Anything can happen

Over two years into this blog and, with great embarrassment, I've just noticed a grammatical error in the introduction above these posts. I've corrected it but did wonder if anyone had noticed it before. Perhaps you all had and secretly wondered how someone with an error in their introduction could win a best writing blog award. Either you're all too polite or such details have been lost in the abundance of words. Where did that come from? Why hadn't I noticed it before?

Such moments of bewilderment are reasonably common in this journey. Unfortunately, they are not all as simple as finding a grammatical error alongside a blog award badge, and they're not all easily masked in an abundance of words either.

In my life I have experienced the most horrendous shock possible, the worst kind of surprise, the most unexpected, unwelcome twist in the road I was travelling on. I don't think much, if anything, in my life ahead could compare to that dreadful moment when Ems' life on earth was done and mine, unrecognisable as it was, carried on.

While it is an understatement to say that dreadful moment of shock stands out, it doesn't stand alone. While I know from the death of my husband, soulmate, best friend, that life is not always within my control, I still find myself surprised at twists and turns in the journey that leave me looking up in wonder and bemusement. You'd think I'd have learned by now. Even if we know deep down that we're not in complete control, we still fool ourselves on the surface.

Surprises, life's full of them.

I'd like to say that nothing surprises me anymore but it does.

Sometimes it's been things I've done numerous times since Ems died seeming a lot harder than I expect them to be. Sometimes it's things I haven't done since Ems died passing without the anguish I've anticipated.

Sometimes it's the big decisions that bring the pressure. Where is he? My teammate and fellow decision-maker. My heart still looks to discuss decisions that arise with him only to be corrected by my head which, by now, knows better.

Sometimes it's the simple shock of a dead bird falling down your chimney (almost into my lap i might add) leaving me frozen in panic, wondering what to do! He would've just got on with it, unphased.

It's the reactions of others, good or bad, to circumstances not of my doing, and my own reactions to things in life, surprising myself and giving me fresh understanding of others' reactions.

Surprises lurk everywhere. In situations, in relationships, in finances, in life and death, in love and loss. I remember thinking when Ems died that nothing else could hurt me but alas that wasnt the case. I also remember thinking that I'd never smile again but that wasn't the case either.

Surprises will arrive. Some will throw me to the floor and others will leave me
looking up in bewilderment at the craziness of this journey. The experience of widowhood can be shaky ground when storms rage, and sometimes even when the sun is shining; it's a fragile place. But the love and security of a man who loved me with all his heart and was / is loved by me with all of mine doesn't shake at all and its blessing surrounds me through the victories and tears.

Sometimes the thing that most surprises me is that the thing that causes the most pain - Ems absence - is also a reminder of one of the most comforting things in my life - Ems presence. Imprinted like the scribbles on a school desk 'Ems was here'. I would never be without it.

As it happens, the dead bird only needed a shovel and a box. My actions tentatively followed the only decision that could be made.

And sometimes the surprises are like that. There is only one thing to do - get on with it. With each surprise along the way I may be reminded again of so much being outside my control but I also know that one thing is always in my control - my reaction. Sometimes the only reaction that seems possible at the time may be to lift my head in disbelief to the one thing that never changes, but it's still my reaction to choose.

The latest big surprise has come in the form of an invitation to join Mr Jeremy Vine on his BBC Radio 2 lunchtime programme this Wednesday. This surprise left me shaking my head in a disbelief that bordered hilarity. Like the grammatical error that's been there for two years unnoticed, where did that come from?

Many have reminded me how proud Ems would be and I agree. I think he'd also be amused at this next surprising step in his "little wifey's" journey, but, particularly from the perspective from which he now sees things, very unsurprised and entertained by my ongoing surprise at such things.

Thoughts far above my thoughts. Ways far beyond mine. Anything can happen.

You can listen in to my radio interview on the Jeremy Vine show, tomorrow at 1pm here.

Mrs 2 years

A year ago today I wrote 'memories of a year ago'. I can hardly believe a year has passed since then.

While time greedily swallows my proximity to my sweet boy, each time I mention how 'long' it's been making me feel more unworthy of not yet being 'used to' his absence, the anniversary tells a different story.

While I wish that rather than the comforting thoughts and prayers of friends today that I was celebrating 'another year' with my darling husband, the anniversary seems to affirm why I should miss him as I do. For though today I mark 2 years since the beautiful day that brought us together as man and wife without him, and though today I mark 2 years as his wife having spent just over 3/4 of that time as his widow, today I mark 2 years since I became Mrs Davies, his Mrs Davies, and being his Mrs Davies is still something I consider myself exceptionally proud, blessed and privileged to be.

