Ramblings of a Reluctant Widow

On the widows group I'm now part of (yay, another club nobody wants to join has welcomed me with opened arms....woop woop!) they term non-widows "muggles". There are posts most days starting with "I can't post this on muggle Facebook, I know you guys'll get it....."  I've just typed and deleted a post on muggle Facebook. I just can't say what I need to say there, not without regret anyway. If I was going to post it'd be: I've had a good day today! I saw my boss and had a great chat about my thoughts on how it might look when I feel ready to return to work. She's open to my suggested plan to enable a manageable work/life balance. I'm so lucky to have her! Plus had a lunch time walk with a good friend who then helped me get the Christmas decorations out of the loft.  But I'd then want to add: But, there's also that deep deep hurt that just won't go away. A physical pain in my chest. I feel so let down by people who reall

It's an actual thing you know.  Honestly- you can google it. I read an article about it yesterday.  It compared the unexpected death of a partner to a traumatic brain injury-in terms of the trauma and the time to recovery.   It was an interesting read, but also validating and importantly, reassuring.  So it's normal and expected that I can't concentrate; that I have constant brain fog; forget where my keys/phone/wallet are several times a day; went to queue for coffee and cake at M&S cafe and left my purse at the table; rarely know what day it is let alone what I'm meant to be doing.  Thank goodness for my kitchen whiteboard is all I can say.  It's also reassured me around feeling that returning to work is a long way off.  You start to worry, when every other person you see asks you if you're back at work/when you're planning to go back....when your in laws categorically tell you to back because "that's how you heal" FFS.  The reality is, a

Who'd have thought buying next year's calendar would be a trigger? Well, I didn't. Perhaps I should have.  Thinking back, new year 2012 was awful for us both, as we felt like we were leaving "Bertie's year" behind us. For whatever reason, I hadn't though of that this time.  Anyway, standing infront of a selection of calendars the gut-punch hit me:  I don't need a "family planner" any more. There won't be a "daddy" column in 2022. Shit.  I usually spend some time choosing a calendar- I've got to put up with it all year afterall.  I'm a calendar girl (not that kind!) I like to write stuff down and have it on the kitchen wall- I don't use my phone at all.  It was an ongoing marital bicker between Mark and I- he used google calendar and I used the wall calendar. If our stuff wasn't on the other's preferred format it wasn't happening- which got us into a few scrapes and double bookings over the last few years!

I've written before about how much better Oliver is at dealing with our loss than I am. He's so matter of fact about it.  I don't know if it's young vs older, boy vs girl or just his personality is more like his dad than me.   Either way I guess it's a good thing. No good would come from us both falling apart. I just wish I could have a bit of warning when he's about to say something that will throw me off kilter. Example. We were walking home from a birthday party on Saturday and he had some bubbles in his party bag.  "Let's blow some bubbles to daddy!" he declares opening up the tub.  What a lovely idea! I reply and we watch them out of sight with me secretly hoping they don't burst before they are out of sight so I can let him believe daddy will catch them.  I did well, just a silent tear, no sobs or audible cries....but he noticed. Of course he did. My wonderful, kind, perceptive boy always notices.  And tells it like it is. "When you

Riding on the high of yesterday I thought I was on a roll. I put together a meal plan for the next few days, curated a shopping list including Christmas gifts for the family and headed off into town to buy it all.  The plan was to get Christmas boxed off in November so I don't have to be out there amongst all the December crazies when I'm likely to be going a different kind of crazy myself.   " I'm doing welI" I thought, so proud of myself. " Get me, out and about in town like a normal grown up person with my to do list and everything ."  I really shouldn't have glossed over the parking in the wrong car park for a start thing, that was a clear warning my head was not doing so well as I wanted to believe. Anyhoo, I moved the car then off I toddled to get everything I needed. A few shops and I'd be done.  Easy. By the time I got to Tesco I was struggling. I did it, but boy was it hard. I wasn't expecting it to be so hard. People.... noise...

 Today, I feel the best I've felt since Mark died.  I thought it was important to write that down. It's very easy to focus on the negative and gloss over or take for granted the good. Like a consumer quick to complain but slow to compliment. So I'll say it again Today, I feel the best I've felt since Mark died.  I have left a couple of wattsapp groups that were not helping me and infact were making me feel worse. My counselor helped me to see that that isn't selfish or passive agressive, but making a stand and setting a boundary, and yes, putting myself first for a change.  It feels good.  I've had a big blitz in the kitchen and am slowly clearing out the detritus and clutter 20- odd years of living with a hoarder has accumulated. Amazing what I just learned to tolerate over the years. Well. As someone who should know better said to me the day after the funeral "look at this as a new start for you and Oliver"....Today I am.

