different, the darkness there, waiting to be lit up once again. The fireworks come as memories. Glimpses of happiness. I stand and watch with him before walking back upstairs to a room full of strangers. They don’t know what I’ve just seen. 

Food for thought

I’m standing in the dairy section. Staring at cheese. I’ve automatically placed 3 different types in the basket and reluctantly put them back again.
The list was simple, only 8 items to buy. But each one requires extra thinking. Cheese used to include a mature cheddar for snaking, feta for salads, grated to sprinkle on scrambled eggs. The need for calories in my house has dramatically decreased. I spend another 10 minutes conflicted about the carb content of the cinnamon and raisin bagels I fancied. I leave without them. They looked less appetising than I thought they would.

Food, like many other things on an extended cancer adventure, becomes a weapon. Ben’s low carb, high fat arsenal served him well. It became such a way of life that I have to actively stop thinking about it. 

The first time I ventured to a supermarket after he died, it took me 2 hours just to get out of the house. Crying on my Mum’s shoulder I wondered how I would ever manage to cook a meal again. The list seemed sparse. It was missing things. It was missing Ben.  I forced myself around, leaning on the trolley for support. Deciding what I wanted. Choosing salmon. Yogurt with fruit in the bottom. Cookie dough ice-cream. I filled the fridge with things he didn’t eat. I didn’t want to eat them either. I cried more.

I decide I don’t like broad beans either. I swap them for sugar snaps. Now I’m relaxing again. I allow myself to wander along the biscuits. Enthusiastically heaping jaffa cakes and chocolate Hob Nobs on top of the carrots. These were not on my list. My eyes scan the shelves for new and exciting adventures.

The feeling of liberation comes and goes. Having given up my own choices in favour of his for so long I don’t know what I want anymore. I curse the days when cauliflower rice covered the kitchen. I have vowed never to make it again. But we would have it every night if it meant I could place it under his smiling face. His hand reaching out to squeeze mine in gratitude.

It’s taken almost 2 hours to finish my list. I wrestle through the door with the bags, realise I forgot rabbit food.

As the smell of toasted crumpet drifts through the kitchen I check my phone. “Twice toasted, loads of butter”. As if I didn’t know how to make crumpets. How he liked them. On those days where the only comfort was the crunch through the hot melting butter, it had to be just right. I was the only one who could. And I didn’t want anyone else to know. My love was poured out through food. Courgette pizza bases. Yogurt with fresh fruit and chopped nuts. Broccoli with chilli salt. Sometimes it was all I could do. I steady myself on the kitchen wall. I defiantly spread jam. It’s hot. And sticky. And delicious.

In Ben’s final days eating stopped. I still shopped for him. He asked for ice cream. I delivered it in a children’s bowl with a small spoon. “Sauce?” barely a whisper. I laugh, triumphantly running back from the kitchen and squeezing the bottle with delight. I made 3 bowls that day. All of them melted, uneaten, but the taste on his lips made him smile. A grin so wide I lost myself in it.

Like so many if the everyday things, shipping is something I must do. The ache lessens each time. There, in the aisles of the supermarket, I am discovering myself. I may have replaced chicken soup for minestrone, but I will always toast my crumpets twice.

 

Back to school

The end of the summer. The girls are equally excited to see their friends and full of trepidation. It could be the start if any other school year, but it isn’t. 
The summer has been an opportunity to enjoy each other. To figure out how, as a family, we feel. How we do things without Daddy. And mostly we have carried on the same.  Holidays, lazy days in front of the tv, late nights, a time free from the stresses of everyday life. Aside from the obvious, it has been wonderful. I am proud of what I have achieved and I know Ben would be too. Of course, we all would rather have him here… but it has been our summer and we have embraced it. 

But with this comes a lack of routine and structure. That, I have been craving. Noting the school year starting people had said to me “that’s going to be hard”. Is it? Why?

Grieving with children in the house has been hard. Picking up toys has been hard. Packing 3 children and driving to Norfolk on my own was hard!! Scheduling in a cry isn’t really an option that works. Not in those moments that take you by surprise and squeeze your soul to tight you can’t breathe. Even a good day can turned around as a small voice whispers “I miss daddy”. That has been incredibly hard. 

This week I have taken a long bath, been for a run in the rain, started ballet classes, seen my parents, had a massage, met friends for lunch and coffee, gently begun returning to work. It has actually been really good. I have looked after myself. 

I haven’t cried as much as thought I would. But when I have felt the tears prickle and the pain rise in my chest, I have done so harder and more openly than those days full of sunshine and smiles have allowed. I have let the grief wash over me and felt it. It’s felt good. 

I wonder if I should be doing worse than I am. But the truth is I’m used to being independent. Yes, I miss him on the school run. Yes, the girls wish he was waiting at the gate with me. But we have done it, we have made it through the first week. And he has very much been there. I have invited him in and he has held my hand on the way home after dropping them off. 

There hasn’t been any horrible awkward moments… I haven’t allowed there to be any. The first sign of a head tilt in my direction has been greeted with a smile and an honest answer. I am, once again, immensely proud of what our family has achieved. 

We are learning, every moment, to live a life without Ben. This is devastating. But I have a choice to make, I can let my heartbreak overwhelm me or I can learn to live with it. I can thank God for every day I am given and find the blessings. 

Now for the weekend… and I only just put away the lego! 

2 months and 1 day

I’m dragged from sleep. The reality jolts me. In the moment before I open my eyes I have felt your legs entwined in mine. Your arm wrapped around my waist stroking that soft part. 

Where are you? 

The loss is as tangible as the heat you once radiated. Your breath on my now cold shoulder. Good morning my love. 

The kettle boils. The children scrape their bowls, splattering milk on the table. The routine automatic. I have hidden your mugs so I’m not tempted to fill one. I make fresh coffee the way you would on a Sunday morning. The grind sticking in the sink. I wish I could complain about it again. 

The familiarity brings tears. A longing so deep. Love that has no where to go. Did I tell you enough? Of course you knew. But now words are all I have, silently screamed into the universe in the hope you will hear. 

Do I imagine the response? 

I lean into the grief, into your arms. Neither will break or give. There is no weakness in my love and the hurt is fuelled by it. And in there burns another desire. In the hot wet tears I find my own strength. It must not fail me now. It cannot. 

I listen to your chest. The delight in every beat. You kiss me and go for a run. Just a quick one before church. 

I breathe. 

I start another day. Another month without you.