So what happened in Africa?

It has been a long time since I have blogged here. There just haven't been enough hours in the day. But I have been itching to share what we got up to in Africa, how it went, the difference it has made to our family and to say another massive thank you to everyone who helped us get there with their kind donations.

In short, since losing Neil, I have never felt so alive as the time we spent with our fellow volunteers and the youngsters we met. Here's our story:


Watching my daughter Melissa set off to walk four miles carrying a bed for a nine-year-old orphaned African girl who slept among rats on the floor, I cried big fat tears of pride.

We were doing this in Neil's memory. I hope that one day there will be an element of our involvement that I can put his name to as a lasting reminder for all to see of his decency and compassion.
I find it amazing that such an unassuming, modest group of people should make such a difference and honoured to be allowed to walk alongside them. It's hard for me to imagine that mothers have so little that their newborns are sent away from hospital wrapped in newspaper but mind-blowing to consider women in my village are easing this burden.

Melissa trekked for hours along a dirt path to deliver the bed we had built together, while me and her sister Emily carried another to its new, less faraway but equally dilapidated home.

We were in a remote South African community fittingly called Share, in a region called Bush Buck Ridge.

Our mission was to start to help some of the continent’s poorest children. These youngsters had lost one or both parents to HIV and Aids or were devastated by a more sudden death.

Now they lived with their grandmothers, themselves often child-like through the effects of trauma, or a toxic combination of no education and deteriorating faculties.

As young brothers and sisters woke to the sight of their parents’ crudely etched graves in the heat and dust outside their bedroom window, facing hours of chores, there was little time to be a child.

We were helping a dedicated team of local women offer the children hope, through food, education and healthcare, with a small charity called Hands atWork.

The amazing women caring for these children – bringing them one simple meal a day -- and attempting to mend fragmented families had very few material possessions. But driven by a deep faith, they brought love by the bucket load. Each day their voices filled the air with soulful songs of celebration, giving thanks for the community.

The tiny British charity taking us there is called Link4Life – inspired by an aim of forging long-standing meaningful, relationships, working together over a lifetime to bring real improvements.

They asked us to put together beds for 12 children of the 50 they are able to help from their centre, and to help build a ‘long drop’ toilet so little girls and boys no longer had to crouch behind the centre’s walls.

We were part of a 14-strong team throwing ourselves into the tasks with aplomb. Colleagues from Link4Life had already painted the centre, set up a fence and embedded colourful tyres as play equipment.

In these still bleak surroundings, I was upset by the scale of deprivation. Yet my wise fellow team members could see how things were improving and thankful for the steps taken so far.

Our job was to cuddle the children, to play with them and show them love. We were not there to pity or point and say: “Oh how poor they are.”

There was no international marketing fanfare to throw Western money at these children  and impose our own solutions, we were there to listen to what they genuinely needed. Each day we listened and got on with it.

But they were also helping mend us.

My tears came not only from pride but from waves of understanding and grief. My beautiful brave girls getting blisters carrying the beds and laughing with the children in the playground, understood their heartbreak. They had lost their dad, my gorgeous husband Neil, just over a year before we found ourselves in Share.

The care workers and our companions from our local village community of Cheslyn Hay in Staffordshire told us they would be thinking and praying for us too, that we needed their love.

Having spent months attempting to come to terms with our grief and facing the future without Neil, to meet so many bereaved children and see the pain in their eyes was a cathartic and humbling experience, especially when their care workers recognised the same agony in us. Yet as we witnessed the difference we were making, since losing Neil, I had never felt so alive.

The reason behind our visit was uncomplicated -- to meet the children, be at their side and help tell their stories.

As the three of us made a hash of sweeping a grandmother’s yard during a home visit, he would have laughed fondly as she tutted and told us to do it again.

We also had the opportunity to visit a hospital in Durban, where babies are now sent home clothed, rather than in newspaper, thanks to a group of knitters, some of whom are just streets from where we live. This is the Baby Bear project.

As I helped hand over freshly knitted clothes to women in the last stages or of pregnancy or hours after they gave birth, I sat and chatted with a young mum of newborn twins. Rosie, 25, from a nearby village, who told me she would name one of her daughters after me.

Again, the tears flowed. This time I was crying with joy.


