What I Learned This Christmas

It was a good Christmas but also a painful one. Who would have thought that, six years on, I could still be upset by my situation? The answer to that question, I suspect is - anyone who's been widowed. And anyone who hasn't been widowed will be tapping their feet in irritation by now, baffled at how a competent woman isn't back to normal yet.

Christmas was jolly enough. I went to my son and his boyfriend's flat and they were great. Santa even paid a visit and left a stocking for the oldest resident (me!) On Boxing Day, I found myself in the back of my son's car, as he drove me to his in-laws for the afternoon. It was a very curious feeling, sitting there on my own, looking at the scenery passing, with no responsibility and (more to the point for me) no control. I found that I had crossed a threshold - from the generation that is in charge to one that, at best, has to share control. This, I realise, isn't linked particularly to being widowed. If the Golfer had still been alive, then we might well have both been in the back of the car, being driven to the inlaws (though I doubt it - we would have done our own thing and let the kids go on their own). But, even so, it felt like a rite of passage, and it made me feel a lot older than I normally do.

The second seismic event of the afternoon was a long drawn-out affair. I arrived into a maelstrom of people - grown-up children and partners, babies, and a big black dog, and this, I knew, was only half of the people, as the remainder were at a pantomime. When they arrived back there were ten family members in the house, plus us visitors. The contrast between this big, bustling extended family - my son's in-laws - and me, his only surviving family, couldn't have been better demonstrated.

How could we have got to this place? How could I have ended up the only surviving member of a normal family, endlessly trying to fill in all the gaps for my son? It wasn't until I was sitting in that crowded front room that I really saw where my life had brought me. It was rather painful. There's nothing like seeing how your life could have turned out acted out before you to make you face the reality of how it has actually gone.

Having said all that, the in-laws were very welcoming and I enjoyed being amongst babies and dogs for a while. I watched my equivalents in the other family - granny and grandad, at the heart of it all - and it occurred to me that they were only at the heart of it all because they were a couple. If one of them sadly died, I am certain that the remaining spouse would not be entertaining the entire family the next Christmas, or any other Christmas after that. One of the grown-up children would take over and granny or grandad would become a guest, an add-on, instead of the head of the family. It is so cruel and so unfair...and so inevitable. There is something Darwinian about it. I see the younger me in the grownup children around me, impatient with their parents and desperate to be in charge. I can see both sides of what is happening. But, boy, does it hurt to be on the receiving end of it. If my parents were still alive I'd want to apologise to them.

So, an enjoyable Christmas, but an educational one. I have had to face my situation, and my future, more honestly and squarely, and that is probably a good thing. I actually feel freer now. I don't have to be Mum any more, I don't have to protect my son's feelings so much - I can be more myself. I don't have to accept the role of granny/maiden aunt in the corner, at least, not for a few years yet. Who knows, next year I might let them have Christmas on their own and go off and do something different and even a little bit exciting.

Happy Christmas, if That's What You're Hoping For...

Hello Gang. I hope that the 25th of December is passing well for you all. In case it isn't, and even if it is, I thought I'd describe how I'm feeling today.

I'm at my son's, being well looked after by him and his boyfriend. We had great fun yesterday wandering round the German market here in Edinburgh, and today there's been a wonderful meal, with even a veggie option for me. So why have I been tearful for most of the day? And why do I even feel a little suicidal as darkness falls?

I continue to be horrified (and disappointed in myself) that, six years on from the death of the Golfer, I still feel lonely, abnormal and sorry for myself. At the same time, the thought of the rest of my life being like this but with the added delight of getting older every year, makes me feel even worse. I went for a walk on my own while the boys slept off lunch and had a bit of a think...well, actually, I used my little dictaphone-thingy and had a bit of a chat to myself, but I'm embarrassed to admit that in case it makes me look mad - call it an audio diary and I think we can just about get away with it...)

Why can't I 'move on'? I HAVE moved on, generally speaking. I think I have accepted the death of the Golfer. He seems a long time in the past now. And I have worked hard at building a new, albeit single, life - I really have. But, every day, even if only for a few minutes, I feel desperately, wearily sad about my lot. Am I stuck with this feeling for ever?

Actually, I think that this current wave of unhappiness might be a good thing, because it is a real, genuine, honest feeling after years of being brave. I feel as if I am thawing out at last. And, as anyone who has got very cold knows, thawing out is painful.

I really, really believe that next year is going to be the breakthrough year for me. I know I am on the verge of new exciting things - I just am not sre what they are yet.

And I also know that at least part of the reason that I am tearful today is that I have had a bad cold which has left me weak and also I miss my old Jack Russell, who died only a month ago. I miss her warmth and her smell, and I miss doing all the things I had to do for her - she was my little family and now I am alone.

So, a good day at the heart of my shrinking family but a painful one too. Let's hope the pain is a sign of healing. Wherever you are, and however lonely you are, you are always welcome here at Rosehip or Prune.

