The reality of it all

Not that I’ve ever faltered from it but I’m warning you that you’re about to hear the honesty I’ve promised you all along. I wish I could have a warning for the different depths of this journey, the different hurts that lay ahead. When I wrote last week about the dawn of November and the grief and fears it presented, I had no idea how raw, how fresh, how agonisingly all-consuming the pain could be again.

There is no other word for it than agony. It isn’t any better than just under a year ago when it was new. It isn’t any better than a few months in when the shock started to wear off. It isn’t like a medical condition that improves with time. Perhaps because I’m young there are different expectations because of all that I’m physically still able to do, but like the old widows with whom I’ve shared many conversations confirm, it doesn’t get better – it gets worse. It’s just different.

Car journeys have never been the same since Ems died. It’s not just his absence because I was often in the car without him; it’s that rather than simply be a mindless journey from one place to another, they’re now burdened with emotional heaviness as I have no escape from my own thoughtful company. Lately I find I rarely take a journey alone, long or short, without crying at some point if not all the way. I’d thought those days were behind me, saved now for the odd ‘special’ occasion, but no.

I’m unable to work out where on my face the burning pain is worse because both eyes and cheeks sting ferociously from relentless tears. Yet they both pale into insignificance compared to the weighty, excruciating throbbing of my shattered heart.

Tears spill into day time, into ordinary moments while daylight is upon us, rather than reserving themselves for the loneliness of nights without sweet Ems at my side. For a while I thought I had mastered control of my tears in public, grasped the ability to play it cool and not upset anyone, to make it easier for others. Now I once more find myself being asked by my boss if I’m 'ok' and without warning rivers flow; Now I stand in church singing and open my eyes to see the droplets of tears on the floor below me; Now I just can’t always promise to keep back the tears, hard as I try at times.

There is no monopoly on hurt. Many hurt around me and I hate it. I often wish that I had the monopoly on pain; that I wouldn’t have to see others suffer too. The one advantage of a broken heart is that it makes you far more sensitive to other’s pain. I've realised that God doesn’t just use us in spite of our brokenness; He actually uses our brokenness to reach out to others. There really needs to be some re-shift in our thinking that the most useful and effective people are the ones with no worries, no hurts, no pain, with the hard exteriors and perfect faces. When we let it, pain will fix our minds on something far greater because the only alternative is to focus on our pain and its harrowing affect on our lives, and that only ever leaves us in despair.

I scream ‘why me’ but I know I have no more rights than the next person. I have no right over anyone else to a long marriage. None of us do. I had no right over anyone else to the beauty of being in love with a man who was as equally and beautifully in love with me. I still don’t hold that right but I’m blessed with it.

I don’t love Ems any less than anyone who loves the husband right next to them. I don’t desire or need him any less. I don’t want to share the little details of the day with him any less. The love, the wants, the needs - they remain. The difference is solely that he’s not here. The wants and the needs remain frustrated; the love it continues to grow. Until you experience it you can’t possibly imagine it but though the days apart grow longer, the love grows deeper and the heart misses more; the love does not switch off – it is stronger than death and doesn’t change. You just begin to learn to live with only memories of whispers coming back your way; of his arms to hold you after the tough days; of him, your confidant, sharing your deepest fears and desires and fighting for them alongside you.

You begin to learn to live with it; but you still hate it.

I refuse to wallow in self pity. I have never demanded special treatment because of the pain I relentlessly carry. Though I cannot control my feelings, I can control what I choose to do or say, what passions I choose to run with, what purpose I’ll seek to fulfil. We can all choose that.

And so it goes, in the brutal honesty I have promised you; be encouraged that I still believe there is purpose in pain, but don’t think that the pain goes away. I run not because I am pain free, but in spite of it, because of it, knowing that the final destination will make all this worthwhile.