At a banana plantation where an international team of nurses ran a basic health clinic, I held a young girl’s hand while she underwent traumatic treatment to Impetigo on her head.

The festering lesions on Virginia’s scalp remained agonising as her aunt had refused to give her the medication needed. Now the sores were so serious, they were being cut out with a blade. There was little pain relief. As I sat and held her fingers in mine, urging her to squeeze my hand to take the pain away, she was so unused to anyone showing her such basic care, she didn’t know what to do and her wrists remained limp, her hands dangling as she screamed in pain. I will never forget Virginia, I ran to our van to get her some boiled sweets so she could somehow benefit from a sugar rush and take her mind off the stinging blade.

I’m not a religious person but could not fail to be moved by the dedication of those who used their beliefs as a reason to roll up their sleeves to see their hands at work among such need. Nobody was preaching,just getting on and helping in desperate circumstances. Perhaps the most moving part of our visit was spending a Sunday morning at a church built from sticks, with fabric oddments adorning the makeshift walls as underfed children in their best dresses sang hymns beautifully. Outside they played with toys fashioned from bits of old wire. It was heartbreaking but uplifting at the same time – you couldn’t help but be in awe of these children’s spirit.

My colleagues from the UK church said they felt God was there that morning. I couldn’t disagree, but Neil was there too I told them. Now, as I reflect on our time in Africa, my tears have given way to renewed commitment to help girls like Virginia.  There has been guilt since we returned as we squabble over which pudding to buy in the supermarket or which reality TV shocker we are going to settle down in front of. We don’t know we are born.

Still, my tears have given way to smiles as I think of the children we helped, including my own and a new little girl called Linda. 

We have a link for life.

How you can help

The Baby Bear project is looking for more knitters. Please leave a comment here if you can spare the time to get involved and possibly help clothe newborn babies or email me on linaitchison(at)gmail.com.

A direct debit of £15 a month feeds one child at Share. Please visit www.edscouriers.co.uk/ for more information. 

I've also included a Donate button in the top right hand corner of this blog to help me send money in a monthly direct debit. 

 

Dear bloggers, I'd love your help

Since losing Neil I've slunk away from life. I used to feel that I was part of a lovely online community of parent bloggers but lately my presence has been sporadic and jumbled. I really haven't shared much online about how we've been doing -- give or take the few posts here.

As well as doing my best to get through everything that has been thrown at us and sorting out all a lone parent needs to get on with, I've been hiding. I have watched Homes under the Hammer and Pointless until I can tell within seconds of the opening credits whether it's a repeat. The same goes unfortunately for the Millionaire Matchmaker. Did I really just say that out loud?

I've had lots of ideas about things I would love to do, stuff I would love to write, but I haven't quite got there.

Now I am finding my focus again. It's just two and a bit weeks until we head to Africa and I would like to throw myself hook, line and sinker back into the parent blogging community and ask for help.

Here's what we are up to:

In loving memory: our visit to to South Africa


Please can you help?

Here are three ways you can:

You could donate

I still need sponsorship to help fund our journey. I've been carbooting (is that a word?) and eBaying (that can't be) like mad to pull money in and am hugely grateful for donations from all the kind individuals who have contributed so far.

But I wouldn't be giving it my best shot if I didn't make one last shout out for support. Thank you so very much if you can donate, it really is appreciated. There is no minimum amount, every little helps. Thank you so much.

You could send me some old clothes

Seriously. Do you have any old stuff that you just don't need any more that you have been thinking about recycling but not got around to it? I will very happily take it off your hands -- whether it's for kids or adults. Please email me (linaitchison at gmail dot com) if you would like to send me even just a single garment, and I will send you my address. I can make use of these, taking some over to Africa, as we can leave the clothes behind when we come home, or by taking them to Cash for Clothes before we go to help fund the charity. If you email me, I can explain more. Thank you!

You could buy a copy of my book on freelance writing at a knock down price

I'm selling a small number of my book, called Freelance writing, straightforward advice from a woman who knows (such a modest title, I know, I know) for just £7 to include postage and packaging. The RRP is £9.99. If you would like one, please click on the donate button and when you get through to the actual donation part, add a little note that you would like one of the books. Or please email me after you have donated to let me know you would like a book -- thanks a million.

