The Wallowing Tart

Over the last week or so, I’ve wallowed. At various times I’ve snivelled, wept quietly, noisily bawled my eyes out, had days where I didn’t want to get out of bed because I couldn’t see the point of doing so, got angry, punched pillows, and generally felt like I was back wading through neck deep treacle again.

In the middle of all this, I got a last minute invitation to go to a ball. Seeing as the invite was received via a text message at one o’clock in the morning, and I was mid wallow, my initial reaction was to decline. A few hours later, at a sensible time of the morning, I spoke to my friend who managed to persuade me to go, on the understanding that if I found it too difficult I would leave.

So I became a wallowing, wading-through-treacle woman with a mission – finding a suitable dress to wear.

I have a fear of wearing the wrong clothes for occasions. I know exactly why I have this fear and it’s nothing to do with Little Bo Peep - that I can laugh at. But this particular memory still has the ability to make me feel very hot with embarrassment, even though it happened a long time ago.

When I was in my mid twenties and the children were still young, eating out occasionally consisted of trips to Macdonalds and the like, and nights out were virtually nonexistent. Significant Other and I were invited out by his brother and his wife for dinner one evening to what they described as a posh restaurant.

A few days before we were due to go, I got Significant Other to question my brother-in-law about the restaurant’s poshness, as I needed to decide what to wear. “You need to dress up,” was the all information I got – nothing about where we were actually going, and at the time I didn’t think to question it.

The evening arrived and I totally dressed up for it. I looked good. I felt great. Significant Other was impressed; hell, I was impressed.

A little while later I didn’t feel so great. And to say I felt distinctly unimpressed would be an understatement.

I was overdressed.

Way, way overdressed.

I looked so out of place, I looked like I’d been hired for the night.

Oh, it was a nice restaurant alright, but definitely not one that would be classed as posh. Believe me, words were spoken later about exactly what constituted posh, because as far as I was concerned a bloody fish and chip restaurant in Leyton (or Leytonstone, I can’t remember), East London did not come under that category.

I was so embarrassed I wanted to go home to get changed, but it wasn’t practical to do that, so I just had to brazen it out. Then something happened a bit later that added to my misery.

We’d had our meal and were enjoying drinks at our table. Conversation was flowing and I was sort of managing to forget I was dressed like a hooker. Bro-in-law cracked a joke. Unfortunately for me, I’d just taken a mouthful of drink so, being unable to laugh out loud and to prevent spraying my drink over my sister-in-law, I snorted.

And blew a snot bubble.

Oh joy.

A tart with a party trick.

Nice.

Even now, thinking about it makes me cringe. I was beyond mortified at the time. The ground opening up and swallowing me whole wouldn’t have been good enough – I wanted to be transported to a galaxy far, far away. Further, if possible.

Ever since that night I always, unsurprisingly, without fail, question very carefully what the dress code is to wherever I’m going. And I also make sure I have a hanky tucked away somewhere.

Anyway, I went to the ball suitably dressed and thankfully performed no party tricks.

Did it help lift me from the pit of wallow? Yes, a bit. It reminded me that life goes on regardless, no matter what personal misfortunes and tragedies may be lurking in the background of almost everyone’s lives.

Besides.

Eating a bloody Christmas dinner in November gave me something else to think about. As did pulling Christmas crackers and being told I should wear the paper hat. I think my wordless act of tearing up the paper hat rather than wear it in November spoke volumes regarding my feelings on that subject. Being wished a Merry Christmas in November also got up my nose.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again…

Bah humbug.

Time Out

I’ve found grief can sneak up on me at the most unexpected of times, triggered by maybe coming across a piece of paper Significant Other had written on for example, or seeing a particular brand of milkshake on a supermarket shelf that he really liked. Sometimes it’s a momentary sadness - a realisation that he won’t be home at the end of the day; I won’t hear him calling my name again; I can’t phone him; things we can’t talk over.

At the moment, it’s a much deeper pain, plus a sense of nothing being right and never being right again.

I’ve been feeling more and more unsettled over the past few days. For some reason, and there is no particular event such as a special date looming, the night Significant Other died has been on my mind a lot, which has been quite distressing.