I remember when Ems died not just wishing I had the monopoly on hurt, that no one else would have to feel like I did, but also naively thinking that nothing else could hurt me now. How I wish we all had a quota so that once it was full we could feel no more hurt. But alas, even though my love and grief infiltrate every second and action of my waking day, and I start to believe I couldn’t possibly feel greater loss, more pain, there it is. And just as the grief surprises you with increased vigour, so other hurts are magnified in the light of your open wound. There is no hard shell for hurts to bounce off; it’s all absorbed, deeper and deeper into the gashes that one sweet day will be but memories themselves.

Running with an injury can make the injury flair up at times. But this isn’t a broken leg which can be rested before training resumes. Waiting for my broken-heart to heal is as little an option as waiting for Ems to walk back through the door. So do I stop? There are moments when desperation comes over me to run away from it all; but there is no escape route, there’s nowhere to run to, this isn’t a choice. I can choose to stop but I won’t; I’ll keep running. The stitch will pound and the knees will buckle, there’ll be dehydration, and long, slow hills, but I will run; not in spite of it all, but because of it all, and one day I’ll win.

[Memory #23 The "running" episode
Ems was a man who could teach us all a thing or two about perseverance. As you'll have read in earlier blogs he suffered with Seasonal Affective Disorder in these winter months and yet never let it conquer him. It would reduce the amount he could do, yes, but he never caved into bitterness, never took it out on others, never stopped being grateful for the things he did have, never took his eyes off the main thing, he always always loved. One day, lacking energy as he did, he decided that in spite of it, he was going to start running that night in order to increase his (already fairly high) fitness levels.
As I watched the rain begin, then start to pour, outside my office window I expected his resolve to be postponed to another day. But not Ems, he was determined. As soon as we were in through the door, he was up the stairs, changed, then back down, asking me how long dinner would take, before setting out for his 'first' run in the pouring rain. He ran hard despite the elements and got back just in time for dinner!]

Sing Sing Sing

GarethJonesPhotography 2009

I wanted to share a breakthrough with you.

Thursday morning, for the first time since my lovely Ems passed away, I truly sung.

I don't have a beautiful or gifted voice but I've always been a singer. I used to sing my heart out in the car, the shower, all around the house, I sung.

Ems had a real talent for singing and for all things musical. He sung and played in church - leading, following, solo, or group; he'd played at youth events to hundreds; he'd belted out a number of his own songs by himself (Shipping Forecast) or with various bands (Haybarns on Fire, Rayburn & the Radiators, Venturi Channel, Teeny Bopping Commanders, to name a few - help me with any I've missed guys!); he'd belted out covers with Meica & the Mechanics (with colleagues) and Seren Gwib; he was the music man. Yet when it came to the car or the shower or the house, he sung far less than I did.

Don't get me wrong, he'd sing at times*. He'd come in to the room and ask me what the next line of a song was, or how something went. In my bird like tones (some people have likened them to a crow), I would sing the next line or the rhythm. He'd also sing and play in preparation for the next church service, event, gig. When he sung, it sounded good. When he sung, it was because the lyrics were screaming at him and he just couldn't help but join in. I could never out sing him in quality, but I usually did in quantity.

I'd ask him if my singing got on his nerves but it didn't. I'm sure at times I ruined the odd 'classic' for him as I sung my heart out, but he'd usually just smile over at me. He knew I was singing because I was happy and free and relaxed and he loved that. Those times when he did join in, he'd harmonise brilliantly and it would make the singing all the more pleasurable for me.

When Ems died, I didn't feel like singing.

At his funeral though, I sung my heart out. I remember before his funeral saying that I didn't know if I'd feel like standing or sitting, whether I'd be able to sing or not. But as the music started that day, I knew I wanted to stand, proud that I was his wife, and sing loudly, so thankful that God had brought him into my life and blessed us in the amazing ways He had.

Since then, I have sung at church services. I've meant what I've sung. But I haven't truly sung. I haven't wandered around the house, my heart lost in a song. You know those moments when you're singing your heart out because there's something in you that has to get out?

Until yesterday. Yesterday, for a moment, as I dried my hair, I could hear my singing, even about the noise of the dryer.