I'm riding a big grief wave today.  The antidepressants are starting to take their toll, three days in and I'm extremely tearful.....possibly better than the numbness I felt yesterday? I'm not sure. Physically they are making me nauseous, shaky and a racing heart.  I've been given a beta blocker to counteract that.  I don't like taking medications, and certainly don't want to be taking pills to counteract the pills, but I committed to this so I'm ploughing on and following the advice.   I was a little foolish earlier and phoned the stone masons to organise a plaque for Mark's resting place.  It's one of the final bits of sad-min to do and I wanted it boxed off.  I completely broke down on the phone; the poor man was lovely and suggested I call him back.  Cue a text to my mum to ask her to do it for me.  I should be stressing over his Christmas gift not a memorial stone. FFS.  Facebook keeps showing me ads for memorial jewellery.  And singles holidays

After an honest chat with my GP including admitting the intrusive thoughts and being open about feeling overwhelmed, he agreed to prescribe a mild antidepressant to help. So I took my first half dose today.  Mixed feelings. After Bertie died I was adamant I didn't want them. I was not depressed, I was grieving and I needed to feel it all and not walk around in a fog. This time, I recognise there are elements of depression, and definite anxiety about the future. I don't have the luxury of hiding in bed all day this time, I'm a lone parent and Oliver needs me well and functioning. And beyond that, I don't want to just function, I want to enjoy our life together whilst he's still so small. I lost my early 30s to severe depression, I won't lose Oliver's single digit years too. I just won't allow it. I'm nervous, as I'm told it gets worse before it gets better with SSRIs.... But forewarned is forearmed and I have my support army around me.  A few more

Tears and meltdowns. And not from the 5 year old. I sit sobbing on his bedroom floor because I can't fix the bloody mousetrap board.    "I know why you've got sad mummy....Look at this picture of the water log slide. Remember when daddy went on the log slide? It was sooo funny, it made a huge splash!"   How did he become the adult and me the child needing comfort?

I've been asked this question many times over the past few weeks, and it's a fair one.  How are you sleeping? Are you managing to sleep?, How's sleep going? Or a variation of these.  So how is my sleep? Well, I'm starting to get some. Average probably 4-6 hours a night.  Takes me back to the crazy new born days when a stretch of 4 hours meant I could function the next day.  It's not actually sleep that's the issue you see, it's the waking up. Every time I wake up, I remember: He's gone. Forever.  I'm trying to remember how long that lasted after Bertie died. At which day/week/month did his absence stop being the first conscious thought of every day?....or was it years? I can't remember.  I thought I had an advantage over grief this time, having done it before.  Seems I was wrong. I'm just as clueless, my arms flailing as I try and tread water...only it's not water it's treacle.  I'm struggling with the thought that he no longer ph

I've said to people a few times that "puddle jumping" is God's gift to children. To help them manage their grief and not be overwhelmed by it. They can grieve for a moment them move onto something else. It protects their little minds.  Well, I've got an issue with this. Why can't grown ups retain the ability to puddle jump? What about my mind huh?  I've had a good go at it this morning. First thing Oliver asked me today was "I wonder what daddy's up to in Heaven?". Ooh good question I said (silently thinking hold it together Sarah, hold it together...) It was a misty morning so we wondered whether perhaps daddy had helped make the mist. Oliver decided that God wanted a thunderstorm and the people in Heaven helping him couldn't manage that so we got mist. "How big is Heaven mummy?" (hold it together Sarah, hold it together....) Well, I don't know babe, bigger than we can imagine I guess, because every person who has died is t

**PLEASE BE AWARE THIS BLOG POST DISCUSSES SELF HARM AND SUICIDE. PLEASE DO NOT CONTINUE TO READ IF THIS IS LIKELY TO UPSET YOU.  I AM NOT AT IMMEDIATE RISK OF SELF HARM**   So this is a hard one to write. But, if I'm not going to use this safe space to be honest then there's really not a lot of point in writing at all.  I have read that 6 weeks in is a particularly difficult time, and that seems to be the case for me. I'm not actually counting weeks as it is not helpful but I think that's approximately where we are up to. I suppose it comes from the fact that the busy-ness of visitors and funeral plans and solicitors and closing accounts and general sad-min are done and there's nothing left to do but think. Last night I was sat in the silence of the living room and I began experiencing intrusive thoughts.  It occurred to me that I could end this pain. I could just check out and go.  It was fleeting, and a thought much like thinking what shall I make for dinner? But

Have you ever felt like your life is an Eastenders storyline? That's where I am right now. On the 29th September 2021, the 10th anniversary of my first born's funeral, my husband passsed away. Fabulous timing my love; way to make a horrible month even harder.  So now I find myself 6 weeks in, the funeral is done (which, by the way, I pride myself on being the best I could have done for him) and life, for everyone else, has returned to normal whilst life for Oliver and I will never be the same again. Our lives are shattered.  As you will know (or if not, will now have learned) I'm no stranger to grief. I know all too well what to expect and it terrifies me.  I'm not allowing myself to go there yet because I have a little boy to look after and I simply cannot fall apart. I know that once I start to cry I won't stop for a very long time. So instead of facing grief head on I'm trying to do what Mark would have done and putting it in a box.  Trouble is it keeps lifti