The fear

I just wrote an entry and then deleted it. Intentionally. I have promised everyone that ever crossed this blog, that I would be honest. I deleted it because I was forcing what I'd just written. I wrote the last paragraph before I'd finished the middle. I was copying & pasting, contriving. I want to write from the heart.

It has been a long time since I last wrote. I know I promised I wouldn't force things but I genuinely am sorry that it's taken so long. I'm sorry that I may have lost some readers along the way who have given up checking to see if I've posted. I'm sorry because deep down in my gut I've known I've had posts to write and I've failed to do so. I'm sorry because now I'm sitting here and I have so much in my head, I almost don't know where to start. Almost.

I want to start where all this started. Ems. Ems, my beloved husband. Missed beyond any words I could ever hope to learn let alone write at the end of this grey September day. As September has gone on and we've experienced relentless rain and musky blankets of grey, I've thought of Ems. All summer I've missed him and yearned for his company. I still do. But these grey days make me thankful that he isn't here, that he's somewhere better, that he's not about to face his annual decent into the despair of Seasonal Affective Disorder that he battled with so bravely and admirably in winter months. Of course, I would love to have his company as I face grey days of my own, but I'm glad that for him, there are no more grey seasons, no more despair, just light. Once again it is Ems reminding me, as he never failed to when next to me, that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Everything is different now yet this different is becoming my normal. I am so fearful of this 'new normal'. I fear that as I go about this new life with some sort of routine, that people will mistake me as 'normal', as 'ok', and treat me so. Yet simultaneously, I am so aware that this walk is mine to walk and that no one else can walk it with me. Once upon a time (it often feels like that), one did walk beside me. That was beautiful. Yet now, this is me. In an earthly sense, I am alone. I cannot rely on the support of another person. No human being will ever get close beside me like my Ems, my husband, my other half did. Marriage is a beautiful thing and even though I am learning to walk again, I am learning to walk without one leg to support me, without one arm to provide balance, without one eye to give me a new perspective, and without one ear to hear truth and to remind me of it. I am half. I know I've said it before but I really am.

And this half that you see before you 'getting on' with things, is actually completely shell shocked. I don't spend all day crying and then 12 hours sleeping anymore. In fact, in the last couple of months, my life has become increasingly busy, something I was once very used to. In the busyness I am finding I sleep less, I am exhausted in a completely different way. I spend half my day busy and the other half numb. My mind whirs.

I can hide in busyness. I can put on my mask, keep busy, and avoid talking on a deep level to anyone. I can attempt to put my mind on something else, often successfully, and until the task is done not stop to think. There is this 'new normal' emerging around me and it scares me. It scares me to think that people could view me as normal. That in those moments when I have to stop and think, when I crash, that I will be burning alone.

I 'get' why widows would dress in a different colour to show that they are widows. I used to think it such a cruel and shameful cultural thing which widows were forced to do. Yet now I see beyond it. I'd quite like there to be something that would show me as a widow; that would show others, even when I'm busy, even when I look 'ok' (what does that mean exactly?), that there's something missing.

I wear Ems' wedding ring on my right thumb. I know what it means. Widows have different perspectives on removing their wedding rings (and I completely respect that it is each individual's decision) but for me personally, I don't ever want to remove mine. I wear my rings proudly, the symbol of our love and unity. Yet simultaneously, wear Ems ring on my right hand, showing that there is something different about this connection.
When Ems died I didn't ask for his ring back, I didn't think about whether he should be buried with it or not. The police gave it back to me anyway, scratched and bent from the accident, and placed in a clear sealed bag. For a while whenever I looked at the ring I saw the fact it was mis-shaped and scratched. I saw the accident. Yet now when I look at it, I just see Ems' ring. The eternal ring of evidence that showed that he was mine, that we, like the ring, were whole.
I feel a bit like that ring. I'm damaged and scratched and always will be. Yet some seem to look at me without seeing the damage. It petrifies me to think that people could see through the scars when to me they're still open wounds. I'm so scared that as I do more, as this 'new normal' emerges, people will think I am 'fine' when the daily battle is enormous. But just as Ems' ring isn't on the hand of the one we planned it to be, so I must carry on living this life that was far outside my own plans. And just like Ems' ring, I want to be a reminder of something beautiful to others one day. Petrified as I am, I will step out, because the fear of being misunderstood cannot and should not surpass the fear of missing out on one's purpose.
[Memory #20 'the ring' episodes
It's strange in a way but I can remember several instances of being very aware of Ems' ring on his wedding finger. I remember us going out to buy our rings. We went in the January just after getting engaged, hoping to find some bargains in the January sales. Instead, Ems' noticed this 'new design' and the man who'd once said 'I'd like a really plain ring' decided otherwise (I'd always wanted to have an identical ring to his so was happy with this choice too)! The rings Ems had picked out were gorgeous 2 -colour matt gold rings, each with 2 small diamonds in the white gold bit. Ems & I had discussed before 'which way up' we thought the rings should go (i.e. whether the diamonds should be near the base or top of our fingers). It didn't really matter but we'd agreed we'd like to wear them the same way. I can clearly remember sitting on our sofa together and noticing his ring being a bit big. I'd often notice that his ring was the 'wrong way up' because he'd been playing with it, or that the ring had rolled around his finger so you couldn't see the diamonds at all. It didn't matter - it just meant I noticed it. I just remember being aware of the ring on his finger, of gently turning it back around, always remembering the moment I had first placed it on his finger. I remember on honeymoon, holding one another's hands & playing with one another's rings. It was such a novelty, a new & permanent part of the other's person. I also remember him almost losing his on honeymoon. As he swum in the Mediterranean sea he'd felt his ring coming off and stopped it just in time. Rather than pull his ring off and give it to me for safekeeping, he came out of the sea so his finger would once again swell in the heat of the sun and hold his ring in place before returning for another swim! Only death could remove his ring. I'm glad that I can remember seeing his wedding ring, which has become a permanent part of my attire, on his finger where it belonged.]