I was singing.

It wasn't forced. It wasn't planned. It was my heart overflowing.

I had spent the last 7 weeks looking forward to Heaven solely because it would mean an end to all this pain. I can honestly say that yesterday I was singing, not just because I know I won't have any pain when I get there, but because heaven itself is beyond anything I can see, hear or imagine. And despite the darkness that surrounds me right now, there is hope. Hope, because Ems and I shared the same faith, that he is there now, and one day I'll join him and it will be amazing [understatement of the largest scale].

The dark moments will still come. I've cried since then. I'll cry again. There'll be times when I don't feel like singing, but I'm not going to lose my voice entirely. I'm going to remember Ems when he'd come to church feeling low but sing his heart out in spite of it all, grateful for grace. I won't sing because I'm forced to or because it's what everyone's doing. I'll sing because my heart does.

For all those who have lost loved ones suddenly and tragically in Haiti - my heart goes out to you.

[*Memory #4 The "Early morning sing song" episode
Ems suffered with Seasonal Affective Disorder and one of the symptoms was a cruel disturbance of his sleep. As such, getting out of the bed in the morning could be even more of a struggle than it is for most of us because of the bad night that had gone before. One night when setting his alarm, Ems decided he was going to try and get up at 6am and read the bible for a little while in front of his light box before getting up to face the world.
At 6am Ems jumped out of bed enthusiasically. I was so happy to hear him get up so easily, there was no way I was going to get cross at him for waking me in the process. He left the bedroom, I assumed to go and read elsewhere, and I buried back down into the duvet to snooze for another hour.
A toilet flush and a couple of minutes later, and the door banged open and Ems noisily returned to the bedroom, switched on his light box, and parked his skinny but lovely posterior at the bottom of the bed. I realised that meant he was going to read and do his light therapy in the bedroom, but I was still grateful that he was up and ok so I didn't mind too much. I just buried a bit deeper into the duvet and attempted to snooze.
Then, he started to read. He read out loud! I'd forgotten that little quirk of his. He'd often read out loud to help him concentrate and this was one of those times. I just lay still and smiled at another of his eccentricities.
Just as I started thinking that reading out loud probably wouldn't prevent me snoozing because he was doing so quietly, he spontaneously burst into song!
He started to sing. I buried deep, but when he couldn't remember some of the lines to the old hymn he'd pitched up, I could almost feel him looking at me through the duvet, waiting for me to help him with the lines. I didn't first time around, trying to kid myself I'd still fall back to sleep, and he filled the gaps with 'la las' and 'mmm mmms'. But when he reached that part for the second time, I couldn't help but sing my heart out with him, filling in the lyrics he didn't know, and smile, because not only was he out of bed and ready to face the day, but his heart was overflowing with a song, and so was mine.
What's an extra 45 minutes in bed when you can sing with the one you love instead?

By the way, the above photo, that's us, our hearts overflowing with song on our wedding day.]

Winter Days

More snow has arrived.

While many excitedly prepare for another 'snow day' off work or school, I find myself dreading the isolation that comes with the snow.

I'm staying at my parents for the forseeable future. This means being 'home' in the house I lived in from age 0. Yes, not many live in the same house all their lives these days but other than 4 or so years of uni, work placements, travel, etc, I'd lived in the same house from newborn to last June when we got married and moved in to our new house together. I never imagined that being at that home would ever feel so wrong [N.B. no disrespect to my parents who have been nothing short of amazing these past few weeks, thank you]. It's just being with Ems was home in every sense of the word.

The house I was brought up in is situated in the countryside with a couple of miles of lanes before you reach anything you can call a 'main' road. When the snow comes, access becomes a problem, as the gritters are focused on sorting out the well used routes rather than our lesser used lanes.

Thus, snow makes for isolation.

In past years I've welcomed this news when it would prevent me getting to school or work and just meant a day of carefree snow games with my sister and anyone else who could get anywhere near.