Still Wading Through It All

I intended to move on from this blog to a, perhaps, more forward-looking one, still about being alone and middle-aged but not so tied to the past and not so achingly sad. But I find that I still have things to say here and, in any case, I haven't had time to set up a new blog. So here will have to do for a little longer. I hope you're all still reading and that you might still get something out of hearing about one ordinary woman's experiences.

I was watching an episode of Poirot on the telly yesterday, cuddled up with a blanket and fighting a bug. I've watched the episode before, probably many times. In it, Poirot is called in by the widow of an English lord and Egyptologist. She fears that a curse brought about the death of her husband and that her son, who wants to go out to Egypt and take over the excavation, will suffer the same fate.

I watched her sitting on an elegant sofa in her ancestral home, dignified as she pled with Poirot to intervene. And I knew, suddenly, all the pain she was feeling. As sometimes happens with these lightest of entertainments, suddenly a profound truth is illuminated (testament to some fine writing and some fab acting). More than that, though: more than empathy with a fellow widow at the beginning of her journey, I suddenly saw the enormity of how her life had been changed by this event. A short time ago, she had been a wife, half of a great partnership. She would have arranged grand parties, entertained famous and interesting people; supported her husband in his endeavours. She would have had the respect of other people; other people might even have envied her her life. A week ago, if you saw her sitting on the same sofa, she would have produced a certain set of emotions in you. You would have accepted her grace and self-possession as a natural reflection of her life. Now, when I looked at her, that same grace and self-possession looked like bravery and a small defiance. I imagined her looking physically smaller than before, and her aloneness on the sofa looked like a metaphor for her aloneness now in her life.

Thus, I thought, is a life obliterated by the death of a spouse. You can look just the same, do the same things, but EVERYTHING has changed and no-one will ever treat you the same again. You are no longer normal. You are no longer mainstream. You are, at best, an object of pity but, generally, suddenly irrelevant to the rest of the world.

I am surprised to find that, six years after the death of my husband, I am still in this position. I'm a fighter, I'm a positive person but I still am unhappy every day, thousands of days after being widowed. I sometimes wonder if everything would suddenly be okay if I remarried. But I have blogging friends who would probably tell me that that is not always the answer. It's a mystery. Anyone have the answer?

Moving next door...

I don't suppose anyone is reading this any more, since it's been nearly a year since I wrote here, but I thought I'd check in to say that I am still here, still living alone but not sure that my life fits this blog any more. I'm thinking about beginning a new one to reflect the stage that I have reached but, in the meantime, I am still actively blogging over at The View From The Pond. Come on over and visit!

Happiness in 2010

Hi all - hope December isn't getting you down. I've been participating in The Happy Book project this year - see my posts back in February - and Jamie is winding things up for the year so she asked us to declare what had made us happy this year. Life still feels like a challenge for me but here goes:

This year, what has made me happy is that I have moved house (again) and am  back in the beautiful Highlands of Scotland, cold but content. Also, my little old dog is still with me - she has survived another whole year, despite her dementia, blindness and arthritis - she is now getting towards 17 years old and she makes me smile every day.

I'm also a year further away from the death of my lovely man, and I think, I really think, that I am  on the verge of feeling 'normal' again and looking forward to 2011 being an interesting and exciting year - maybe even happy!

This year has been a year of change and, because of this, it hasn't always been comfortable. Nevertheless, I have much to be happy about. I'm  still here for one thing, still alive at 52, when many better people than I died much younger, still lots to be grateful for - pretty good health, a house, some money in the bank, people to love and who love me, my soft little dog and, most of all I think, the natural world around me - the birds and animals in my garden, the trees and wild flowers, and the stars overhead. I am  happy.

Still Here...

I'm sure I don't have any readers by now but just in case I do, and for the sake of the record, let me say that I AM still here - haven't given up on life just yet. I've moved house (again) - this time back very close to where I was living a year ago, up in the wacky, wonderful Highlands.

It's been a fascinating experience, moving twice in a year; let's be honest, yo-yoing between two places. I really came on to have a blog winge about my crappy life today but let's cover the progress update first.

I moved down to Ayrshire last year for a couple (at least) of reasons - to make the break with a house full of sad memories and to go back to the area where I had spent my happiest times - falling in love, early marriage, birth and early childhood of son - the full family package, in other words. We had been forced to move away from Ayrshire eleven years earlier when the Golfer was made redundant and the world stopped turning. We sort of tried to settle in in the Highlands but none of us wanted to be there. Then the Golfer got sick and died and the boy left home and I was alone with a Jack Russell with dementia. I found myself thinking that if only it had all happened when I was down in Ayrshire, I would have been surrounded with love and support and everything would have been all right. When I became brave enough to make the break with the house Ayrshire was the place calling to me.

So I moved back down and waited for the old friends to rally round and kiss my wounds better. Of course no-one came. I had been away for eleven years. Friends who had become Christmas card friends stayed Christmas card friends. But moving back was still the right thing to do. I got to live daily in the midst of memories of another life, or so it seemed. When I found myself back in the small town where I spent my childhood (that's a whole other set of neuroses) it really did feel like another life - a life separate from the married bit. Strange feeling. When I walked around the park where I used to play, I was bypassing completely the whole married section of my life, even though my husband had also grown up in this town and we used to visit every Sunday to visit the mother-in-law. Yet somehow in my mind this town inhabited two different parts of my brain. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling actually. Rather nice to go right back to childhood without any of the intervening grownup crap.

