The trials and tribulations of planning a book launch

You know that recurring nightmare we all have of turning up at a posh do wearing nothing but our underwear? Not the glamourous matching set but the faded washed-out pants of indeterminate colour and the bra with a BHS label - how long is it since they stopped trading?

Well, I have a new nightmare to keep me awake in the wee small hours, an author version.

Imagine a book launch with NO BOOKS!

I don’t have to imagine that hard to be honest. Yesterday my KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing for those not in the know) said my books were finally ‘live’ and I was able to order my author copies.

Great I thought, I have exactly one week, Amazon are very good at delivering things in good time. Have you seen how many Prime vans there are about these days, there are hardly an endangered species. I drove past one yesterday, parked completely on the kerb by the post office, an accident waiting to happen.

But I digress, as most storytellers do until the final edit.

I ordered my 200 copies – well I have at least 50 people coming to my launch party next Friday and at least three speaking engagements planned in the near future. 

I paid for ‘expedited delivery’ but my books will not arrive until Monday 15th, the book launch is Friday 12th.

It’s not even an ‘expected delivery date’ – they seem quite certain that they will dispatch my books on the 14th.

from my positivity calendar - a Christmas gift from oldest son

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry? I take comfort in the fact my proof copy arrived two days earlier than I expected it, which really threw me off balance to be honest.

There is a little bit of me that knows I procrastinated too long, even wondered what would happen if…?

I admit have a self-destruct button I’m fond of pressing, or at least my finger hovers over it as I ponder.

Once I was at a concert watching beer bottles been thrown into the crowd as the support act played, and the thought crossed my mind, ‘what if one of them hits somebody?’ You can guess what happens next – there’s a story about it in my book, which you can read, once you manage to get hold of a copy.

And so, I face the complete tragedy of a book launch with NO BOOKS!

Is it really a tragedy or just a minor inconvenience?

I do not live in a country being bombed, daily fearing for my life. Closer to home I do not live on a flood plain, I won’t have to suffer the devastation of muddy water pouring through my house. I have much to be thankful for.

No body died!

Well, that last statement is not quite true, my book is a memoir about losing my husband, at least that was my starting point. I didn’t understand what grief was as I negotiated those early days of confusion. Writing a blog kept me sane and helped me process my thoughts and feelings.

I tried hard to end each blog post positively, 

I can find the perfect words for EVERY occasion!

I think I failed only twice when my mood just could not be improved by furiously tapping on the keyboard, those times I left the laptop and went and had a good cry instead.

Disappointment has in many ways become second nature to me, I’ve come to expect the unexpected although I try hard not to be pessimistic with it. Sometimes it’s like walking a tightrope.

It’s a bit of a cliché but I’ve come so far on this journey. Just in the past year I have successfully wrangled my words into a cohesive book that is being published by Resolute Books, a collaboration of authors who I am indebted to for including me in their esteemed ranks.

The venue for the launch had been booked for months, I have so many people coming and I will pull out all the stops to make it a most marvellous party, with or without a pile of books.

My first port of call last night when I resigned myself to ‘whatever will be’ was youngest son. He cheered me up showing me a picture of new Lego set he might buy me for my birthday and then decided it was ironic that launching a book about how life often goes wrong was still throwing up the unexpected curve ball.

a Lego pheasant! Yes I know it's really a peacock, when you read the book you will understand the joke

This is real life; it doesn’t always happen as we plan. Sometimes we need to collapse on the sofa and have a good cry to get it out of our system, or walk along a deserted beach shouting into the wind, or curl up in the arms of a loved one who can sooth away the pain. All are very effective tried and tested methods.

Ultimately, search for the tiny bits of sparkle and glitter and make the best of any situation. Some people call me inspirational for doing so, but we can’t live in the dark forever. Find someone to guide you, to hold your hand and listen. Reach out and believe there will be a rainbow around the next corner.

 

I hope and pray that 2024 is a really good year for you whatever is thrown your way and my best piece of advice is - if you decide to write a book, order your author copies in plenty of time!

Longing for the scent of petrichor

 

Three years ago I posted a collage on Facebook of garden flowers and wrote about the smell of petrichor in the air after the rain.

Three years ago my dad died, but that happened after my post so that will be tomorrow’s Facebook memory.

Do I need Facebook to remind me?

