London

For everyone who is running tomorrow… I wanted to republish this from 2016.

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The scan results were to be sent to London, a better picture of the situation to plan radiotherapy. Unpredictable, as cancer is, the plans have changed. The dormant tumor in his liver has awoken and we are awaiting surgery again.

Sitting in the familiar room I listened and took in the information. Later a huge wave of numbness washed over me. The next few days already seem to have been locked away in a place specially reserved for pain so they are almost unreachable. Almost. In order for them to be put there, the door had to be opened. As I peeped through the dusty shadows I saw fragments of the time he last had surgery. It’s too hard to remember, I cannot allow myself. It burns my heart and prickles my eyes and I shut it away again. I have allowed myself some time to cry, to explore that feeling without fully immersing myself in it. I know one day I will have to go there again, but right now I have plans.   

Another year older

I didn’t know what I would do. He liked to pretend he didn’t want a fuss but would grin in delight at presents in bed, a meal out with family, a special surprise. A time to remember the important things and indulge. I found it hard to choose the right gifts. Mainly because he would buy everything he wanted, but that wasn’t the point anyway. 

There was a strange anticipation of what people were telling me would be a difficult day. Why? What made this day any different? How could I possibly miss him more? Should I be doing something special? 

Daunted by the prospect I was grateful for others to take over. A family walk scheduled, the pressure relieved. A day of compassionate leave ready to fill, with what? Hopes of the future? Celebrating another year older? Too many questions, options, thoughts filling my head. I froze. 

“It’s daddy’s birthday tomorrow.” “Why didn’t you tell us?” Its not that I forgot, just that it was pressing so hard on my mind it hadn’t occurred to me they wouldn’t know. Should I buy them gifts instead? It’s too late now. We met a couple of weeks before his birthday. I asked the same question, “why didn’t you tell me!”

In the stillness of the morning, the darkness slowly lifting to the sound of the kettle, I made us breakfast in bed. Chocolate spread staining their grinning faces. I sit crosslegged imagining him there. We instinctively leave him space. A few people sent me cards. I miss him.

Pushing everything from my mind I set off in the car, the music too loud. There are times I think I should listen to ‘his’ music, music he likes but I don’t. He would listen to metal in the shower. I cried so hard, a pathetic attempt to feel close to him, on my knees naked in the bath while the clouds of steam filled the room. A strange sound rising from my chest. I don’t know how I stopped. 

I sit in a dark cinema, alone. It feels comfortable, I immerse myself in another world for that short time. Emerging back into the sunlight, blinking, another task overcome. We lived our cinema dates, it felt right. 

I think of the flowers sat on my table. A sudden realisation. This wasn’t my day, it belongs to another. A woman who 39 years ago brought this miracle of a man into the world, who felt a pain deep within her that was at once both agonising and beautiful. A woman who gazed into her babies eyes and, with that look of love, laid within him all her hopes and dreams. Promises only a mother can make in those incredible moments, as the realisation dawns that she has created life. She gave him this day. 

With the tea pot between us there is an unspoken understanding. We hold hands. I brought cake, but we share so much more. 

I went to the gym

I couldn’t face it. I had to walk past that damn sign. Imagine him making me take a selfie there. 
It’s not like we came together often, his sessions at 6am and mine at 9pm. Opposite sides of the same coin. Actually, not even the same coin. His was like one of those bright shiny new pounds. Mine is a beaten up penny that looks like it got run over. I got it in my change one day and should probably throw it out. But it’s stayed in my purse hoping the shine will rub off. 

Carrying Heidi home from school, arms tired from the day and the demands of a 5 year old that’s definitely getting too big. “You need to go to the gym Mummy, to be strong like Daddy.”

I told myself it was enough to work out in the living room. Determined to give myself and my children a better version of me. But I was hiding. Hiding from the possibility of it causing me pain. 

It built up in my mind. Would I look for his name on the sign in sheet knowing it wouldn’t be there. Entering the place he started running again after 18 months of bad news. Where he trained on the bikes. Built up muscle to be wasted while he recovered from surgery. Returning home glowing. Showing off, lifting the girls high above his head to squeals of delight. The place he went to fight for his life. 
How could I live up to that example. 

I couldn’t face it. Almost cancelling my membership I realise I have to meet it head on. I have to decide why I feel this way. I go in spite of myself. Too stubborn and determined for my own good. 

The treadmill moves slowly forward. Gathers speed. I keep up. This is ok, I can do this. A mile in and my body relaxes into the familiar routine. Don’t go too fast too soon Louise, pace yourself. Mile 2 and I take a moment. Slow to a walk. 

Ben would be proud. 