There'll be no cards but there will be the sweetest of memories.
There will be heartache but there'll be a deep appreciation for the reason it is there in the first place.

Here's to you my lovely husband...till we meet again.

This video is a montage of clips from our wedding day which was put together and played at Ems thanksgiving service. Like the memories it may bring tears, but so too like the memories it'll also bring smiles, and surely we would not want for an absence of tears if it too meant we'd never a smile wear.

Thanking God that love is stronger, way stronger, than death.

And this little piggy cried all the way home

Tears.

I remember Ems telling me that he'd gone home the evening after he'd asked me out and couldn't stop crying in his room because he was so happy. I remember his tears during our first argument, bewildered at 'what had gone wrong' and so desperate for us not to break up (the very existence of this blog shows that the desperation was mutual). I remember us driving along and realising it would be 4 days before we were next able to see each other and simultaneously looking at one another with tears in our eyes (that will sound desperately silly to those of you who've mastered long distance love). I remember saying my vows in our wedding rehearsal and struggling to get the words out through my tears; I mistakenly thought that getting the tears 'over with' in the rehearsal would mean I was ready to say them in the actual ceremony tears free. I was wrong!

Love it seemed had released something in the two of us which was difficult to contain. Neither of us were the sort to spontaneously burst into tears regularly before. Something about the love we shared moved us, equally so the fear of losing it. I poignantly remember us both sobbing in my parents living room while watching 'The Notebook', unable to imagine what it would be like to lose the other with age, age we were never to reach, to dementia in front of our very eyes. I remember us sat on our sofa, talking about how it would be impossible to live without one another, tears rolling down our faces.

Tears.

It seems rather peculiar to remember particular instances of emotion now. If falling in love with one another had opened the flood gates to some extent, losing sweet Ems has burst the reservoir wall and I have no control with each bend and bump in the road how much water will come my way. There have been tears too many and too often to remember particular instances like those when he was here.

Before Ems died I didn't realise that a broken heart actually physically hurt at times. I also didn't know that the sting of tears was more than a temporary burning sensation while the tears were still flowing, and was in fact a lingering ache that pounded even after the tears had long since soaked into my clothes or pillow.

Tears.

Tonight I was at one of our monthly leadership meetings and found myself in tears after the meeting. I wasn't moved by the matters we were discussing. I simply couldn't control the emotion that burst up as I tried to speak up about something I felt passionate about and failed to make my voice heard (literally - I was like a mouse). I get annoyed at myself; at the underlying confidence which is so fragile now. I get frustrated at how different things are, how I can't do my job like I used to, how I can't stand before the crowd like I used to, how I can't speak up about things I feel passionately about in conversations because of the flood that can inevitably follow.

And so lately I've been finding myself staying silent, answering 'yeah I'm ok' to people who genuinely want to know how I am. I put on the mask and I smile politely, even go overboard with the day to day chit-chat. I'm not even trying to prove that I am ok. I even detest my falseness at times. I've just struggled to be any other way.

So do I stay silent when I want to talk about things that I'm passionate about? Do I not say how I am when someone really wants to know how I really am? What gain is there in giving the appearance of being stone-like when underneath the love and passions rage?

I sobbed all the way home tonight. I remember braving my first leadership meeting after Ems died and getting emotional about being welcomed, getting emotional at the end of the meeting as people said "I'd better get back to my wife / husband". I missed knowing that Ems was at home waiting for me, whether it be his open arms to celebrate with me, his shoulder to lean on if the meeting had been tough, or to catch up on the Ray Mears programme he'd been watching on iPlayer while I was out (he always conveyed the adventure so excitedly!).

I missed Ems tonight. I drove home asking him in my head why he wasn't here. If he was here I would have been more confident. If he was here I wouldn't have lost control of my emotions even if I hadn't been heard. If he was here he would have comforted me on my return, even if I had got emotional. If he was here...

And so, I can't do anything about the tears. I can act as though there's nothing going on underneath, but that won't mean that there isn't.

The tears come unexpectedly now.

As I sat on the plane back from New York last week (I'll write about that trip soon), I put the earphones of his iPod touch in, clicked play and looked through the beautiful photos of us that are stored on it. I have done so several times without emotion but as I sat on that night flight, the interior lights off, I started to sob. With 2 seats to myself and the lights off I could easily hide visibly but had to put all my efforts into avoiding making any noise as the sobbing got stronger. As my body convulsed with the sobs and the noise sought to burst out, I bottled up the noise so instead the emotion poured out in rivers. The Virgin Atlantic pillow was saturated as I thought about my Ems and the fact that going 'home' is never that without him. Even up so high in the sky I am still no closer to him. It wasn't 'home' anymore that I was headed towards. One beautiful day it will be.