On another note, I found out today that this blog has been longlisted for 'best writing on a blog' for the Wales blog awards. I'm pretty honoured and grateful to those who nominated me. See the longlist here.

Love and / or grief

I'm hurting. It's no worse than yesterday. It'll be no different to tomorrow.

I do wonder sometimes, I ask myself when it'll all go away. I think of Ems and wonder when it will stop feeling so crazy that he's not here. I wonder, and then I know.

The truth is it won't ever go away. It won't ever feel crazy that he's not here. There won't be a morning when I wake up and the pain is gone, when I don't miss him anymore, when everything is 'normal' and uncomplicated again.

My perspective, my life, has been well and truly shifted.

I hate life without Ems. I hate that he's not around to make decisions with, big and small. I hate that he's not here to share those little details that you only care about sharing with the one you really love. I hate that I so often find myself in those moments where you're 'killing time' waiting, only to realise that the person I'm subconsciously 'waiting' to hang out with isn't around anymore. I hate being in a situation that no one else is in.

I still have every desire for Ems that I ever had. It's still him that I want to hang out with. It's still him that I want to live out my dreams, frustrations, good days and bad days with. When I have something I want to share, it is still him that I want to share it with, that I want to share everything with.

Life since Ems died is not life without Ems. Ems is no longer here, I am in no denial of that, but the love I have for Ems is as great as the day he died. My desire to be with him, to please him, to serve him, to love him is still as strong as when he was right here next to me. I still think about him all the time and consider him as I'm making decisions. I'm grateful that we were so close, that we knew each other so well. It means that I often know what he'd have wanted or thought about decisions that I make. It's also excrutiating when I don't know, and I can't ask.

The new struggles, struggles that Ems and I would never have come across when he was alive. The new achievements, things that would never have looked like achievements with him here. These things I want to share with him.

Life goes on and the number of days where I've been void of his company increases but the power of the love, the memories - they remain strong.

People ask if it's easier now but it isn't. It is certainly different to the horror and shock of the initial weeks. I feel like I'm still living for two yet with the strength of just one. I guess, more accurately, where I was part of a whole, I am now half. Being a half hurts. Being a half in a world which is so different to what it was before - I'm lost.

I cling on to God with everything that I am and He remains the only thing that brings purpose to my days and peace where everything is in turmoil. But faith doesn't mean an absence of pain. It doesn't mean all of this hurt will just disappear; It is far bigger than that.

I remain indebted to the family, friends and colleagues who have shown me so much love. I am grateful for the words they have encouraged me with even when they feel so helpless. I am grateful for the time they have given to me even when they're not sure what to do with it. I am grateful for the way they have tenderly cared for my breaking heart even though it hurts them to do so.

No the pain doesn't go away and it won't. There are all sorts of phrases about 'grief being the price you pay for loving someone', about it being 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'. As easy as they are to say and not mean, I actually agree with them.

I truly am experiencing this deep, unquenchable agony because of the inextinguishable, lifechanging love that was (is) Ems and mine. I don't have the option of switching off such feelings - neither the pain, nor the love. And I have to ask whether I'd want to?

The truth is, I have to live with this pain. For with this pain comes the immense memory of the truest love two flawed human beings could have hoped to experience - not just memories of days or acts or words, but memories of feelings. Memories of the excitement, hope, comfort, joy that rises when you hear your loved one's name, see their car approaching, hear those 'sweet everythings'. The anticipation of seeing Ems still rises in me only to be quashed by the repeated realisation that he isn't coming. But would I choose to deny that repeated agony and with it lose the memory of the love? Not a chance.

There is loss because there was once something so beautiful in my posession.

There is pain because there was once such comfort.

There is grief because there was once great love.

The grief has overcome me just like the love did and there is no way to lose one and not the other.

Would I do it all again? Every time.

In giving everything you face losing everything but in losing everything, you seek to gain everything. And as this is true in love, so it is true in life. I'm still going to give everything.

Memories of a year ago

GarethJonesPhotography, 2009

I've thought about it and I cannot possibly let today go by without blogging. Today. Today is a massive day. Today is the 27th June. Today would have been our 1st wedding anniversary. If Ems was still here we'd probably have cooed about how wonderful the first year had been, how it had flown by, yet also how it felt like we'd been married forever.