Then it hits me. Who would tell me they were proud of my slow 13 minute miles. Who would smile at me knowing the effort it took to go. Who would I fall into bed next to exhausted and tell me I looked beautiful. That was part of the routine. That was why I did it. I wanted to show him I valued his achievements. I never really did it for me. Coming here meant I had to go home and he won’t be there. 
I want to say it was wonderful. I want to say that I felt great as the endorphins flooded my system and I came home on a high. I didn’t. 

I know people will tell me “But he is proud!! He is watching you!!” This hurts. The ethereal Ben is no comfort in these moments. I want him to kiss me. I want him to be there as I peel off my clothes and get into bed. I want him to have a hot chocolate ready. I want to be back in time to give him his tablets. I want him to put his face in my hair, taste the salt on my skin. 

I went in spite of myself, and I’ve been again too. I haven’t yet decided how I feel. How this fits into the new version of me that is forced to exist without him. But I do know that I still need to be the best I can be. I just need to figure it out, another step on the treadmill of grief. That dirty little penny stuck in the corner of the purse. Too scared to throw it out. You never know, it might be lucky. 

3 months and 1 day

Since I held your hand. Kissed your lips. Since the moment I feared came and went in the dawn of a new morning. 

We lived our life in 3 month chunks. Recover from surgery, chemo, more surgery, chemo. 3 months until the next step. The next scan. The next challenge. 3 months to see if was working. 3 months of praying. Was it was still working? 

We never planned beyond. The only time we allowed this luxury the cancer returned and surgery was scheduled. I spent an hour on the phone to Disneyland trying to rearrange. Explaining why we couldn’t just claim on insurance. I was sat by the lifts in the hospital. A kind lady with sad eyes offered me a tissue. 

It felt momentous reaching this familiar milestone. Can I now plan beyond without fear? 

But there’s no appointment. No phone calls to family to let them know the outcome. 3 months of waiting ends. No doctor to tell us the plan. No new treatment to understand. So much has changed, yet I cling to that moment when you were here. When there was still hope of a future together. Waiting for guidance. 

I listen for your voice. The more time that passes the more I fear it will fade. It isn’t getting easier. The more time that passes the longer it’s been since you told me you love me. Smiled. Your eyes sparkling. The sure and certain knowledge of your love echoes through my heart causing a tear that rips through my body. It isn’t getting easier. But I have learned to feel the pain, to accept it as part of my being. It is evidence of my love. That makes me smile despite the tears. 

I long to plan our next 3 months. To imagine the new adventures we can have. There is still no looking beyond, it’s too distant. I’m too afraid. I move forwards on a path we set out, full of twists and turns. I can only see as far as the next corner. I live only in this moment. Yes, there are plans and hopes and dreams to accomplish. I am not defeated. Only wary of pointing to a place on the map that no longer exists. 

There was a time we whiled away the hours imagining our lives stretched out before us. It’s was never going to be simple. I was too headstrong and excited. I thought you would make my path straight. Your calming influence stilled my mind and made me focus. The direction changed long before the barrage of hospital visits. You changed with me. Walking a new path carved by our own footprints through the tall grass. 

Who am I without you? Are the choices I make ones you would be happy with? Does it matter? I am on this road alone. I hold my head high and stride on regardless, stopping occasionally to admire a sunset or the way the light shines through the trees. That is where I find you. 

Other times you are the quiet voice calming my frustrations with the children, the housework, the life you would do anything to have back. I know you would rather be here with us. Frustrating me more. 

We lived our life in 3 month chunks. One day I may dare to step beyond and look to a future without you there, but for now 3 months is enough. 

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.

The tide

She stands on the edge of the harbour, staring out across the horizon. The tide has gone out now. Anchors stuck in the mud, the boats bereft of water to keep them afloat. 

He comes up behind her. His arms wrapping around her waist tenderly. As she pulls him close he finds the soft part of her neck. She leans back to kiss him. 

I turn away. The children’s ice cream drips down their hands. A moustache of strawberry sauce. Giggles. 

The sand in my shoes is stuck between my toes. I empty it out into the path. The sun has shone. Sand castles have been built. Squeals of joy as they leap over the waves. I have laughed. Sang too loudly in the car. Handed out sweets. Eaten fish and chips sitting on a wall. The ingredients of a perfect holiday. 

I am happy. Yet there is an ache in my heart. 

The photos show true smiles, lit up by the joy only the seaside can bring. But they are missing a face. Not just his but my own. There is no one to remember me. He would have found my silhouette of black against the orange sun. 

These new memories are odd and out of place. It isn’t guilt. Old expectations married with a new reality. So similar, yet the differences are a stark reminder of what was. What can no longer be. I breathe in the salty air. 

Looking out across the harbour, the boats stuck in the mud, I wait for the tide to come in. For the sun to set on another day.  Waiting for his arms to wrap around my waist, his lips looking for the soft part of my neck.