It would also be wonderful if you could look out for my posts when I'm back and help share the children's stories.

Thanks so much for reading.

In loving memory: Our visit to South Africa

Thabo, Believe and Tholiwe. Photo from 2012 Link 4 Life project. 

In July this year, Melissa, Emily and I are heading for a remote area of South Africa, called Bush Buck Ridge. While there, we will meet children orphaned by HIV and Aids and help care workers who look after them day to day.

The reason behind our visit is uncomplicated -- to meet the children, be at their side and help tell their stories.

This is designed to be a lasting connection. There's no big charity fanfare, no massive building project, no international marketing effort, just the prospect of helping. You can imagine how much that appeals.

Each day, we will be guided by a team of care workers to let us know what needs doing and we will get on with it.

Experience of previous visits has shown that this is likely to be helping feed the children or washing clothes, plus a load of other straightforward tasks to lighten their day.

Me, Melissa and Emily have also been set the task of listening to a child's story and helping share it. It's as simple as that. And as someone whose life has been largely taken up by telling stories, it's a role I relish.

I'm doing this in Neil's memory. I hope that one day, maybe not this year, but one day, there will be an element of our involvement, that I can put his name to as a lasting reminder for all to see of his decency and compassion. It's such a cliche, but I know he would like that.

We're members of a 12-strong group travelling to meet and help the children, under a project called Link 4 Life, helping charities called Hands at Work, Mercy Air and the Baby Bear Project.

Our stay comes days apart from a visit from my children's school, where older pupils, plus teachers, will also contribute.

Fellow team members have been so very kind to us, assuring us that our presence is special and that we will bring with us an empathy for children who have lost a parent. That makes me feel useful.
 
There's also an opportunity to visit a hospital in one of the country's poorest areas, where babies are now sent home clothed, rather than in newspaper, thanks to a group of knitters, some of whom are just streets from where we live. This is the Baby Bear project.

I find it amazing that such an unassuming, modest group of people should make such a difference and honoured to be allowed to walk alongside them. It's hard for me to imagine that mothers have so little that their newborns are sent away from hospital wrapped in newspaper but amazing to consider women in my village are easing this burden.

There's a yearly commitment for contact and support with the people in this part of South Africa from the Staffordshire villages of Great Wyrley and Cheslyn Hay. Some people come from our local churches, where we have been sporadic visitors over the years, some from business and some from schools. The aim is to forge longstanding links that will build to bring fruitful relationships.

Already young people from Cheslyn Hay and Great Wyrley are spending longer periods in the community to complete much-needed practical tasks.

Neil and me first heard of Link 4 Life in 2009. We were both interested in taking part, as we worked together from our offices on voluntary publicity material for local media about the project, led by local vicar Richard Westwood.

We looked forward to a day when our girls may be able to join a school group and chatted about how realistic a possibility either or both of us getting involved could be.

Richard was always hugely grateful for our help with fundraising and publicity and I don't think there was ever a time we spoke that he didn't tell me that. As non church-goers our paths didn't cross that often but we kept in touch to follow the progress of Link 4 Life.

And then, in the blur of all that has happened, Richard became a remarkable source of support -- for Neil, me and our wider family.

He married us in January and just months later, led Neil's funeral.

He spent time with us in our most desperate hours in a hospital room.

I can't remember when exactly the idea was mooted that the three of us should join Link 4 Life this year, but it was Melissa's idea and we have stuck at it.

So this has become our "thing", a focus for us to work towards. In our grief and shock, our commitment hasn't lessened. I'm not as far forward as I would have liked to have been with officialdom to do with the visit but I'm catching up now the best I can.


How you can help

I would like to ask for your help if I may, and this is connected with fundraising towards our trip. My daughters have plans of their own with the help of classmates and teachers.

I have £637 from the wonderful journalists' community at JournoBiz and we even went and packed bags at Asda. (I never thought I'd see the day.) We lasted at least an hour.

But now I need to step up my fundraising efforts. I'm going to self publish a book of short stories if enough people are interested, to help, and hope to tap into my lovely works colleagues' expertise for more ideas on generating some cash. The stories are a bit rude (as in earthy humour) and have been received well.