I rarely think of that night now, choosing instead to recall our years together, rather than the time from when he went into hospital and the last six months of his life. Because remembering his death is so painful, I am aware there are times I deliberately avoid thinking of it; when it creeps into my thoughts, I shut it out, purposely blocking the memory which, perhaps, is not particularly healthy.

Much of the time I can see a humorous side to most things, and I focus on the positives in my life. At the moment though, I can’t. I do know I have much to look forward to, but right now I need to let this wash over me and to let it pass, which it will.

As my friend, Thistle, said to me some time ago:

“Shite and it sucks, but that’s widow world.”

Another Step

Last autumn, I went through Significant Other’s clothes and basically divided them into two; items I could part with – typically things that he hardly ever, or never wore – and items I wasn’t ready to part with. I ended up with a wardrobe full of clothes, and there they’ve hung for the last year.

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been gearing myself up to sort through that wardrobe. Over the last few weeks I’ve woken and wondered whether I’d do it that day. Each day, I felt I couldn’t, but I could also sense the day coming closer.

Yesterday morning when I woke up, I knew.

It was time.

I opened the wardrobe doors, then knowing what I was about to do, nearly closed them again, almost, but not quite, panicking:

I can’t do this.

Why do I have to do this?

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I’m not ready.

Maybe he’ll be back.

No, he’s not coming back.

This is too hard.

I’ll do it another day.

Wait.

You can do this.

I started taking clothes off hangers, checking pockets as I did so, folding them, putting them into piles ready to be bagged up, or thrown away.

Memories associated with some of those clothes hit me:-

The clothes he wore when working on cars.

A garish shirt he used to wear for a laugh at family barbecues.

A belt I had to buy at the last minute, because he’d forgotten to pack his usual one for a wedding we attended a few hundred miles away from home, and his trousers were in real danger of pooling around his knees.

As I gradually emptied the wardrobe, every now and again I thought I caught a faint whiff of him.

Or was that wishful thinking?

I also made a separate very small pile, comprised of items I want to keep.

When I was done, I loaded the bags into my car and drove to the Cancer Research UK charity shop. Walking away from there afterwards was damn hard. Getting home and seeing the empty wardrobe almost made me want to run back to the shop and get his things back.

Parting with such personal possessions is now another step I’ve taken – it’s not bravery, it’s part of ‘letting go’ (a term I personally don’t like, but I appreciate the meaning). A process many before me the world over have taken, and many more will undertake.

Yet for each person, it’s such an individual step, done at a time when you think you feel strong enough to deal with the onslaught of emotions again. It is difficult, if not almost impossible, to bag up aspects of a loved one’s life, remove them from the house and not feel that overwhelming sense of loss all over again.

I don’t need his clothes in the wardrobe to remember him by; however it was comfortable knowing they were there.

But sometimes the easy thing to do isn’t always the right thing to do.

A Week of Lows and Highs

Hello to Liz at Backward Leonard. I’m glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t like snakes - I had to hold my hand over my eyes while scrolling down when reading that particular post. The chicks were MUCH better! And yes, you do deserve an award, you’re a braver woman than I am!

Hello too, to Edith at Edith Hope’s Garden Journal. I have to tell you Edith, that I was sitting here at my computer this morning, slowly waking up, drinking my coffee, and catching up with many unread posts. Then I wandered over to your most recent post. I am now wide awake.

I’ve had a very mixed week this week.

There have been a quite few ‘wtf, did-you-leave-your-brain-in-bed-this-morning? moments.
 

 
 
I tried making a cup of coffee with a fork. I have no idea whatsoever why I picked a fork up from the cutlery draw instead of a spoon. What was worse, while forking coffee from the jar into the mug, I got annoyed it was taking so long.
 
Only after the sixth or seventh time of the fork-coffee-mug process did it dawn on me a fork was not the implement to be using.
 
All I can put it down to, plus my other less than brilliant moments of wtf stupidity, is I’ve had a lot on my mind this week.
 
That’s not to say my head is usually empty - it’s not a case of shake my head and if you’re lucky you might hear the sound of a lone thought rattling round in there, but over the last several days I seem to have been incapable of thinking and doing different things at the same time. My multi-tasking skills have been put to the test and have failed miserably.
 