My mum has the date marked on her calendar in the kitchen – how can any of us forget?

But I’d prefer the day to pass without much thought, like my dad, I’m not that sentimental.

And this has been a strange week, this week I tested positive for Covid for the very first time.

When dad died it was rife, there were restrictions on funerals, so many new rules we had to live by.

Now there are no rules, I don’t have to isolate, I didn’t need to test, I can carry on regardless.

But I don’t.

And maybe part of it is actually grief, the loss of my dad, the loss of a world we once knew and the deeper grief I carry everywhere that dates back almost thirteen years.

Today I feel heavy and aching and broken

But this will pass

The flowers will bloom

The rain will come

And I will smell the petrichor once more.

Aga Memories

 

I gravitate towards the Aga

stretch out my arms

giving it a warm embrace

greeting it like a faithful old friend

 

The feelings come back,

a flood of nostalgia

for the home we once lived in

the clanging of the doors

the banging of the lids

brutal hits of metal on metal

solid

dependable

heavy duty

the heart of our - not quite forever - family home

glowing bright red

 

But this one is green,

our encounter is only for the shortest season

its verdant colour symbolises new life

starting afresh

reawakened happy memories

form a diving board

to spring from

The Aga in the kitchen of a house in Criccieth where I went on a retreat

Remember remember - how can I forget?

The tree is left scarred

By the spinning Catherine wheel

That never sparkled

Loose matches rattle

In the pocket of your coat

Worn that November

We had a good time

Created bright memories

Just for a moment

Grief is expected – how you grieve is optional

The outpouring of grief since the Queen died has been phenomenal. Carpets of flowers, crowds of people and then there’s THE QUEUE, which can probably be seen from space!

I’ll confess I’m a bit ambivalent about all the fuss, I understand the need for a release of emotion but the flowers to me are a waste, and the pageantry and protocol seems over the top.

tributes for the Queen - image from Metro

My biggest concern is for the wellbeing of the immediate family and close friends, how abhorrent it must be to be filmed at every turn, practically every tear measured. When King Charles had a fit at the leaky pen my heart went out to him. For all his privilege and wealth this is intrusive. He is a seventy something year old man mourning the loss of his beloved mother, not that long after laying his father to rest.

This is the part he was always born to play but at such a time as this his emotions will be all over the place. And the same goes for the rest of the royals, from the oldest to youngest, those used to being in the public eye and those more used to being on the periphery, suddenly being scrutinised far more than usual.

The media can be a voracious beast devouring its prey and all too often those of us looking on lap it up.

If only there could be a halt on proceeding, a chance to just breathe, some space away from twenty-four-hour news.

I guess it won’t be long until this news cycle is over and most of the family can retreat and process their grief more privately, some member won’t get that luxury.

There is now some deliberation as to whether Prince George will make an appearance at his great granny’s funeral. That is a huge ask of a nine-year-old, only his parents can make that informed decision. There will be critics either way.

I was thirteen when my great nana died and hers was the first funeral I went to, co-incidentally she was 96, a good age, an expected funeral, the perfect introduction to the ritual.

The first funeral my youngest son went to was his dad’s – that’s a bit harsh when you are a month shy of being eleven. However, he was old enough to know what was happening and certainly old enough to know his own mind and how he wanted to honour his dad.

Andrew’s coffin was wheeled into the crematorium rather than carried, One of Andrew’s brothers wanted to be involved, the other vehemently refused, one nephew volunteered, one didn’t. Oldest son stepped forward and then youngest said with determination he wanted to help too. It was a proud moment watching them with tears in my eyes, but the scene was only witnessed by very close family. It wasn’t a public spectacle.

I do hope the young royals get some choice in how they wish to proceed. And I hope all of them get the private space to mourn in the ways that are best for them.

Grief is inevitable but how we grieve is both optional and never-ending.

I have been slightly surprised by how much of my own grief has resurfaced at this time, memories of losing grandparents, my dad and of course losing Andrew. The afternoon of the Queen’s death we were scattering ashes of my aunt and uncle, followed up with tea and cake. A family gathering that foreshadowed the royal announcement.

Death is all around us, very much a part of life and yet the subject is still very much taboo. When Andrew died it took me months to even understand what grieving was all about. I thought it was finite and never knew it came in many shades of grey and blue not one size fits all BLACK.