In the meantime, I have set up a donate button on this blog. I know that times are very, very tough for people, but if you would like to help me do this in Neil's memory, I would really appreciate any amount, however small, you can send my way.

You just need to click on the donate button and you will be taken through how to make a secure payment.

The button is here and also in the top right of the blog:

If you'd like to help but would prefer to send me a cheque, please email me linaitchison@gmail[dot]com and I will reply with my postal address.

Please also email me if you are interested in knowing more about the form my book of short stories will take.

This will be put towards airfare for the three of us. Should there be enough funds raised, more money will go towards local feeding programmes.

Thank you for reading.

Sometimes it's okay not to be okay

I can't remember which kind soul once told me this.

It was in the days I was blogging about mental health, having worked with a branch of Mind.

Now I have found myself reflecting on this simple yet striking sentiment many times in recent weeks.

I have been having the most vile flashbacks to things that happened to our family and feeling overwhelmed by sadness. My memory continues to be very problematic. This has made my usual daily routine of writing and looking after customers, almost impossible.

Being keen to continue at work has created more problems than it has solved. It's a bitter pill to swallow.

I so want to wave a magic wand, to feel okay, to live life to the fullest for me, my children and my lovely Neil, and find it very hard to accept that it's not possible. So I end up beating myself up for being useless. This has to stop.

Last night as I lay in bed, memories cascaded through my mind. But they were happy memories. This has to be a step forward. I have been trapped a little in bad, bad memories, genuine, aching trauma that my mind and body has struggled to process.

After an initial burst of getting on with things at work and declaring I was now going to be 'braver' in business as a result of my situation, I have come to a grinding halt.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, I can't make my mind up which) medical professionals agree. I am clear and they are clear, that I'm not depressed, but I continue to feel anxious and invent negative scenarios purely through stress. My GP sent me to an emotional well-being service (lovely name, so much better than mental health) where I burst into tears at the start of the session, when the question "Who do you live with?" was the trigger. It didn't take long to be told I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

People who care about me asked what happened next and how this will be treated. It makes me laugh that actually I can't remember! I think I'm on a waiting list.

Meanwhile I fight every urge that says PTSD is a load of nonsense and urges me to get a grip.

I've also been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, following in the footsteps of close family members. My high blood sugar levels have affected how tired I have been feeling and I'm on medication.

This makes me feel crap too - I have been overweight for far too long. But the tablets are working and I am starting to feel more alert. The connotations of laziness and greed that lie behind a Type 2 diabetes diagnosis inevitably play on my mind but I have to be positive and optimistic about my health. For me and my girls it's imperative, now more than ever, that I continue to lose weight (I am a good two and a half stone lighter than I have been.) I don't want to stay on the medication long term and have already significantly lowered my blood sugar through a change in eating habits.

So often I have dished out advice, to family and friends that they need to be kind to themselves.
I need to do the same.

I've been told everything I'm doing, including work and going on holiday is a distraction and that I need to grieve properly. "Shut the door and cry," were the exact words.

So that's what I have been doing. My head feels like it's full of candy floss. 

I've also booked some complementary therapy. What would I say to a friend who has been through all I have? I'd say give yourself a break and stop judging yourself so harshly. Give yourself permission to take time to heal.

Grief is something that has to be let in properly to then be let out, this I try to understand. When I think about what I'm still seeing, I have to acknowledge overcoming that needs strength. But that strength means being strong enough not to pretend to be okay. My neighbour tells me even being upright when faced with such pain is an incredible achievement. 

I need to start to believe her.

It's okay to not 'get a grip' or 'get on with things' or pull myself together sometimes. I am doing my best and that will have to be good enough.

Thanks for reading. 

Stuck

Apparently, my grief is stuck.

I've been having a bloody nightmare. Too often I have found myself blundering around, on a different planet, incapable of remembering something that happened last week or five minutes ago.

Sometimes the pain is unbearable.

I've felt things build up through the day, going from a mild feeling of unease in the morning to what I'd call a complete disconnection and a head full of fuzz, by the time it's evening.

All the time I am wondering if I have slipped into a clinical depression.