I also had a moment this week where, very inappropriately, I wanted to laugh out loud, but had to and managed to thank goodness, rein it in.
 
Where was I?
 
A funeral.
 
The last funeral I went to was Significant Other’s and to be perfectly honest, I was a little apprehensive about attending this one.
 
During one of the prayers, my attention wandered slightly and someone did something that made me want to laugh. My laughter, albeit unseemly given the occasion, would have, for the most part, been a release of nervous tension.
 
All thoughts of laughter disappeared though, when Andrea Bocelli’s Time To Say Goodbye rang out from the sound system. Beautiful, yet almost unbearable at the same time.
 
Something I found very poignant and uplifting a short while later, was the sight of a small child happily scampering amongst gravestones while her mother tended a grave.
 
This week I received the news that a friend’s younger brother died unexpectedly. Hearing about it knocked me for six.
 
This week I got to see my brother Pipeman, and my sister which was good. Living in different parts of the country and having busy lives, we don’t get to see each other too often, so it’s great to catch up when we do get together.
 
(Note to Pipeman: Now you’re getting on a bit, your memory seems to be failing you a touch. Although I’m older than you, I don’t forget we share the same birthday.
 

This means, unsurprisingly, every year when you wake up on that date and you think, “Oh crap, another year older. Ah what the hell, it’s just a number,” I am having that thought. On the same day.
 
This means, unsurprisingly, when you are opening your card from Mum and Dad, I’m opening my card from Mum and Dad. On the same day.
 
This means, unsurprisingly, when someone says, “Happy Birthday” to you, I too am being wished the same at some point. On the same day.
 
Just sayin’. ;D
 
Nice to see you by the way.)
 
This week my house looks like a bomb has hit it.
 
I’ve been methodically picking my way through the debris – clothes, shoes, jewellery, books and DVD’s. I’ve been sifting and shifting, and I’ve been trying my hardest to restore the place to its former tidy state.
 
What happened?
 
Did my house get burgled?
 
No.
 
Burglars would have been tidier.
 
If someone broke in now, they’d take one look at the place and think, “Shit, it’s already been done over,” then leave.
 
There is a very good reason why the house looks like it’s been hit by a Javelin missile.
 
Not burglars.
 
Nor a severe weather system, occurring only on the inside of my house.
 
It’s not the consequences of a party that got out of control.
 
It also wasn’t me running amok because I decided I missed the chaotic condition it used to be in.
 
Nope, none of the above.
 
This is the aftermath of…
 
Youngest Daughter returning home.
 
She found her self-appointed task to drink the island of Majorca dry of alcohol was easier said than done. She gave it a bloody good go though and has some tales to tell. Her story about one of the girls she was sharing an apartment with getting very drunk and passing out on the sofa, face down in a pizza, made me laugh like a drain.
 
After getting fed up of having a fairly poor diet, missing rain (she’ll be so-orry) and dealing with arsey holiday makers, she packed her bags, clicked her heels together and said three times, “There’s no place like home”.
 
So I’m now back in Mother mode. Amongst other things I, in said mode, am in the process of clearing the crap strewn about, sorting the washing out (why are all her knickers full of holes? Wtf?? Dodgy washing machine in the apartment was the answer I got. Uh huh) and putting it all away.
 
Being in Mother mode also means, “You mess your room up, I’ll kick your butt from here into next week.
 
Nice to see you by the way”.

If Sensitive To Swearing - Do Not Read

The Widower has reared his head again.

I’ve managed to avoid a lot of his calls by simply ignoring the phone – I have caller display. If you haven’t got it, get it. Veeeerrry useful.

(I’d like to issue a warning here. This post is going to involve an abundant use of the ‘f’ word. In previous posts where I’ve let off a bit of steam, I’ve restrained myself, but I’m not going to today. Yes, I know it's not big and it's not clever, but I don't care.

If you are of a sensitive nature, click away now. Go and Google raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens or something.)

The Widower turned up unannounced the other afternoon.

Fucker.

He was in the area and wanted to check up on me (hot weather = less clothing = increased perving opportunities methinks).

Fucker.