I also found to my surprise that the house I had chosen to live in was exactly the house the Golfer would have chosen to retire to. This had not been in my mind at all when I chose it and it was not, in any case, my perfect house - definitely a temporary home - but it was comforting to imagine him standing there beside me watching the waves and the boats go by. Painful but comforting. But I wasn't happy there. It was a very public house, right on the seafront of a holiday town and, especially after living unnoticed in the countryside for years, it was like living in a goldfish bowl in the middle of a fairground (literally, sometimes!) Then I came back up to visit friends and all the tension disappeared and I could be myself and the air smelt sweet. I walked the dog in the woods near my old house and even the dog visibly relaxed. Decision made. Time to get back here as soon as possible. So I went back and put the house on the market and a few short months later here I am, in a dinky little house a mile away from the old family stead. I wouldn't have made the direct move from the first house, I'm sure. I had to go away, explore the world a bit, find out who I was and what I wanted, to know that what I wanted was to live on this hill with the birds and the deer and the lichen-clad trees, amongst gentle, reserved people.

Two months in the house and I am settling in nicely except...all the old problems are, of course, still hanging round my neck. I'm still widowed and an empty-nester, a carer for an aged infirm dog and with no big thing to get up for in the morning. I try to stay motivated. I have a (very) small-scale internet bookshop, I'm trying to write a novel and I'm studying with the Open University but I still wake up in the morning with a sigh. It's driving me mad. I want to be happy but I can't seem to be. Am I just getting old? Am I going to be a grumpy old woman now, is that it? A failing body and an increasingly cynical heart?

It's strange. Five years ago, when I was first widowed, I really believed I could think myself through it and out of it. But losing my husband was so much more fundamental to my life than I thought. When I was married I would think occasionally, as you do, about how I would manage if he died in a plane crash. Sometimes, since we're being honest here, I might even fantasise a little about what a brave little widow I'd be and what a grumpy sod he'd become anyway and...But when it happens it is unlike anything you could imagine. It touches every aspect of your life, big and small. We'd been married for nearly 25 years and together for 30 and he had affected everything I had done since I was at school. Every opinion I had, every picture in the house, practically every memory I had post-18 was entwined with him, every world event, every family argument, every plant in the garden, every shop and cafe I went into - all had been experienced with him. The very house had to change after he died. Even our bed had to be replaced as it had been soiled in the last days so I couldn't even snuggle up with his scent and the dent of him on the other side. He'd run a business from home so a whole room became redundant. The phones stopped ringing. I had, I realise now, lived a lot of my life through him, and happily so. He was the clever one and, so long as I was free to play with my books and draw and work in the garden, I was happy for him to do the big exciting job. I got a lot of the benefits of the buzz of a big, exciting, international career without having actually to go out into the big bad world. When he died I lost that - completely...overnight.

And I think this is the hardest, most intractable problem for widows - I think widows rather than widowers. We lose the reason for getting up in the morning. I had a little business but it was carefully shaped to fit in round the family's needs and was so small, if perfectly formed, that it was not enough to give my daily life structure and meaning. Ever since, I have been struggling to find that one big thing that'll do the trick. I have two older, widowed friends and I know this is the biggest issue for them too. They had proper jobs all their working lives - not like little housewife me - so they really miss the buzz and the companionship and the feeling of being useful. I do not know how to sort it. I have a couple of ideas for businesses but I am scared. Without the support of a good man I simply do not know if I have the courage to open a shop or restart my old business. Married friends say blithely, with a wave of a hand "Oh, it'll be fine", but they speak from ignorance, as I would once upon a time have done. They think they know what it would be like to manage alone but they have not got a clue. I know that because I used to think I'd manage fine!

So, after a very long post (sorry), where am I? Well, I am delighted to be back in the Highlands. I have come up with a glad heart and I WANT to be here, which makes all the difference. I love my little house and I love being back amongst my friends. But I am still desperately lonely and feeling invisible, and the big dilemma for me is whether I have enough courage to risk not being invisible any longer...any advice gratefully received!

Conundrum

Hi gang - hope things have been going well for you all these last few weeks. I've been busy selling and buying a house - yes, I'm on the move again (more about that another day) - so I haven't had time to write here but I did recently find a book of poems by Christopher Reid and wanted to share one with you.

Christopher's wife of 30 years died in October 2005 and he wrote this collection about her illness, death and his new existence as a widower. Much of the media focus has been on the poems about his wife's terminal illness, and it is certainly beautiful and powerful work, but as a widow now of nearly five years, it is the third group of poems, about the surprises and strangeness of being alone for the first time in decades, that resonates particularly with me at the moment.

Conundrum

I'm the riddle to an answer:
I'm an unmarried spouse,
a flesh-and-blood revenant,
my own ghost, inhabitant
of an empty house.

You can find more of his poems in his book Scattering. It's a painful but true and beautiful read.