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.

When numbness slows my typing hands

So I've just got in from my shift at our church's community coffee bar, The Loft. It's almost 1am. It's silent. And I know I just have to write.

My attempt to break the ice in my last post didn't really work. I have a great desire to write, a great sense of purpose in my writing, I thank God that I have the ability to write, but despite all these things I've been struggling to sit down and do just that; to write. Really really struggling. I've been frustrated with myself. I've let others waiting on me down. And still, nothing. Why don’t the words come out?

It's not just blog entries that have decreased. Diary entries, notebook musings, emails to friends - they've all been in short supply. My writing has consisted of 140 character tweets and Facebook status updates. Snippets can be thought provoking but there is great need too for the bigger picture; quotes can easily be twisted when isolated from their context. My life sometimes feels like those short quotes, those tweets - made up of lone moments where all appears to be 'fine', only for the cracks to show when I'm away from the public eye. It took me a long time to let those moments come, to write little quotes, to face people with a smile, for fear of people thinking that I'm ok, that I'm normal, equipped to face life on my own, all the time.

The inability to get my words out on screen doesn't come alone. Numbness, a state of being I cannot stand, has plagued me of late. And as I feel that numbness wallow over me, it seems natural that a writing inspired by such intensity of grief and emotion, should suffer. The numbness doesn't kill the love. The love still bursts inside; it just kills its expression and influence for good.

Tonight though, as I soon as I closed the car door after my shift, the tears began to flow. He wasn't there in the passenger seat beside me. He hasn't been for over 14 months now but still at times it hits me. It did tonight. I wanted him there, his company, his conversation, his companionship, his taking me home. With numbness you don't feel the hits. But you miss them. You need them. They bring such release. Suddenly in all the grief and tears is all the love and beauty that you miss so much.

I've always been aware of the isolation, the separation that comes with widowhood. If we were only friends with people at the same 'life stage' as us then I'd have none right now. Fortunately it doesn't work like that and I have some amazing friends who I am eternally grateful for (that sentence doesn't give justice to just how grateful I am - there just aren't words my dear friends). But there's an isolation which is far stronger than simply not having friends; even surrounded by people, you cannot escape it. You are isolated from your other half, a part of your very being, and that void becomes all too clear at times.

Looking for advice or opinions on big decisions or simply sharing the mundane details of the day. I wonder if people think it's strange that I've shared certain things with them, like it's not their place to know. But the person whose place it is to 'know' is too far away to share these things with, & in his absence, I share things with others that I wouldn't normally, just like I share this blog with you all. I want to be able to talk through decisions with Ems, to tell him about the silly mundane things of the day, but I can't. And the silence, his silence, is deafening, made louder by still, by naturally non-committal responses from others to questions they should never have been asked, to mundane details that only the most intimate of lovers takes interest in; the way he takes interest in everything that you are. Some things are now solely my decision to make and others can't possibly enter in to that loneliness.

Ems and I bought a 'project' of a house. A beautiful old house with character, light and space; we both loved it immediately. You could walk around and see the 1970s wallpaper and crumbling plaster in places, or you could see what the house would become. We knew it would take ten, maybe twenty years to get the house how we knew it could be, yet we didn't mind. It was to be a labour of love, and it was already full of love; already 'home'. In many ways, despite what other eyes might see, Ems and I lived in the finished article despite having only owned the house for 6 months. With every morning's wake and every walk through the door we saw what it was going to be, not what it was. Our mattress on the floor might as well have been a four poster bed, the ageing paint work the most luxurious wallpaper, as far as we saw it.

In the last few weeks the builders have started work on the house which I haven't lived in since Ems passed. It was time, and as they commence what will be months of work, I continue the build up to living there again, this time alone. This isn't the way I wanted it to be but it's the way I want it to be. It currently stands with its guts taken out, walls knocked down, floors churned up (two words - damp proofing!). Yet as it stands as a shell it still feels every bit our home. It always will.

Massive decisions need to be made on what to do with the layout of the house and again I find myself lost. I am presented with options and ideas and I shelve them to discuss later, yet the person I am shelving them to discuss with is not around to discuss anything. These decisions are now mine to make yet with every one of them, I still think of we. This is not my house but our house. I am suddenly carrying out our plans.

Many have and will be asked for their opinion but the resounding cry of 'it's whatever you want to do' will remain. Yet what I want to do is by the by now. None of this is what I want to do and I long for my sweet darling boy to come and decide with me.

Yet, even as I write I know that the focus was never and will never be the bricks and mortar of the house. The focus was our love which made it home. And I am aptly reminded not to worry about big decisions I have to make or little details I cannot share, because all this we see is temporary. Everything we see is in a state of decay, yet the things beyond vision continue forever. There is nothing and no one visible who won't one day not be here. But the faith despite the circumstance, the hope in the despair, the love in the darkness; those things will continue to grow. The numbness must fade, and the release of it will bring pain, yet forever I know it will be worth it for the purpose and love which has brought me this far and which will ever lead me home. Oh God I hope I write as this journey goes on.