Apparently, he promised Significant Other he’d ‘keep an eye on me’.

Lying fucker.

He wanted a progress report.

Oh fuck off.

“Any inroads made in the garage?”

Yes, I have been in the garage, you fucking irritating bastard.

“I see you still have the vans. Any movement on those?”

There will be - they're going to get shoved right up your fucking arse.

“What about the sheds?”

If there’s room, the contents of the sheds can go up there too.

“It’s important not to shut yourself away”.

How many times do I have to say it? I haven’t fucking shut myself away, you fucking moron.

“Do you get out much?”

Yes I do, and that would come under ‘I haven’t shut myself away’ you fucking dozy pillock.

“New Lady stays with friends for a few days occasionally. When she’s away, I’ll give you a ring and I’ll treat you to lunch.”

I don’t fucking think so.

“Are you keeping yourself occupied?”

Yes, I occupy myself by thinking of how many ways there are to get you to fuck right off.

“And what about company? You must get lonely.”

What the fuck has it got to do with you? Fuck off and mind your own business.

“You must miss… hugs.”

Billy Connolly will express my sentiments at this point:

And off he will fuck indeed.

Don't Sweat The Small Stuff

For all that I joke, for all that I am able to see the funny side of most things, for all that I am able to poke fun at myself and others, I harbour a constant deep, deep sadness. Nowadays a permanent dull ache, it occasionally rears up and hits me when I least expect it. Hard.

While looking on Facebook earlier today, I felt like I had been body slammed. A friend mentioned within her status that she is celebrating her twenty eighth wedding anniversary. A sharp bolt of envy ripped through me, and I felt an enormous sense of unfairness. I feel, no, that’s wrong, I have been cheated of what should have been.

It was all I could do to offer some sort of congratulations – in fact, I couldn’t even write words, I just put two kisses - I felt it would have been churlish not to acknowledge the event.

Significant Other’s death has affected me in all sorts of ways.

From the day he was diagnosed, I witnessed Significant Other’s rapid deterioration. I was not ‘just’ his wife, I became his carer, his nurse, his voice, his protector.

After being told my husband had only months to live - a diagnosis that came out of the blue; after living with for months (amongst everything else) a daily fear due to impending spinal cord compression, which would have paralysed him from the chest down and hastened his death; after seeing him suffer multiple pulmonary emboli due to chemotherapy and nearly dying two months after diagnosis; after seeing him going into shock in front of me - with his blood pressure so low it got nurses running; after being told the disease had spread to his brain; after having to go along with, and reason through with him, his sometimes bizarre hallucinations so as not to agitate him; after having to discuss Do Not Resuscitate orders with doctors; after holding him as he breathed his last; after somehow pulling and holding myself together for his funeral, now, with the exception of something unpleasant happening to people I care about, I am almost unshockable.

He had a very laid back attitude, and I didn’t. “Don’t sweat the small stuff” was often heard when I started stressing about things I thought were important. Now, I totally ‘get’ what he meant - it’s not worth it, it’s really not important. In the grand scheme of things, priorities really do get put into perspective. My priorities are my family and other people I care about. That’s it.

I don’t make any long term plans for anything now, nothing further than perhaps for the following week. I refuse to. I had plans covering the next twenty or more years, but they were cremated last year. For the most part, I live day-to-day. Whether that will change given time, I have no idea.

It irritates the hell out of me now when I hear friends moaning about their other halves for something trivial, and saying they wish they were on their own. I know they’re only letting off steam, and yes, like them I have been guilty of the same thing, we’ve all done it from time to time. But now I always think and have once or twice commented on the fact that they don’t appreciate just how lucky they are, and do they really think they’d be better off alone? Can they truly comprehend what they’re wishing for? If nothing else, use my situation as an example and think - be very careful what you wish for.

Although I mourn what I don’t have anymore, I am very appreciative and grateful for what I do have.

And I don’t sweat the small stuff.

Mind Your Own Damn Business!

Or should it be 'Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here'? Ah well, whatever.

I've found that since acquiring widow status, aspects of my life now seem to be up for discussion, with me, by people who I would class as acquaintances. People who are on the edges of my social circle and with whom I do not, and don't want to have deep and meaningful, personal conversations. I have family and close friends to do that with.