My best piece of advice to anyone grieving is do what you need to do to get through each day, whether you laugh, cry or scream, every emotion is valid.

Let’s hope the royals get the chance to grieve without worrying how the world sees them because they have lost a loved one who means more to them than she could even mean to us.

The Secret Code of Holding Hands

You said we would always hold hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter. We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.

Without a Care

The girl woke up, the strange bed was soft and warm, she was comfortable enough to stay and had no reason to get up, no pressing duties to attend to, but the golden sunlight that fell across her from the open window was too inviting. With young limbs and a childlike grace, she leapt from the bed. She could hear birdsong and the bubbling sound of running water nearby. She gazed on the bright new dawn, not a cloud in the bluest of skies to spoil the view.

A boy burst in her room and she stared at his familiar face, there was the hint of memory or a dream she couldn’t pin down.

“Lilibet, you’re here!” his eyes sparkled with delight.

Without hesitation she took his offered hand, and when they touched she knew this was her forever home. 

He led her out to play in the King's garden, without a care.

Hello Again Lilibet by Murphys Sketches https://www.instagram.com/murphys_sketches/?hl=en 

Abi and Me

The dust jacket is matt pink, scruffy black letters, which appear to have been scrawled with a sooty finger, or stick of crumbly charcoal, announce “This is not a Pity Memoir”. When the outer cover slips the sugar pink clashes with glossy bold yellow like a Battenburg cake full of E numbers. The words hidden beneath - “It’s a love story.” 

My copy is signed in the same scribbly hand – “To Sarah, Happy reading, crying (?) Abi Morgan”

Since trying to fashion my own story into a memoir I’ve been reading more true stories, especially those written by writers.

Abi Morgan is a screen writer and I confess I knew little about her except she wrote “The Split” for the BBC and I am a huge fan. Listening to her at discuss her memoir at the Primadonna festival with Kit de Waal I realised just how many similarities there are between my story and Abi’s.

Both of us were born in 1968 – I add her to the list of “famous” people born that year, Kylie, Jason, Catherine Tate and of course Daniel Craig. I note Abi’s birthday is in September, I am still just a smidge older than all of them!

Both us find our husbands collapsed after severe headaches – only Abi’s husband isn’t really her husband, they never married and the outcomes are starkly different.

Subsequently in the wake of one family trauma we both develop cancer – her breast, me bowel.

Yes, many similarities but also our stories are poles apart. We are like spinning tops which clash and career off in opposite directions rather than balloons benignly nudging each other on the breeze.

Am I waxing lyrical, of course, my writing so often coloured by the style of narrative I am reading, Abi’s stream of consciousness somehow taking my own words along with hers.

I didn’t like her style at first, I’m not sure I will enjoy this, I thought, but then something clicked, her lists, her pop culture references and her brutal honesty started to resonate as I tuned into her wavelength.

Grabbing some post-it notes I began reading like a writer (thanks Kit de Waal for that advice) not only noting what I enjoyed but marking the pages where our stories converged.

We had both written to Jim’ll Fix It – neither of us had our letters answered. We both count our blessings for that – phew! What charmed lives we led.

Although Abi never travelled abroad until she was eighteen, she has made up for it since and recounts many skiing trips and foreign family holidays. She even manages to take her two teenage children, one boy, one girl, away to their holiday home in Italy when her beloved Jacob is in hospital. 

Our family could never manage holidays when Andrew was still alive, I remember only too well the stress at the airport flying to Paris, defusing and calming what could have been a major incident. I still find holidays hard to do.

Do I envy Abi’s “glamourous” lifestyle? Perhaps - not really - I wish the home screen on my computer was Andrew and I standing somewhere more exotic than on Redcar beach. But that is my life and my memories, we can’t make anymore together because Andrew died.

Meanwhile Jacob lived and Abi wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t. Would life be better or just different? She ponders a carefree life as a widow - sorry love that's not all its cracked up to be!

I certainly don’t envy her looking after a man who is her “husband” and yet isn’t – he doesn’t even recognise her – she is NOT the REAL Abi Morgan. A side affect of his debilitating neurological condition.

My heart breaks at the thought and I know full well that I would not have handled that situation as well. If Andrew lived and needed full time care it would have driven me mad, I couldn’t have done it. Only I am allowed to say it but, I do believe it was for the best Andrew’s heart attack was fatal.