With emotions so close to the surface, my temper has been short and I have yelled in desperation at the smallest thing. I've doubled up in tears and got a parking ticket on a day I ventured out in connection with official matters. I've been buried in mountains of paperwork and after an initial spurt of 'getting back into it' at work, I was forced by way of being a bumbling wreck, to spend some time by myself at home. I felt safe in front of the telly, watching crap. There have been painful tears, helpless crying in supermarkets as I remember stuff from this time last year or the following months.

Songs on the radio have me in floods.

Flashbacks are coming thick and fast.

I felt that the more time that passed since we lost Neil, the further away he feels and I can't bear that. I remain grateful for all I do have, our beautiful children, wonderful family and friends and remind myself how much worse off so many people are.

I have answered my own question about whether my state of despair comes from grief, depression or perhaps both. I am clear that I'm not depressed. Any whiff of that and I would be straight to the doctor, I have always promised myself that, but sometimes it's hard to know the difference.

My grief has turned messy - violent snot-filled episodes of holding a jumper I bought Neil to my chest and howling in the small hours. It helps to let it out.

Our lovely grief counsellor says she would like to see me more often and that I will bring Neil closer again by thinking of good times. She acknowledges how hard that is but that  I have to try.

There have been times when I have been able to think of Neil and smile, on the aeroplane when we went away for a week, for example, as I imagined him there with me. But most of all, recalling how much we loved each other and the laughs and care we have shared, just makes me worse. It hurts too much and sometimes, I get furious that we can't still do those things.

But today, for the first time in ages, I have not only found my way into work, but returned after a lunch break. I realise how lucky I am to have been able to build my own work to the extent I can still be paid and not be here. I need to get on with it.

So that's what I'm doing.

Now when I feel stuck I think of the fact that Neil wouldn't want me to sit there doing nothing. I know he would want me to be kind to myself and to take my time. I don't think there's anything wrong with still grieving for the love of your life months or years after he is gone.

But his words that I shouldn't become a victim are ringing in my ears and I am simply doing my best. Writing it down helps. Thanks for reading.

Telling our story in the Daily Express

A piece I wrote about me, Neil, our girls and our plans for our life without him appeared in the Daily Express yesterday:

We'll see the world in my husband's memory.

I wanted to see a story in print about how much we all love Neil and how we are determined to live our lives to the full.

I'm hugely touched by the incredibly positive and supportive reaction I've had since sharing our story. Thank you to everyone who has been in touch. People have shared their own stories of loss and told me they have been moved by ours.

The phone rang with people telling me how much they appreciated my feature, others emailed me and Facebook and Twitter was awash with people sharing the link and passing on their good wishes.

It was lovely for me to see this reaction, thank you.

I'm now also telling our story in a women's weekly magazine so I'm pleased about that too.

One thing the experience of working on this hugely personal story for a newspaper has helped underline for me is that I can be positive and look forward with love. This has made me more determined to carry on this blog as well and be positive when I can.

It also gave me a push to pick our travel site, Have a Lovely Time, back up. I haven't been able to bear to look at it.

I'm trying my best to think about what we have rather than what we don't. That's a lot. It's when I think what we have all lost that I'm inconsolable.

Thanks for reading.

For the love of Fudgie

The Christmas before last, we managed to persuade Neil after years of trying that we should have a dog.

He took us to our local rescue centre and we chose a scrappy little Jack Russell we named Fudge because of her golden-brown coat.

It was love at first sight for all of us. It was the best Christmas ever as we spoiled Fudge, lavishing her with the affection she craved since being abandoned as a stray. Even the home gave her away, waiving their usual admin fee as she had a poorly leg.

Two days after we had her was Christmas Day 2010 and we all enjoyed a fantastic walk in the snowy Shropshire countryside with my mum. We bought doggie Christmas treats and we felt great pride at being able to give her a "forever home" with our family.

Despite Neil being against having a dog so long, Fudge inevitably became his best pal, he got used to feeding her and taking her out most often, even though the rest of us had promised we'd be the ones to do that.

He took her to an obedience class, where the teacher laughed, wished Neil luck and sent them home - there was no helping Fudge, she was too mischievous - and totally not a fan of other dogs, or cats come to that, or ducks, swans, sheep, horses or rabbits.

Anything with four legs rather than two and Fudge was all for seeing them off. This summer I started to see some improvement and just now on our walk, she was the best ever. I told her to 'leave it' when we spotted a Staffie over the road and she just whimpered as I stroked her nose and told her she was a good girl for not going ballistic.