This year it's a different story.

It's not because my sister's been long gone to a home and family of her own. I can't even blame the fact it means I can't get out to see people. It's just that the physical isolation just accentuates the isolation I feel inside. I have been isolated from the one I want most in the world to see. I can't get to him. In not being able to get to others I am reminded again of the loneliness that grief has brought with it. No one else can fill the gap that Ems has left, but not being able to see anyone else certainly adds to it and also prevents welcome distraction.

It is winter outside. It is winter inside.

I'd love to have a few 'snow days' with Ems. It would've made a great bonus to what would have been our 1st Christmas together as man and wife. I can well imagine the fun we would have had together, the walks together, and naturally, the snowball fights! The lovely thing about having known him so well is that I can still imagine what the days without him would have been like if he had been here. Ems would have loved it.

I shared one snow day with Ems last February after we took his brother out to celebrate his 18th birthday one evening. Despite protests from both mothers that we shouldn't go too far with the snow forecast and it being mid-week, we ventured 30 miles, had a great evening, and yes, struggled to get back to their farm on our return. Needless to say my car didn't get back up their farm's track and I gatecrashed for the night. The next day was a 'snow day' as one of Ems' colleagues came to pick us both up for work in his landrover, only for us all to be sent home again seconds after arriving in the office. It was like being a kid again. I watched Ems and his brother pelt snowballs at one another (see photo), and then sheltered when I became the target.

This season's snow has given me much time for thinking (sometimes too much). 3 such thoughts I share here:

Firstly, I've realised that in years gone by, when the snow has brought nothing but joy to me, it may have brought pain and anguish to others to whom I gave no second thought - those injured on the ice, old people isolated in their homes, perhaps others grieving or lonely, unable to be reached. It makes me think of the first 6 months of 2009 when Ems & I had one focus - our forthcoming wedding. We knew nothing but joy and excitement in our own lives and, though sympathetic, I didn't stop for any length of time to realise that there were others out there whose lives weren't as unbelievably happy as ours were at that moment in time, some lives quite the opposite. Now I am stopping. Now I am realising. Now, in my grief, I've seen friends who are experiencing the very best times of their lives. While some people's dreams come true, others have them dashed. When some people find success, others find failure. While some meet, others part. While some face death, others know new life. It's not that we should all live somewhere in the middle so that we're all in the same place at the same time, we'll all know different extremes at times, but I choose to spare a thought to those less fortunate than I when I finally know joy again, just as I choose to find joy in other's dreams coming true while I am in the midst of my pain.

Secondly, even though the snow brings isolation, it also brings peace. The snow brings problems. However, when I look up and around at the snow covered landscape, it looks so beautiful and peaceful. It doesn't have the colour of summer, but it makes everything appear so clean, tranquil and light. When the sun shines on it, I get teeny weeny glimpses of what the brightness of heaven may be like (I wonder if there's snow there?).

Finally, it is a season, not a permanent state of being. Winter may be here but spring always follows. In a way it fits that the winter of my life comes at the same time that we are experiencing our nation's first proper winter snow in decades. Just as the snow has stuck around for a long time now, I know that the winter season I am experiencing in my life won't be a short one. However, it is a season. In nature, there aren't winters without spring to follow, there aren't nights without a new day, and it's the same in our lives. Winter may bring death but spring will come in time and with it new life.

'For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven...' Ecclesiastes
'Weeping may last through the night but joy comes in the morning' The Psalms

[Memory #3 the "nothing will stop me" episode
Ems was brought up on a farm with a track that was pretty treacherous when icy and some hazardous country lanes to wind down in order to reach the safer 'main' roads. In the Christmas of 2007, just a few days after we got together, I remember the risk of snow being mentioned. One evening as we said goodnight & he said he'd see me tomorrow, I responded that I guessed it would depend on whether it snowed or not (not that I didn't want to see him for one second - I wanted to see him all the time!). His sweet reply was that nothing would stop him getting to me, that no weather (or other!) condition could keep him from getting to me, even if he had to walk or sledge across the fields (it was a 12 mile trip!).
I'm not sure whether he was mistaking himself for the 'milk tray man' or was just plain crazy (crazy in love maybe?) but fortunately for him that year, the snow didn't come and he arrived safely at my house in his little green Clio.
Having said that, knowing Ems spontaneity and love for an adventure (and of course his desire to see me!), he probably would have got there by foot and sledge even if it had snowed!]