Jacob suffers from MS and then develops Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis – 80% of people have a good outcome with treatment, but his prognosis is not so great, they never get fully out of the woods.

I’m not sure what the percentage is of people having heart attacks fully recovering?  I daren’t look it up. It probably quite high and Andrew could have been perfectly fine but from family history I know that his dad was never the same after his first heart attack at the same age of 48. I know how stoic my mother-in-law was but how looking after her husband wore her down and how the ripples scarred the family.

Abi’s grief is so raw and visceral, you can still grieve if someone survives, you still mourn what was lost. 

Many of our challenges were different, I was spared financial worries, the mortgage paid off once I produced the death certificate – I burst into tears when the letter arrived.

Coming on top of all we both lost our cancer diagnoses seemed a cruel twist of fate, far too dramatic for even a weekly soap opera. 

We both think of our children and the unfairness of the situation, already being a family with “one man down”. 

Abi appears to have struggled more than me with the procedures of her own treatment, but she was also caring for Jacob, two hospital stories knotted together – how I admire her for that.

I had been a widow for eight years when I was diagnosed and I had my dad beside me during chemo, we sat side by side being drip fed our individual poisonous cocktails  – “family outings”, that my mum now admits she was weirdly jealous of.

It’s strange what you see in others, you wonder if you would cope differently. Be braver? Fall apart? Stay or leave?

Ultimately Abi’s story is not a pity memoir but a true love story, just as it says on the cover. You will never know how you might react until it happens to you and I pray it never does, at least not as dramatically. It makes a good story but up close and personal is almost too much to bear.

Abi Morgan you have my full admiration.

Everyone else – go read this wonderful, honest, life affirming book and hold you loved ones just that bit tighter in gratitude.

Followed by Widows

 

The title of this could be the start of a creepy gothic adventure, I’m imagining being pursued by wraith like creatures in black veils who float along dark and misty alleyways.

Actually, that might be more interesting to both write and read, maybe I need a new heading?

Perhaps the name of this post isn’t totally accurate either. I want to write about how many widows follow me on Twitter but when I fact checked the number it is actually very small. However, the Twitter algorithms do put lots of tweets on my timeline written by widows and those recently bereaved.

Sometimes I add my own comment, after all I’ve been playing this game for almost twelve years so perhaps, I should consider myself an expert at dispensing wisdom on the subject.

“Be kind to yourself” being the best I have to offer.

In real life I also seem to be followed by widows, maybe I’m not a good friend to have, since I lost Andrew, others in my wider social circle have been widowed and some of those before their mid-fifties. I wonder if God uses algorithms to put like-minded people in your path to offer support when it is most needed?

Early on in my journey I wrote a blog post called Following Foglights and another about being a pioneer. It’s almost laughable that even back then I considered myself a trailblazer. Foreshadowing at its finest maybe, although at 42, I knew others would follow, eventually.

I still hold onto my dreams of writing a book about my experiences and even if my latest plan is to write my story as fiction, a hint of truth, greatly embellished, I hope it expresses some of the challenges and emotions that accompany the grieving process.

Everyone’s journey is different but there are always similarities and common ground. Just knowing you are not alone is comforting.

To that end I really must write the book instead of writing about it. I know I was procrastinating earlier in the month when I wrote about creating a spreadsheet to help with the plot - I've done very little if any actual writing since. 

Please hold me to account and nag me to keep going because there maybe someone following in my wake who needs to read it.

Too Many Broken Hearts

 In 1989 when Stock, Aiken and Waterman ruled the radio airwaves, Jason Donovan sang about broken hearts to an up-beat, bouncy disco tune. In the video he sat strumming his guitar, with no anguish in his demeanor just a dazzling smile somewhat at odds with the title of the song.

It contains the line…

I’ll be hurt, I’ll be hurt if you walk away!

Thinking about the lyrics and the tune now it’s all so feeble. It could be describing kids squabbling in a playground kind of “hurt” - you pushed me - you started it. A small graze on the knee kind of hurt which will scab over only leaving the faintest of scars if you pick at it too much.

At the time I loved the song, after all Jason, Kylie and I were in born in the same year, so we must be kindred spirits – ’68 was such a good vintage.

