Here I am, at 33, with much more experience of this world
than I ever thought was possible at this age. The experiences I’ve had have
been magical and they’ve been cruel.
I have dealt with a subsidence claim on the house, I’ve sat
and watched (in an out of body kind of way) as a consultant has told us our
lives will never be the same again because Ben has a brain tumour. I’ve sat
countless hours alone, in lonely waiting rooms, waiting for Ben to come out of
theatre, or out of intensive care. We’ve gone through numerous rounds of various
types of chemo, two cycles of radiotherapy, countless MRI scans, and the worst
and longest drawn out days, and weeks, waiting for results. I’ve watched Ben
suffer, collapse, have seizures, lose the ability to walk, be scared to die, become
very, very ill, and ultimately I’ve watched the man I love die. I say watched,
and while I was there for the slow and difficult road towards death I didn’t actually
make it in time that day. Ben died very suddenly (I was on the phone to him 10
minutes before he died. We were chatting happily about risotto) and we couldn’t
get to him in time. I arrived too late and I have analysed seconds and replayed
scenarios over and over… it doesn’t change anything. I’ve had to say the words
‘Poppy, Daddy has died’ to my 2 year old daughter. I’ve arranged a funeral, a
memorial service, picked flowers, coffins, dealt with undertakers. I’ve dealt
with the looks of pity and sadness and felt the actual pain of your heart
breaking. I know people say ‘heart breaking’ and it sounds as if you know it
would hurt, but trust me when I say that NOTHING prepares you for the feeling
of your chest being torn open and your heart being crushed while your body tries
to continue without a way forward. I’ve experienced IVF, daily injections,
sitting in waiting rooms surrounded by couples. I’ve been asked by the theatre
nurse as I was about to be sedated if my husband was coming… no, no he’s not.
I’ve had tablets, injections and scan after scan. I’ve been congratulated on
being pregnant, had a scan at 11 weeks before announcing the news. I’ve told my
dead husbands parents they’re having another grandchild. I’ve had a 13 week
scan which showed an anomaly. I’ve had appointment after appointment and then
had to answer: ‘Would you like CVS, there is a 1% chance of losing the baby?’
How do you answer questions like that on your own? I don’t even know, but I did
and I’ve done it all alone, and when they asked if there was anyone I wanted to
call I’ve sat sobbing unable to form the words to explain that the one person I
need to call can no longer answer the phone. I’ve laid on a bed and watched an
18cm needle be pushed into my stomach and wiggled around as they scratch the
cells from the placenta and felt the irony of thinking ‘I wonder if this is
what liposuction feels like?’ No Nicola…I’m pretty sure this, right here, is
NOT a comparable experience! I’ve been told that my baby has no chance of
surviving, but good news… you do have a choice. Would you like to kill your
baby now or would you like to try to carry it to term and then watch it die? I
decided to kill my baby (I couldn’t face watching another family member suffer
and die) and then I’ve gone in to hospital alone, to the wrong ward with
inadequate pain relief (unless I fancied heroin…then I was in the right place…
kind of wish I’d tried that now) and I’ve given birth to a dead baby six days
before I was due to fly on a trip of a lifetime. I’ve smiled and nodded
sympathetically when friends who are married but who’ve had miscarriages have
told me they know exactly how I feel. I’ve picked myself up and I’ve rebooked
the trip and I’ve taken Poppy to the other side of the world and seen and done
the most amazing things and I have had time to think, to be away from it all
and to escape.
I often wonder if I’m lucky…there are lots of things that
could have been worse. Ben had great healthcare, the babies ‘incompatibility
with life’ (what a great phrase) was detected early and I was given choices and
good healthcare. I have one incredible daughter, I have freedom and I am
strong.
There were so many highs and lows on our trip away. It was
an incredible roller coaster flitting between climbing volcanoes, snorkelling
the Great Barrier Reef, watching the beautiful changing colours of Uluru as the
sun set and rose again juxtaposed with challenges like losing the one and only
item of Ben’s I had with me, just before his 40th birthday (a £200
North Face jacket and the only waterproof I had). I’ve watched a storm rage and
the sea swell which stopped us from reaching our paradise that I’d booked for
Ben’s birthday as if Ben’s anger of not being here was swirling around us, and
I’ve sat in a broken down rental car and cried so much that the man who came to
fix the car fetched his wife who hugged me and offered us a bed for the night.
We experienced so much kindness and friendship along with isolation and
independence. And we’ve come back. Back home to questions. Home to two frozen
babies waiting for a decision… more IVF? The builders are about to start the
‘final’ repairs on the house (I’ll believe it when I see it!). To decisions
about school, about what to do, where to go, and what do I want, and I don’t
have the answers for any of them… yet.
Then last week I experienced freedom. Mum was visiting for
Mother’s Day and I went running without the buggy, I played netball for two
hours straight, I danced the night away and got drunk and flirted and realised
that I’m not just a widow and a mum… I’m still me too.
I went out with the most incredible group of people. Friends
I’ve met at the young and bereaved café at Wheatfields. We’re all young and
most have young children and so we’re all in the same boat. It sounds like the world’s
most depressing night out but it’s really not! So now I’m on it, back to being
me! No refined sugar for five days so far even though there’s been lots of cake
around (we’ve been at cafes, parties etc.) and I feel great! I’m training, I’ve
seen my friends much more than I did before and I’m starting to feel like I’m
ready to face the world. I’m ready to answer:
- ‘Is it just the two of you?’
Yes but
it’s not ‘just’, no I know you didn’t mean it like that, that’s okay.
- ‘Where is your husband?’
He
died.
- ‘Are you a single parent?’
I
prefer ‘one parent family’ but I realise you might say that’s just semantics.
- ‘What job do you do?’
I
parent and I hold it together when it doesn’t seem possible. You might not
think it’s a job, that’s okay, because it is.
- ‘What next?’
I have
no idea, and that’s okay. For now being happy is enough.
Today I found it hard when I looked at my step count and
realised I’d had a bit of a lazy day. I felt the burden of being alone with
Poppy, of not being able to pop out… ever! The prison of being a lone parent
when what I really needed to do was go for a run and gather my thoughts. The
answer took me longer to think of than I would have hoped but I thought ‘sod
it’ to parenting and even though it was 5 pm and Poppy was hungry and tired I put
her in the buggy and I went out in the sunshine and I ran. I felt life pulling
me backwards, and I struggled to push the heavy buggy up the hills, but I ran.
And as the sun shone on my face, other runners smiled at me, people looked at
me like I was crazy doing an effort session in the park with a whinging 4 year
old in a buggy, I just laughed. I realised that sometimes to be the best mum in
the world you have to give your hungry child their dinner an hour late because
you have to run and what you need matters too.
I often run in the park and see nobody I know but I was
thankful to get a lovely smile and wave from Ralph as he cycled past and the
same from Farhad as he drove past so that I felt like I was part of a club that
I’ve felt distanced from lately.
Here I am, a ‘widow’ at 33 (God I HATE that word!) and I
could hold my own in a discussion about cancer, death, funeral planning,
miscarriages, terminations, world travel, PhD level chemical biology, IVF, subsidence,
parenting and a whole lot more. So if you ask me how I am, I’m battered, I’m
bruised but I’m fine… I can’t believe it! I’m actually fine, I’ve got this! I can do
this! Truth be told, I’m feeling a little bit amazing… and why? Because I now know that I
am unstoppable.