[Memory #25: The ‘would you like your order now’ episode
It was my first birthday since we’d started going out and Ems took me to really nice local restaurant, Y Polyn. I’d been starving myself all day to fully appreciate the tasty delights we were anticipating that evening. We’d both wanted to go to the restaurant for ages and he’d decided to treat me for my birthday as a surprise (having already tried to on Valentines day too – not that I knew at the time – but without success due to it being booked out). We arrived and were asked if we wanted to sit down with a drink or go straight through, I didn’t mind, and Ems took the decision to go straight through. The waiter then came to ask if we were ready to place our order and Ems decisively asked if we could wait a while before placing it. I can clearly remember him being so decisive on both counts (very unlike him at times!) and thinking it was because he hadn’t yet decided on his choice of food. After the waiter had left though he confessed to having eaten a pasty when he’d got in from work and ‘wasn’t really hungry’! He’d done too good a job of starving himself through the day and couldn’t wait any longer. He regretted that decision, particularly in realising I’d been successful in holding out and was resultantly famished. Fortunately, another of Ems strengths was his hearty appetite and as soon as the delicious goodies appeared in front of us, the pasty was quickly forgotten and a hearty helping was much enjoyed by my boy who loved his food.]

Darkness

Sorry for the long absence. I had a week's 'break' in Cornwall with the family. The change of scenery was positive but there are some things I can't take a break from. Coming 'home' has been emotional - Ems was my home and he's not here.

I wrote this in my prayer diary last night and thought it'd make a true and honest blog entry. It might upset some people but it's real...

God, I hate this. I hate my life. There, I've said it. I do. I hate what my life has become. I hate him not being here. I do hate my life.

I loved Ems so much. I love him so much. The love isn't past tense even though his presence on earth is. I love him.

I get so frustrated at little things - some things really don't matter anymore and others seem to get to me even more than they did before. I get really frustrated at people who text to ask how I am and then ignore my response. I don't expect words of wisdom. I'd just rather people didn't ask in the first place. It is nice to be asked but when there's no acknowledgment of the response it kind of takes away any sincerity they may have had in asking. It gives me a fear of answering honestly. I think I'm hypersensitive right now and I have to keep reminding myself that the reason life sucks isn't because people don't text back but because Ems is gone. I just hate it. I was never one to get upset by these things. The loneliness isn't something that texts/emails back will cure anyway.

I look for lumps hoping that I'll find one. When I have a headache or get a cold I hope the symptoms may actually be a sign of something way more sinister. I just don't want to be here.

Don't go thinking I'm suicidal. I know my times are not my own to decide, just like Ems' times weren't his. I'm actually jealous of him right now - the fact he was gone in an instant, ready for the next world and thrust into heaven without a chance to think about the fact he was on his way there - no more tears for him. Ever.

I am glad it's him and not me because I always hated the thought of him suffering and wouldn't want him to endure this instead of me (I think you call that love!). I do love that he's full of life and free of all pain right now, consumed with endless joy and freedom. But, boy I can't wait for the day when I get to join him. I don't know what day that will be but I'm ready. I am sorted with God and when that moment comes I will be there in an instant. I can't wait.

Till then, I have (note that this is obligation not choice) to find some way of living with this. It's not going to go away and so I have to find a way to live with loss and pain being a very part of me.

I'm not sure what Paul meant when he wrote 'to live is Christ. to die is gain' but I can see that in my experience.
'to live is Christ...' - God is all I have to help me live right now. He is the only reason I live. Family, friends, places, memories, can bring me nice moments, some distractions, but it is only God that can give me purpose, strength, peace and hope that is permanent; that can bring change.
'To die is gain...' - that bit I really like. The day I die is what will make this life worth living. Heaven awaits for me and there I will have it all. That will be better than anything I have ever had. Ems has it better than he ever had it on earth, even in our very best moments. Understatement. For the believer who dies, it's not the end, it's just the beginning.

Oh Ems, what a void you have left. How perfect it was. How wonderful you were. You can't hear this but I love you.

Another night has come and yet everything around me is night right now anyway.

A glimmer. I see a glimmer from the bright light on the horizon that I'll one day experience for myself. Then all night will end. Right now it's just a glimmer but the light will win.
It has for Ems and it will for me.

Darkness, you may be my constant companion right now but you will not win. You will not win.

[Memory #13 The "You are my sunshine" episode
Ems & I had so few quarrels that I can remember them and can count them before I run out of fingers. On Good Friday 2008 we had marked the day as an 'Ems & Ruthie day' in our diaries. These were days when we spent time we'd set aside for just the 2 of us. Unfortunately on this day, the pressure we'd both put on the day to be perfect because it was long awaited 'quality time', created tension straight away when a little misunderstanding occured in the first 10 minutes of the journey up to the Preseli Mountains. I had a tendency to 'go quiet' when I'm upset (I soon learned) and Ems wasn't a mind reader so by the time we reached the peak we weren't talking to one another and neither of us really knew why. Fortunately, neither of us liked falling out and so a short heated discussion later (that's not an understatement - neither of us were shouters!), and we both knew what was wrong and realised it wasn't actually a very big deal. We made up quickly. As we made our way to our next destination the song 'you are my sunshine' came on the radio. I can't remember which one of us started singing it first but we both sung out the chorus, and I wrapped my arm around him as he drove through the country lanes. I remember us both realising for the first time that the last verse of the song is actually sad and refusing to sing it but we sung the chorus with gusto 'you are my sunshine. my only sunshine. you make me happy, when skies are grey. You'll never know dear how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away'. He did know how much I loved him though, as I knew how much he loved me, and neither of us liked any moments that threatened to take away that sunshine.]

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!]