Over thirty years later (which doesn’t seem possible) I know the real pain of a broken heart, it’s beyond a little bit of hurt, but Mr Donovan is right about one thing, there are far too many of them in the world.

I guess it’s inevitable as you get older that more people join that special club, the one I’ve been a part of for years, exclusively for widows, widowers and those who have lost the love of their lives. As time rolls on, I find more and more friends and acquaintances cross over to my camp.  Once I was the pioneer, the only one here negotiating this strange new territory.

Maybe that’s too fanciful an image but when I started my first blog, just after Andrew died, friends read my words and were helped as I poured out the contents of my broken heart into the ether.

I’ve always wanted to turn my words into a book, hoping the wisdom I have gathered can help others. My legacy, some recompense for my own suffering, making it all strangely worthwhile.

To this end I put my money where my mouth is and coughed up for a Curtis Brown Creative short, online, writing course in the summer, led by memoirist Cathy Rentzenbrink. She is an excellent teacher, even if on the short course you only get to watch her video tutorials rather than meet her in person.

I turned in my shorter assignments each week and got some great peer feedback from others on the course. Encouragement to carry on, I have a story to tell.

But writing a memoir is so different from writing a blog. It needs more of a narrative, a story telling quality. The facts I consider most important and want to explain in great detail need cutting as I show the scenes of my life through a cinematic lens. I need drama, light and shade, panning shots and zooming in. Show not tell.

I have never appreciated all this before. At the beginning I just thought I could stitch together blog posts with a few extra comments in between as glue, it was just a matter of rearranging and sorting. This process has taken me ten years already, stopping and starting, and maybe it will take another ten to complete it, which is a daunting prospect.

Meanwhile the list of the broken hearted grows and I welcome others to this barren land of bereavement.

Nothing I write can ever heal a deepest hurt but I remain convinced I need to keep going. Hoping and praying my words find the right ear and bring some soothing balm in difficult days, a quiet voice whispering, "I know your heart aches and you are not alone."

For any wife who's lost her husband...

 A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Each struggle with their mourning

What’s the right thing they should do?

There’s protocol to follow

Covid restrictions too

 

With fortitude and grace

And a firm “stiff upper lip”

Masks affixed in place

Only a silent tear let slip

 

But underneath the surface?

What emotions are unbidden?

Does private grief bubble up?

Past secrets stay hidden?

 

Who can tell how you would feel,

in this painful situation?

Grief is deeply personal

Not “news” broadcast to the nation

 

Everyone mourns differently

Some with tears, but then there’s laughter

Memories tumble quickly

No new ones from here after

 

A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Having lost a husband, a dad, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend I may have some inkling to how the royal family feels at this time. But no one really knows and few of us would ever have to face the public scrutiny they are subjected to.

But this poem isn’t just about their loss but it's written for any wife, child or grandchild at this time whose grief seems overshadowed by world events. 

We all try to do the “right” thing when actually there are no definitive answers in grief, laugh or cry, shout and scream, whatever helps you though each day.

You are not alone – God Bless!

the day between

Easter Saturday is a funny old day, it sits somewhere between the grief of Good Friday and the joy of an Easter resurrection. 

For those of us who love to read it the loss felt when you finish a great novel that has moved you before you pick up another to immerse yourself in.

For those who have lost a loved one it's the chasm between death and the funeral, which brings some kind of closure, although actually it just releases you some new unexplored territory.

Life is always changing with beginnings and endings all around us but it's being stuck somewhere in the middle that is often the most testing place to be.

Waiting is always the worst, waiting for a train to arrive on a cold station platform, waiting for a letter to bring anticipated test results, waiting for spring flowers to bloom again.

There's a hopefulness in what's to come and yet it is in the darkness of waiting that everything is happening behind the scenes beyond our gaze. We often can't change the outcome, it's out of our hands and in God's.

Ask for more patience and God will give you some thing to wait for or a reason to take life that bit slower.

So here we are once again waiting in the day between and life is going on around us as so many people can't sit still, don't want to face the challenges of pausing because it is hard to rest and leave things at the foot of the cross.

it’s Saturday -

Hooray!

A day to run,

have fun.

A rest,

the best.

Not time to stop,

shop ‘til you drop.

Kick a ball

“The ref’s a fool!”

Or language, that’s more colourful!