The main culprit is a retired widower, who feels particularly qualified to talk to me (or rather, at me) about 'moving on', because he knows exactly how I feel (er, no you don't, see 15 Things Not To Say point number 2) as he's been there, done it. 

I also get the impression that being female (i.e. weak and feeble), Widower thinks I have shut myself away and sit here weeping and wailing all day - well pal, I haven't and I don't and trust me, I use the term 'pal' very loosely. Also, just to clarify, there is no sign above my door that says 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here'. I am however, considering a sign saying 'Sod Off!' for the door, to be used as and when necessary.

I've been given unwanted and unasked for advice on when and how I should sort through Significant Other's clothes, because "the best way is to sort through things like that is as soon as possible".  

Other topics recently have included sorting and clearing the contents of my garage and shed (which are mammoth tasks - another day, another post perhaps) and Significant Other's ashes. They should all have been dealt with by now, after all, it's been over a year since Significant Other died. Oh, how stupid of me, I hadn't realised there was a time limit.

Then it moves onto the biggie. As a weak and feeble female I shouldn't be on my own, I should now start a search for a new man.

As an aside, I firmly believe friendship and love are to be found when they're least expected and can be found in the most unexpected of places. I have a friend who was desperate, with a capital D, to find a life partner. He tried bars, clubs, online dating - you name it, he tried it with no success. What happened? He went shopping in a supermarket and met a lady with whom he is now very loved up. Not unusual enough? Try this. I know of a couple who met while they were both patients staying in hospital. They've been together for years now. So you see, don't go looking for it; when the time is right, friendship and love will find you.

Enough of that, back to my spleen venting.

I have been told the time is right to move on. 

I have been enlightened on the fact there is nobody decent to be found in a pub, or a club.

I have been warned online dating is a big no-no.

I have been informed the way forward is to look at personal adverts in the Telegraph because "you get a better class of person there, rather than one of the red-top newspapers".

I have been regaled with stories of who he met and how unsuitable they were for him (eh?). 

Guess what? Widower met a lady, who he now lives with (well, isn't she the lucky one...), not through a personal ad, but by pure chance at a golf club. See? It comes back to the point I made above.

But anyway...

Excuse Me? W...T...F...??

Why should I search for a man? Putting that to one side, the bigger question is, what business is it of his? I'm sitting here trying to coherently write my thoughts on this, but all I can think of are numerous expletives, varying from the mild to the outrageous, although truth be told I'm leaning heavily towards a stream of the downright offensive.

I will sort through the rest of Significant Other's clothes - a few months ago I went through them and took several bags to a charity shop. There are still some items to go through. The garage and shed have been started.

I almost scattered Significant Other's ashes a few weeks ago in Cornwall but it was too windy - I would have ended up wearing them. I had visions of being asked what I was covered in and replying, "my husband"! Cue horrified faces and much backing away. How to clear a bustling harbour in thirty seconds or less. Forgive my black humour.

When I am ready I will do what needs to be done. I have no intention of living in a time capsule, but I do not need to be told what to do, particularly by someone I don't know too well. I know myself and I know when the time is right for me to tackle things. Anybody who possesses more empathy than a toenail clipping would understand that. I will not be pushed into anything by anyone.

End of rant. Phew.

15 Things Not To Say

There are many things said to someone who has been bereaved to offer comfort. I've had all sorts of things said to me. However well-meant most of them were, some of them just rubbed me up the wrong way. Big time in some cases. If you find yourself faced with a newly bereaved person, I can't tell you the 'right' thing to say, perhaps apart from "I'm so sorry". But I can tell you what not to say.

Everything listed here has been said to me;  I think many of them are pretty much bog-standard words of consolation given to someone who's grieving. Bereaved people are very sensitive to what's being said, particularly in the early days.

What's written below is geared towards the death of a spouse. I cannot comment about talking to someone who is grieving the death of a parent, sibling or child, because that's outside my experience, although I would think a few of the points listed may be said and the reaction would be similar.

I've written how I felt about these comments to show you how easy it is to unintentionally cause offense. After speaking to other widows who received similar comments, I now know my thoughts match theirs. Please, please, please take note of the list below and don't say any of them.

