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.

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!]

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.]