Anticipation on toast

I have some wonderful friends, I spent yesterday with some of the best of them. People I love; people who love me. People who Ems loved; people who loved Ems. There is such comfort in being with these people and I have immense gratitude to them for all they've done for me, done for Ems, for who they are. It is with such people that I can honestly talk about how I'm doing. I can talk about Ems and get knowing nods and smiles. I can also cry.

I had spent the day enjoying their company and doing all I could to be myself (whatever that is right now). As the evening drew in & we sat struggling with Trivial Pursuits, I could feel the emptiness silently creeping around my heart. I knew that in an hour or two would come the journey home. The journey home alone. The journey to my parents, not our home. Another journey without Ems.

I did my best to fight the feeling, knowing full well the tears would come when I got home. Then of all the people that could set me off - I got upset by Carol Thatcher! Yes, as we talked over 'I'm a celebrity - jungle Kings & Queens', Carol Thatcher (Queen of the Jungle once upon a time) said something that I thought was devestatingly sad. As she'd celebrated winning, she told Ant & Dec (or Tom & Dec as my friend put it yesterday!): "I will never be this happy again."

How awful. Imagine enjoying a wonderful moment and at that very moment thinking it would be the last time you'd feel that good. It hit me, and as I attempted to share my reflections on this with my friends, the rivers gust forth unexpectedly and I sat and sobbed.

I can't imagine how such a feeling would tarnish the happy moments. Surely if you felt it was the last time you would feel that happy it would bring a tinge of sadness to what should be a solely happy moment?

True, looking back at some of the incredible moments I shared with Ems, I do wonder whether I will ever feel that happy again while on this earth. That is not a suprising thought to have. My lovely boy who brought me so much joy is no longer here. I can only imagine how much worse it would have been though, if in one of those incredible moments, I had thought that I might never feel that happy again. How that would have taken away from the happiness of the moment.

Our wedding day for example. Wow! Full of happy moments. Truly, the greatest day of our lives because the whole day was spent focusing on the amazing love God had given us to share. How much more awesome it was though because it also held the anticipation and excitement of all the days ahead that we would share together, all the happy moments to come. If either of us had for one second thought we would never feel that happy again it would have been a sorry start to our marriage. In reality, though we never spent another whole day in the company of friends, celebrating our love, we celebrated in our own way every day. Every day had happiness in it, even if just because we had each other. Never was any moment tainted by the feeling it could be the last time we'd feel that good. Part of the fullness is in knowing there is even more to come.

The last time I saw him* was not tainted by such a feeling. Not for one second did I consider it could be the last time I saw Ems or felt that joy from his company. Not for one moment did I think 'I will never feel this happy again'. Not for one moment would he have either. How sad it would have been if we had.

As I poured out my heart and tears on the sofa with my friends, friends Ems and I have hung out with numerous times over the last couple of years, friends I can hardly remember not knowing, I was well aware that things would never be the same again. I couldn't remember spontaneously bursting into tears in their company before yet was well aware it will likely happen many more times in the future. Yet though I can't imagine feeling that happy again right now, I thank God that never was a moment with Ems spoiled because I'd thought in that moment that 'I'll never be this happy again'.

And I thank God that Ems, his huge contagious smile bursting with joy, is in a continual unimaginable state of happiness right now, and that one day, I will join him, and I will be forever wonderfully, ecstatically, indescribably happy for eternity. Once more, because of this hope, I know that there'll be days ahead on this earth that aren't so bad either. I'm just taking it one moment at a time.