I have memories that spring up on me in the most 'normal' of times, as though there to remind me that all is not 'normal'. Sat in church singing and suddenly reminded of the 600+ who gathered for Ems' funeral: 600! At first I am touched at the amount of love people had / have for Ems and then I'm reminded of why those people gathered. It's a 'funny' kind of reminder, to go from 'normality' to 'reality' within seconds of my thought patterns. The mask is shattered with them but I'd never be without those reminders. To be reminded that all is not 'normal' reminds me that one day all will be well; this is not 'home' forever.

Many ask if the photos placed around my pc screen (in above photo), on my car's dashboard, kept as numerous bookmarks, upset me; but these photos are reminders of blessings I still count as mine. And if there's a tear or two to pay for them, then they're a small price to pay.

One day there'll be no more tears.

Travel Alert

I just thought I'd let regular readers know that I'm in New York for 6 days.

I have every intention of blogging about the experience when I return but wanted to let you know that if any of you want to follow my story in the meantime I'm going to attempt to 'tweet' each evening and hopefully at other times intermittently so you can follow my tales at www.twitter.com/the7journey

Being away has reminded me afresh that even in territories entirely new to the both of us, memories of Ems are absolutely everywhere because they're a part of me. That is a good thing.

Wishing you all a safe and blessed week,

Ruthie x

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!]

Normal

I am aching incredibly right now. Just over 10 months ago I never wanted to be normal. Just over 10 months ago I wanted to go against the flow, to make a difference.

Right now in this moment, I would give anything be 'normal'.

I don't even know what 'normal' is and am pretty sure no such thing exists but I want to stop this rollercoaster that keeps speeding round; that just when I think I'm starting to climb, I'm suddenly hurtling down with uncontrollable speed.

I do still yearn to make a difference. And to make a difference, we have to be different. No one ever changed the world by being like it after all. 

I am grateful that my mind is continuously aware of a bigger picture that I can't yet see. Nothing like tragedy can make you so acutely sensitive to how truly fragile life truly is; to how little control we really have. I don't want to be complacent; I don't want to be so at ease with what's around me that I forget that there is more: More to life, more to give, more to receive.

But I am also human. I am fragile. I am easily thrust into moments that leave me crying out for 'normality'.

Sometimes when I am alone I can begin to think that this...that this is normal! I pop to our house to check the post as though everyone has a home they don't live in right now. I smile at memories or photos as though that is the way every 27 year old thinks on their spouse.

And then suddenly there I am, taking a call outside church from friends with good news, and suddenly I'm all too aware that I'm standing in the graveyard where my husband's body lies. And in moments like that I know this isn't how it was meant to be. For a moment I want to be someone in hope of sharing such news myself one day or of turning to my husband to share the good news I've just heard, rather than knowing that I will never be that person.

And even though it hurts, I still know that all I am called to be is me. This is the lot I've been assigned. 11 months ago, I thought it was the most beautiful lot imaginable. When I look forward, I know it is going to be even more beautiful. So right now, I have to just be.

I may want to be 'normal' but I have to be me.

And it's ok for me to get lost in thinking that my situation is normal sometimes. I have to run the race without looking to the right or the left, without looking at those around me. I may have lost the thing most dear to me but if I keep focusing on the goal ahead, I can still win my race. When I stop comparing myself to others, I don't think about normal, about what I don't have. And if I really think about it, even though I'd do anything to have Ems here to live our lives out together as was normal to us; looking back I know that we had so much, so much more than 'normal'. Looking ahead, I know that just as our story together way exceeded anything I could have imagined, I'll one day have way beyond it. It's just right now that hurts so much. And 'right now' will one day be history. Oh help me to realise that. One day at a time.

My heart breaking for 'normality' feels a little foolish considering this poem I wrote this morning.

I would rather be me

Despite the pain,
I would rather be me.
Despite the fact that you're not here,
I would rather be me.

I would rather be me
with all my battles,
all my wounds.

With all my memories.
With all the love I have for you in my heart.
With your love's fingerprints tattooed upon my soul.

Others' climbs may seem less steep, their roads more smooth,
their hearts less scarred, their hands more full.
But I would rather be me,
empty handed,
with memories of holding your sweet hand,
than to be another that had never felt your touch.

I would rather be me,
grief my constant companion
and my heart bursting with the love you lavished upon me,
than to take the burden of being another.

Oh, I don't recommend that any other be me right now.
But I wouldn't have wanted to be any other back then.
I won't want to be any other when I join you in endless light.
And so it is.
Past beauty.
Future gain.
I can't want to be anyone else in this present.

For your love is ever with me,
and though I walk the shady valley of death,
the same light that shined for us, shines for me,
and the light always wins.

I would rather be your me.