It’s party time

pour some more wine

“oh, just one more…”

Before

you go

 

How can people carry on

while my heart breaks?

 

Another crack appears

with each laugh I hear

and tears

gush like rivers

ever flowing

never slowing.

All my dreams

it seems

lie crushed

beneath a stone.

Now I’m alone

I pause

I wait

too late?

A curtain rent

a life all spent

poured out

no doubt

Found on Facebook

left

bereft

lost

at such a cost.

Heavy nails

surely don’t fail…

 

Rambling thoughts and small steps

 Strangely for me I am up, dressed, have eaten breakfast and am sitting at my laptop by 9am.

Getting up has been an effort just lately, well I say just lately, I guess it all started with having a university student home with me for so many months, I slipped easily into his patterns and since he has returned to uni I can still see few reasons for getting up at a reasonable hour.

Today I had to take the car for an MOT and was actually so early the garage hadn’t opened when I arrived just after 8.

As I walked back home in the glorious glow of the early morning sun, I pondered my life, as you do when you have the chance to be self-indulgent. I am listening to Sally Field’s memoir on Audible at the moment and so often what I’m reading/listening to influences my mood – currently introspection.

It was “going to school” time and many children passed me along the familiar streets, they were walking to the same school I had attended so many years ago.

I don’t suppose I realised then that I would be here once again at this stage of my life, I’m not really sure what my plans were at that age.

I’m not sure what my plans are NOW. I seem to be drifting in these strange times. The mood of the whole world is squashed by a pandemic and add the layers of grief at losing my dad recently coupled with the general malaise I feel at this time of year as we approach the anniversary of Andrew’s death it’s no wonder I have so many mornings when I struggle to escape the warmth of the winter duvet.

My mum phones me often and I reassure her that it’s alright to not get much done each day, take time to cry and just remember. So why am I so hard on myself?

Mostly I feel very cheated at all that’s been taken away from me over the past ten years, as much as anything I am grieving for the plans that haven’t come to fruition this year. Not that I ever had a clear idea what those plans were but they involved travelling and meeting new people, sparkle and adventure!

Have I written all this before or does it just sound familiar because these thoughts have been reverberating around my head for so long?

I want some structure, purpose and fun in my life, I miss my old life up North where all these elements fitted together in some kind of harmony. Now I am like a Strictly dancer in a fancy ballgown and high heels trying to move to a Latin rhythm where I don’t know the steps. I’m wearing the wrong outfit and I severely wobble in high heels – a legacy of chemotherapy that I know I’ve written about before.

I do have some tentative plans that I’m hesitant to expose on here, although there is much that I will inevitably write down one day.

Ah writing – that solace for my soul – when was the last time I wrote this blog? My words have dried up on paper even if the rambling in my head continues.

And yet each time I feel my fingers clicking out that rhythmic beat on the keyboard I know these are the dance steps I must continually practice, this is the melody running through my life as ideas flow from my brain to my fingers, words that become strangely coherent as I tease them from the depths, well at less I hope so!

So where does that leave me today, just before 10am? There are things I need to do, good deeds to tick off my list. There are always things to sort out and tidy up.

And I’ll breathe and take small steps into an unknown future, in the end that is all any of us can do in a world that has gone mad - for today that will be enough.

Happy Birthday Andrew

Happy birthday darling!

Another year?

How time has flown.

You - not even a day older,

and me?

Still here alone.

I stare at your old photos.

You stare back with twinkling eyes,

I miss the warmth behind them,

deep understanding you supplied.

You were the keeper of my secrets,

holder of my heart

‘til life crumbled

on my darkest day

we were

untimely ripped.

Apart.

I can’t say that I think of you

each morning, noon and night.

You’re a presence

like a shadow

almost there

just

out

of

sight.

But as your birthday comes around,

and dark November days,

you linger longer in my thoughts

I can’t escape your gaze.

Grief is stealthily defiant

dispensing killer blows

in the least expected fashion

it shakes you head to toe.

At last

with expert timing,

we reach November’s end

but just before it’s over

Happy Birthday

Dearest friend. xxx

Singles’ Day

Are you aware that 11/11 is not only Remembrance Day but also Singles’ Day? 

A little bit of an unfortunate clash for us here in the UK but the concept was originally started by students at China’s Nanjing University as far back as 1993.