'That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won't last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever.'

May we never ruin good times by thinking that they'll never be equalled, because between this world and the next, there is always always always more for the taking.

Memory #2 "the toast episode"
The last time I saw Ems was actually a really cute moment. His mum was round the house and I only had half an hour between getting in from work and leaving for a youthwork committee meeting. Ems and I were always pretty soft with each other & so even though we'd see each other when I got back (or so we thought) we still managed to grab a sweet 5 minutes with each other to ourselves. We messed around outside (even though it was freezing), cwtching (Welsh cuddles for those out of the know!) and teasing one another, full of "I love you"s and catching up on how one another's day had been. On going inside and me announcing I would have to go in 2 minutes, Ems was suddenly overwhelmed with concern that I hadn't eaten since lunch time and started to make me some toast. Despite reassurances from me that I would be eating at the meeting, he lovingly insisted. He made me 2 pieces which I turned down, explaining I'd be too full for dinner. He then tried forcing 1 1/2 pieces on me before we eventually agreed I'd take 1. He put it in some tupperware (he never did like cling film or kitchen foil!) and sat down to eat the other piece with some re-heated roast dinner. I thanked him, kissed him on the forehead, we exchanged some more "I love you"s, and I left. The toast tasted good and I text him to thank him, telling him I'd call him before leaving the meeting, and again reiterating that I loved him (told you we were soft!). His last words to me came by text 'Ok my lovely sweetheart, I love you'. I smiled, full of love, never once ruining the moment by fearing those words would be his last.]

From the start

I never wanted to write this blog. I want to write this blog.

Had I been given this subject to cover 2 months ago, I’d have turned it down in an instant. It’s not something I ever desired to write because losing my husband was my greatest fear in life. The fear, however, became reality, and in losing him, in feeling all I feel, remembering all I remember, believing all I believe, fighting through all I am fighting through, I want to write. I want the world [a.k.a. those who take the time to stop and read this] to hear.

I’m a private person in many ways, but if there be any strength that another who is weak can take away, any hope that another in despair may see a glimmer of, any light that one in the dark can use to light their way, then let my story be shouted from the rooftops. Let the lamp come out from its dusty hiding place.

Ems was the most wonderful, beautiful man I could have asked to spend my life with. I was blessed beyond measure in just knowing him, ecstatic at being his girl. Life though it wasn't to be (for me at least). We had just 2 years; they were 2 phenomenal years.

Our story was one of the fullest, most powerful, wonderful, beautiful love stories possible (you’ll see glimpses as my blog entries continue). We daily thanked God for our story.

Yet 5 months from those sacred words ‘…till death do us part’, death did just that, it parted us. Suddenly and tragically. I still daily thank God for our story.

I am only at the beginning of my difficult story and I don't know how it's going to go. Ems left for heaven under 6 weeks ago and it is, beyond comparison, the most painful time of my life. It is also a time when I have known peace beyond understanding.

We always journeyed together and now I find myself behind.
He is in heaven. I am heaven-bound but still very much on earth.
He is gone from this earth but his memory is still here; his life is still enfolded with mine; and his story will still unfold in my experience. To some extent, this is still 'our story', I’m just doing it alone now. He was the lead role in many key chapters of my story. What chapters evolve from here, only time will tell.

As I write these entries I will remember the look in his eyes and I promise to be honest, just like he was (brutally at times*).
When I cry, you’ll hear my tears.
When I smile, you’ll see my teeth.
When I stop, you’ll catch your breath.
When I start to run again, you’d better keep up.
Follow me…

[* Memory #1 “the sauce was a bit tasteless” episode
That was Ems’ honest and classic response to my asking him for his thoughts after I first cooked for him (along with about 20 others). It left me speechless. He then added sincerely (in consolation?) “I guess that’s why you put the salt and pepper out though”. It may sound rude to those who didn't know Ems but he was a truly gentle soul, never wishing to offend. His honesty was endearing and this world is in want of more honesty like his.]