All the time Neil was ill, we both wanted to get back to training her but had to keep postponing appointments due to hospital stays.

Last Christmas is a blur, Neil was out of hospital and I cooked Christmas dinner, Fudge made a massive fuss of him.

Since Neil died, Fudge has helped us all laugh again as she chases a squirrel or murmurs with contentment when we fuss her. But she's also a massive pain in the neck - still in desperate need of training.

She gets me out of bed far too early every morning for a walk, has the most disgusting wind and welcomes everyone into our home with a wag of the tail and soppy look. Apart from the wind, she is the most wonderful companion.

She also eats clothes pegs, raw oven chips, refuses all doggie toys and barks at any dog with the temerity to walk past our house.

I've now booked to go back to training, a different class, to finish what Neil started.

This Christmas will be our first without Neil and our third with Fudge. I know there will be tears but there will be lots of laughter too, thanks to Fudge.

How my grief feels

You can imagine the question I hear most these days.

"How are you?"
"How are you?"
"How are you?"
"How are you?"

I love how this shows people care.

Yet however well-meant their gentle checking up, I'm often stuck for words.

Sometimes I want to retort: "How do you think I f****** am?"

My closest friend told me the other day how well she thought I was doing. We discussed if I was 'back to normal.'

But I have lost half of me.

I will never be back to my old normal.

Sometimes it's all I can do to put one foot in front of another. Today I can't manage it. I'm going nowhere. I had a panic attack yesterday evening when I opened an important and troubling letter. Its catastrophic effect is still with me.

Other days I'm unshakable in my insistence I'm going to be okay. 
I don't know what doing well means. I suspect it means times like yesterday. I was at work, being productive. I walked the dog at 6am, made sandwiches for school for my girls, went to an important meeting. I smiled and shook people's hand, but inside I was struggling so much. I couldn't remember a thing.

I know I've been changed by grief. I still had a cry at dinner time yesterday. And again last night, imploring out loud: "Where are you Baby?" and dissolving into tears when a new TV advert rang out with At last my love has come along, words so carefully chosen among other precious tunes for Neil's funeral. Sitting on the sofa, I reach out for a cushion and squeeze it hard, imagining it's Neil's hand.

I've been thinking about the ways I have been changed by grief.

I thought that writing this down could help people who haven't experienced such loss understand a bit, if they want to. The way I feel will be different to anyone else facing such a close bereavement but I'm sure there are common threads recognised by others.

I feel

Anxiety

I've had three panic attacks in the last three months. This is a terrifying experience. They came when I was at my most crushed, I didn't know what day it was or what planet I was on. Fuelled also by rage, I feel like I tumbled into a black hole of these frightening episodes where I appeared to be choking. I wail and my breathing is heightened and rushed. They happened thanks to immediate unbearable stress. I can't say what those instances were - it's too much of a trigger for me to again feel so bloody anxious but they are caused by the pain of the reality of certain elements of all we have been through.

In general, I'm worried about stuff anyone would be - work, getting to places on time, cost of fuel, but I'm also stressing about ridiculous things - What if one or both of my daughters is in a car crash? What if someone complains that an article I've written is a complete load of shit and the editor agrees? How about the dog opening the locked front door in the middle of the night and saunters off down the road, attacking every cat in her way?

Things that would normally cause the slightest of worry are suddenly magnified out of proportion, bringing on too much stress. If I can't find the pegs when I'm hanging out some washing, look as if I'm going to run out of petrol or forget my pen, it's a disaster of epic proportions.

Shift this up a gear or six so I'm dealing with bills, banks and important documents and I'm practically on the floor.


Fear

I am scared of dying. I am frightened of getting ill. This is multiplied for everyone I love. Most of all I worry about what will happen to my girls if I'm not around.

Sadness

No shit Sherlock. 

Pain

I physically ache to feel Neil's arms around me or in the car, to stroke the back of his neck like I did when we weren't arguing about maps. I imagine sometimes he is there with me or I dream about him. When realisation dawns he's not here, I hurt like I didn't know anyone could.

Guilt 

I feel like I have failed. I didn't protect Neil from his illness, his anguish at leaving us or his passing.