1. Time is a great healer
Someone said this to me in the presence of another widow. We both looked at each other and said 'that's bollocks'. Yes, somewhat curt, but very succinct.

Time gives you the opportunity to adjust, to learn to live with it. It does not heal.

2. I know how you feel
No. You. Don't. You have no idea how I feel, the same as I would have no idea how you'd feel, if it were you. We are all unique, we all feel things in different ways.

From the relatively newly accquired perspective that I wish I didn't have, I now have an inkling how another bereaved person may feel if their spouse dies, but I would never presume I know what they feel.

3. Everything happens for a reason
You know this personally do you? Who gave you the authority to make this assumption? If this 'happened for a reason', explain it to me, because I sure as heck would like to know what it is.

4. You're still young and attractive, you won't be on your own for long
I have big, big, major issues with this one. It made me want to slap people. Hard. I found it extremely offensive, insensitive and insulting.

Incredibly, the first time this was said to me was just over a month before Significant Other died. Yes, before. Made my jaw drop. Significant Other was laying in our bed, not quite morphined up to the eyeballs, but still very much alive.

The next time I heard it was at the funeral. And in the weeks after. All by different people. Was this supposed to make me feel better in some way? Give me something to look forward to perhaps? If people want to speculate about this with their husbands/wives/partners/boyfriends/girlfriends, then fine. But do not have that conversation with me. Ever.

Eventually I started responding by asking if they thought Significant Other was equivalent to a goldfish who'd died, been flushed down the loo and should therefore quickly be replaced while shouting, "next!"

5. You've been so strong / amazing
No, I'm not, I'm just winging it.

6. I couldn't have coped the way you have 
I've had to cope, I wasn't given any option or choice.

7. If it happened to me, I'd die
Hang on, does this mean I didn't love Significant Other very much, as I am still alive and so therefore you must love your husband/partner/boyfriend that much more deeply to not be able to survive his death? There must be something wrong with me.

8. You've lost weight / You're so slim now, I wish I could be as slim as you
My response? I call it the 'I'm Sorry, Your Husband Is Terminally Ill Diet'. I really don't recommend it. I'd rather have the two and a half stone and Significant Other back than be the weight I am now.

9. How are you / Are you okay?
Duh.

How do you think I am? Do you really want me to tell you, or do you want me to tell you "I'm fine" to make you feel better?

Do you think I'm okay with all this? Of course I'm not okay.

Stupid questions.

10. If there's anything you need, let me know
While I understood the sentiment behind this, it wasn't helpful. My thoughts were: what I need is Significant Other, but that ain't gonna happen. Apart from that, at times I can barely remember my own name, or how to brush my hair, let alone think of something I need.

11. You're doing / coping so well
Again, just winging it.

12. Will you move house?
Said shortly after the funeral. Move house? I'm having trouble moving my head off my pillow at the moment.

13. I'll help you clear Significant Other's shed / garage out
Timing not great on this one. The 'offer' was made three days after the funeral. I politely declined. Even though I felt like I was wading through treacle that was above my head, I recognised what they actually wanted was first pickings. Haven't heard from that particular person since. No loss there.

14. You're lucky, you've experienced the sort of love that many people don't, I've never had that
Might as well say 'good for you. Even though you've witnessed the deterioration and death of Significant Other and your life has now changed forever (and sucks), you've still had it better than I ever have'. Thanks, so glad you feel envious of me. Makes me feel so much better about it all. Not.

15. She lost her husband (on being introduced to someone)
No, actually I wasn't careless enough to lose him. I didn't misplace him. He died.

I know it's difficult to know what to say. A few months ago, even I, when faced with trying to find the words to say to someone grieving for their father, struggled with it. But I knew what to avoid saying.

Lastly, but also as important, this last bit of advice is for any male readers out there:

Don't hit on a grieving widow

I'm not entirely sure or convinced on the motivation behind this. Another way of offering 'comfort'? Yeah, right. I called them Offers To Console A Grieving Widow (and that's the polite version), but all I can say is: Just. Don't. Do. It. Or you'll be labelled a twat of the highest order and treated accordingly.