Time doesn't fly anymore but it really did feel like we'd been married forever. It feels so wrong that such a depth of love, such a brilliant partnership, such a beautiful marriage, only lasted 5 months. It truly felt like we'd been together all our lives. It still does. Many have commented on how we had a whole lifetime in our 2 years. We did. Yet I am still here, I am still living life on earth, and I am nearing the end of what would only have been our first wedding anniversary, and he's not here.

And on this day, I have known immense grief and brokenness. On waking I thought 'so this is it' and it wasn't long before well-wishing messages and reflections on my beautiful husband and the phenomenal day we married last year, had me broken. I am so grateful for those messages. Brokenness of course, as you'll have seen in my last blog, is something I had longed for this weekend. There was no way I wanted to pass this milestone numb. I had to feel, I had to remember, and I have.

Today being a Sunday has meant I have kept in my normal routine of attending church. It didn't make the anniversary go away (I wouldn't have wanted it to - 27th June, 2009 was the best day of our lives) but it meant I had something 'normal' to do.

As I travelled to church this morning from my parent's house, I thought about the same journey I made there last year in the VW Campervan that Ems had inspiredly chosen as our mode of transport for the day. I was broken remembering the emotions bubbling up that I had tried so hard to hold in as I made my way to the church that day.

As I parked outside the church, I remembered all the people that had gathered outside to watch the wedding and the smiles and excitement they shared with me as I arrived in my wedding dress that day. It was very different this morning. Just as the emotions had built up as I saw their excitement for us that day, the emotions built up as I walked alone towards the church where one of the loveliest people I know greeted me with a hug and such a genuine welcome on the door (as he does every Sunday).

As I walked into the church I remembered walking down the aisle towards my beautiful man, my proud father at my side, thrilled with my choice of husband. I was alone this year, the man that had walked me back up that aisle as my new husband, no longer at my side. I did my usual Sunday glance around, quickly looking for an available seat next to a friendly face before the panic kicks in. Two beautiful friends had the foresight to save me a seat between them and were ushering me to it. I am so grateful for this thoughtfulness.

As I sat in the seat on the back row, I remembered proudly standing at the front with my Ems. We wanted to share that moment with the whole world and the church was packed. Today I was at home on the back row which has been my resting place each Sunday these past 7 months, no longer confident sitting near the front as I would have while Ems played the guitar, only for him to join me afterwards. One thing that hasn't changed - I still want to share our love with the world.

As the songs begun I thought over the time and effort we'd put in together to choosing the 'right' songs, readings, etc for the service. One of the obvious choices had been a song called 'Blessed be your name' by Matt Redman. The band had picked it for this evening's service. It had been a song Ems had mentioned hearing when I hardly knew him. It was to become our song as it talks of God in the light and darkness, so relevant to our walk together through his SAD. We sung it with gusto at the wedding that day, 'when the suns shining down on me' we sung, as it did. 5 months later we'd sung it at his funeral, 'when I'm found in the desert place', which I'm still in. Today we sung it, both the light and the darkness so clear in my mind.

Following our vows last year we knelt down as the pastor (minister) prayed for us. Today, it was I, and not us, who was included in their prayers on this memorable day.

When I left the church I remembered so clearly our excitement that we were finally 'Mr and Mrs Davies'. We were thrilled. We were excited. We were so in love. Our friends and family showered us in confetti. Two days ago I'd stood at Ems' grave, picking the heads off the roses that I'd left there on his birthday, and one head at a time, breaking off the petals and scattering them across his grave. It was my confetti for him, remembering that moment where we'd stood together under it the year before, now somewhat symbolically showering rose petals, and my love, on his grave (not that he's there). There weren't the smiles and the cheers but the love was just as real, just as tangible, just as beautiful.

And of course, as I drove away, I remembered driving away with my lovely Mr Davies, choked with emotion as we embarked on married life together. We were both so proud, so deeply and madly in love. Today, I drove away alone, something I am, because I have no other option, becoming all too familiar with. Still madly in love.

Just as I was overwhelmed with emotion on the 27th June, 2009, I have been overwhelmed with emotion today, 27th June, 2010. Last year the emotion was excitement and sheer joy at coming together with the love of my life. This year the emotion is deep sadness that the love of my life is no longer here.

I know one day I'll see him again where there'll be no more parting. Till then, I will go on remembering with immense gratitude that Ems was mine, Ems was mine, oh how truly blessed I am to be able to say such words however agonising it is that my boy isn't here.

On a side note, and somewhat ironic as the first anniversary is represented with 'paper', this blog featured in the press today (see link below). It wasn't actually on paper but in an online article, the link to which is below. I just want to thank all of you that have kept encouraging me to write. This journey has a long way to go, my whole life, however long that may be, and I am privileged to be able to share it with you the reader, whoever you may be. View the article here.

The same article was later (28th June, 2010) published on The Huffington Post website too. View the article here.