Helplessness

I'm divorced from reality, I don't feel capable of going to the shop for veg for our tea or of accepting my friend's invitation for tea at her house. I'm in a different world and it's not one I think much of, thanks. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the outside looking in on other people, in the supermarket or at school meetings. Such mundane places are filled with the pain of loss as everyone else goes about their business like nothing has changed.  

Stuff that would under normal circumstances would inspire, move or entertain me, leaves me cold. I've lost interest in favourite TV programmes, can't be bothered to join friends on a night out and all the excitement around a magnificent British summer of pomp and sport has passed me by. When I think how much Neil would have loved it, I am inconsolable.

Rage

I've always been such a big softie but I have anger inside of me that needs to come out. Tears aren't enough. To watch someone you love affected as Neil was, to be faced with the incompetency and insensitivity of so many people who should have treated us better, as we both have, has completely changed my outlook on life. I think of the doctor who prescribed Nurofen gel when Neil had tumours growing in his back, the hospital staff who have filled five pages of apology for the way we were treated in his last days, the district nurse who came to our house on Christmas Eve and wanted to talk about end of life care with my children around us, the social worker who spoke to us like Neil's life was over months before it was, the ambulanceman who wanted to put my gentleman of a husband in handcuffs and the undertaker who failed to let anyone know when the funeral was and I could scream and never stop.
Our family did not deserve these body blows, least of all Neil. He isn't here to see an apology that came yesterday, bringing it all back and sending me into a panic attack. That's what makes me angry and there is nothing anyone can say to make it better. Cruel and unfair doesn't begin to cover it. 

Cheated

Married four months, there won't be a single wedding anniversary we can mark together, there won't be any more Christmases, no more birthdays, no more laughter together, no more holidays, no more cuddles, no more joint pride at our beautiful daughters' milestones. And then I think about the physical side of our relationship and I am lost, utterly bereft at the prospect of such closeness being snatched away. You find me anything to make any of that make any sense and I'll find you the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Clumsy, forgetful and accident prone

I'm dropping things, losing keys, glasses, handbags, money, packets of biscuits you name it. I can't find the right words often, saying the wrong thing like Hilda Ogden or Mrs Malathrop, (see, Mrs Malaprop I mean, typical.) I feel an idiot. I've driven the wrong way up a one way street and parked in the middle of the road. When someone wags their finger or shakes a fist at me because they don't like the way I pull up over a white line, I shrug back at them and think:  'Tell someone who gives a shit.' 

Intolerant and rude

This upsets me, I love to care for people, to be there for them, but now I'm more likely to be annoyed, particularly may I say, by people who tell me they know how I feel. I am being an arse. 

A lack of confidence

Every minute of every day I suspect I am talking bollocks. I think I'm right 80 per cent of the time. I think everything I have worked on since I've been back in the office, or out on appointments has been a let down because of me. It can't be judging by what people say but I think they're maybe just being kind. I ramble on more than I ever have.

Exhausted

I want to sleep. A lot. I am sleeping deeply so that's a relief.

Lonely and isolated

My family and friends are amazing. I also seek comfort from compassionate strangers online. But my heart aches for someone who truly understands where I'm coming from. Lovely kind people want to empathise so they share their experiences of grief, when they lost a parent. It  makes me cross that my grief is different, I'm sorry for their loss but what can I say? This makes me disappointed in myself. Grief is not a competitive sport.
I'm going to contact the WAY Foundation to see what that's about. First thing in the morning and last thing at night, I think of Neil and what we would be saying to each other. Throughout the day I miss his conversation, shared jokes, kisses, and love. Standing at the sink or walking the dog, I repeat: "Love you Neil, love you Neil" to nobody but myself.

But there are still ways that my life is on track. I will not allow my new-found unabashed pessimism to derail me completely. I know this isn't what Neil wanted and my daughters don't need a mum who snaps and bickers all the time.

My resolve to make sure we are all okay is as strong as it was the day I promised Neil we would be. I have a clear vision of priorities, newly defined goals, a never before realised determination to look after myself and an abundance of love from my amazing family and friends.

I will always carry my grief with me, but just as Neil said, I will not let it beat me. I am not ashamed of my grief, it's the price we pay for love. Thank you for reading.

And thank you for asking how I am.