WOW – I actually was single then but married a year later. 

The general idea is that you treat yourself and take yourself out on a solo date.

For me every day is Singles Day as I can mostly do as I please and if something yummy should accidentally fall into my shopping trolley  – who cares!

I’ve recently written about going out on my own. I’ve just never called it self-dating before, which might be a term I’ve just sort of made up, inspired by Emma Watson calling her single status “self partnered”.

While I find the whole idea, vaguely interesting, as ever I struggle with the terminology – I’ve never been a fan of traditional labels.

I think it’s the word “self” that really bothers me – after all selfish starts with the same 4 letters.

It is sometimes depressing seeing friends on Facebook or even actually in real life, living the dream of being in a committed relationship, treating and surprising one another – oh to have someone in my life to spoil me like that!

But it’s a two-way process and I think Singles Day would be better spent spoiling other single friends, a bunch of flowers can go a long way, a phone call, a hand written card. Simple stuff really.

Of course sometimes the happily marrieds will tell us how lucky we are to be able to do exactly as we please, without considering a partner. We nod our heads sagely aware that we can binge on Netflix any time we like but every now and then it would be nice to have someone snuggling on the sofa next to us.

Why are we often so unsatisfied with our status? Making up new ways to celebrate because we are obviously unhappy. Justifying being kind to ourselves.

It’s not always easy being single and not always easy being part of a couple.

And what about the dreaded W word?

It will be nine years this week since I was widowed. Tell me when is the day to celebrate widowhood, or at least acknowledge it?

The rawness of it all has considerably mellowed over time but as I watch others lose their partners’ I am witness to that great chasm of grief that can so easily be all consuming and my heart weeps for them more than for me.

I’ve negotiated the labyrinth and although I can sometimes be sucked back in, I know there is a life beyond the label. I retrace my steps and bask in the sunlight enjoying the good times with as few regrets as possible. Life is too short to do otherwise.

A special day for widows is unnecessary – as is Singles’ Day in my opinion!

spending graphics in the article from the i Weekend yesterday

Ultimately it is a marketing dream, another commercial “made up” event to make us spend, spend, spend!

This year predictions are that Singles’ Day spending (£1.29bn) will be almost as high as spending on Black Friday (£1.49bn) – another spurious event!

Meanwhile Valentine’s Day, the day to celebrate coupledom in all its glory is completely overshadowed, spending only reaching a paltry £830m. Perhaps it just goes to show that when you are in a couple you actually have less of a disposable income!

However you decide to spend your day tomorrow - I'm going to shun the whole Singles's Day concept and instead spend some time quietly reflecting on far more important issues.

Pampering myself on my own terms also means picking a day and time that suits me - that really is the best way to live the single dream!

LOST

I’m not supposed to be here today, sat on my sofa watching TV, reading a few chapters of my book, faffing on my phone.

I’m supposed to be at a quiet day, a kind of retreat with some painting and reflection.

I was really looking forward to it. I rejoiced when I realised that postponing my chemo for a week when my bloods were low meant this day was free.

This morning I got ready and set off, the venue was a quiet country church, only a few miles away. I’d checked on Google maps last night. I like to think I have a good memory when it comes looking at maps and getting the location lodged in my brain. Left turn, right turn, where the local landmarks are.

But this morning driving along the narrow roads, I made 3 U turns believing I’d driven too far on each particular route.

I was lost, not totally or hopelessly lost, I still knew my way back home.

I could have stopped the car, got out my phone and refreshed my memory of exactly where to go, but instead I did turn round and come home.

Having chemo affects your brain, I can’t remember things like I used to.

Having chemo affects your sleep, your taste buds, your general wellbeing.

Having chemo affects your whole social life, one minute you are planning something you know you will enjoy and the next you are cancelling your plans and retreating to that safe space on the sofa.

My chemo should be finished this time next week, bloods permitting and barring any unforeseen circumstances.

It will be time to get my life back on track, this wonderful life I planned for once youngest son had half flown the nest and gone to uni.

But just like driving on narrow country roads looking for something that I’m sure should stand out proud I fear I may still be a little lost and what I’m looking for will remain obscured.

When I used to regularly go walking with a group of friends, there was always delight in spotting an arrow pointing the direction we should go in. Especially on a long hot excursion when we were longing for a scone and a cuppa!

Yes there were times we would explore and take the adventurous route for the joy of it, we’d laugh as we navigated our way over fallen trees, under branches, down steep slopes and precariously crossing streams on slippery rocks. It was all part of the fun.

Chemo is not fun, being lost is not fun, losing part of yourself is not fun.

I feel like I’ve been living in a haze, especially these last few weeks when the symptoms of chemo have cumulated transforming me into a slob moulded to fit the sofa!

OK. I’m being a bit harsh on myself there. I have actually achieved a great amount with moving only weeks before a major op. My new house is basically in order, all bar the paperwork but when was I ever on top of that since Andrew died?

Ah now that’s another loss, excuse me while we detour up a different path.

I’m an empty nester with a nest for one, I want to explore, to travel and while being on my own doesn’t bother me, I do quite like my own company. Sometimes it would be nice to share experiences with someone, to have memories to look back on together when we grow old!

Anyway back to the proper path, where was I? I’m not sure where I should be going….

Where is the signpost, which way do I take at the crossroads?

It’s alright taking one day at a time and doing all you can manage in a day, that’s been my regime for a while now, I no longer plan like I used to.

But not planning means not dreaming and my dreams have got dusty, to be honest some of them have got lost in the process of dealing with cancer and having treatment.

I know that surgery was successful in removing everything and the chemo is just a mop up, of the harshest kind, but until I see the oncologist and get the results of my latest scan you can only hope and pray.

When you go for a CT scan, in the machine a voice tells you to “breathe in and hold your breath”.

I’m just waiting for the line “and breathe”.

Then I shall consult my maps, dust off my dreams and plan something I can actually achieve – I don’t think it will be finishing the paperwork!

Maybe I’m not really lost. Perhaps I should see this as a detour and this new path will actually lead me to my destination, only time will tell…

Present Tense

What seems like a long time ago I wrote a blog called Unravelling Edges… about how my life came undone when I unexpectedly lost my husband. About six months in I wrote a post about being caught between the past and the present.

    You can read it here - Caught between the past and future tense

About six months after my emergency operation and I find myself in a similar place.

I’ve been sitting in my lounge with the French doors open in the afternoons, sun streaming in accompanied by the laughter of children bouncing on a trampoline a few gardens away.

Oh those halcyon days of laughter, listening to the bossy child who dictates the play, I recognise my younger self. Those days are long gone for me. Even my own boys are so far past this stage. I can remember clearly but can never recreate such scenes.

And then at the other end of the scale, spring is wedding season and so many friends have been celebrating anniversaries and it honestly fills me with such joy but when I bumped into someone celebrating their sixty third wedding anniversary, I marvelled and yet…. my husband never even got to live 63 years!

The past cannot be reclaimed but my future is somehow limited in so many ways.

There’s always the fear the cancer might come back for a start but then there are other things that will probably never happen for me and I grieve for a life that could have been …

I’m not saying my life is total rubbish just that I need some readjustment to get me back on course.

On a larger scale I worry about, Brexit, global warming, the rise of selfishness and violent crime.

I guess life was ever like this.

Youngest son found out the other day they are making a musical of Back to the Future.

“WHY?” he asked!!!

Being a child of the 80s and the same age as Marty McFly I think it’s a great idea.

But however great the 80s were as a teenage we lived under the shadow of the cold war, a nuclear bomb could drop any day, AIDS was the pandemic to wipe out millions, there were miners’ strikes and civil unrest.

At school we learnt in geography all about greenhouse gases but somehow that was someone else’s problem to fix, we were school children. It would be sorted and by 2017 we would all have hover boards!

Obviously, we don’t have hover boards and now it the young people leading the way – how things have changed!

And I guess what I’m trying to say is that things are always changing.

The past often looks rosy and the future uncertain. Especially as we grow older with more responsibilities on our plate.

Or maybe there are days when the past looks bleak and the future is something to be embraced!

Perhaps a mixture of the two is the best approach to take?

I do look back with fondness at the past, especially with all the old photos I’ve dug up since moving. Memories made that can never be taken away.

I do look forward mostly with hope, the cancer is gone at least for now and the countdown to the end of chemo is beginning.

Sometimes it’s the little things, a bird singing, a flower blooming, something once lost now found.

We are all caught between the past and future but in the end it’s how we live today that really counts!