Rosehip or Prune?

What I Learned This Christmas

2011-12-29T04:02:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-12-25T09:36:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-14T04:49:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-11-17T01:14:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-12T02:14:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-11-08T03:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-08-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Still here...

2010-06-09T15:16:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone!

It's been an embarrassingly long time since I wrote here, and I don't know where exactly the time has gone, but I thought I should update just so's you all know I'm still here.

Since February, I guess I have come a long way, though tonight I'm feeling as bad as ever. And that's what I wanted to write about - not just to have a winge (though maybe a little) but more to reassure anyone else reading here who is still feeling lost and lonely at times, as much as five years after the death of their beloved, that they are not the only ones.

The very fact that I am calling my late husband my beloved marks a big change in my feelings. For the first eighteen months or so after he died, I was angry with him most of the time; then, after that, it felt as if too much time had passed to be crying, even though I now forgave him for dying and was beginning to have a few happy memories of him.

It was after I moved house that the thaw in the Ice Widow began to take place. I realised, after I moved in (it hadn't occurred to me when I chose the house) that the Golfer would have loved this house. I'm in a seaside town, right on the seafront - sunsets over the sea, boats passing by constantly, holiday makers wandering past, licking ice creams - he would have absolutely adored it. In fact, if we had moved here together, I would never have got him to move on from here. I had been here a few weeks when it first occurred to me, and tears sprang to my eyes at the thought, as I stood at the window and so easily imagined him standing there beside me.

Since then, I have missed him more and more. Living in a holiday town emphasises my aloneness. Everywhere are happy families and those damned couples walking slowly along the prom, hand in hand. I take my little dog out for a walk, head held high, and by the time we get back home I'm slouching along, with my head down because I've run the gauntlet of normal people living the life I should be living. When I lived in the Highlands, out in the middle of nowhere, there was no-one to see me and no-one to look at. It was great! When I was in the house, or in my beloved garden, I felt normal. I rarely felt the pain of my situation. It wasn't until I came here and had it shoved in my face every day that I was able to begin to mourn for what I have lost.

So now, eight months after moving, I feel lonelier than ever. And yet, do you know, I think that's a good thing. The irritation of my situation is almost like an itch. It's as if there is a new me struggling to emerge, and the frustration of being nearly ready but not quite is driving me mad. I hate being in the house, it makes me feel like a sad old woman waiting to die. In the first year or two after his death, my home was a haven for me but that has changed and now it's almost unbearable. I think this is a sign that I am at last ready to be out in the big world again (about time!)

In the last month I have come to some surprising conclusions about my future, including the almost certain decision to move again, back to the batty, wonderful Highlands, which I miss so much. The most surprising decision, however, is that I have decided that I need to get a job or, more likely, start my own business. People have been telling me for years that I needed to get a little job to get me out of the house, and I've been ignoring them, determined to find my own way. Well, my path apparently lies that way after all. I won't say yet what my business is likely to be, in case I change my mind - suffice it to say that it involves books and a cash register!

I love my own company, and I love my freedom, so I am surprised and rather terrified at the prospect of being back in the 9 to 5, working beside other people and clogging up the roads at rush hour, but I have come to the conclusion that I cannot cling any longer to what is left of my old life - it is not enough; that I have to be brave enough to make a brand new life for myself. Boy, it's scary. And it still hurts that I've lost the life I wanted to be living. But I am also very excited at this new life - who knows where it might lead?

Happiness is...

2010-02-21T03:30:00.000-08:00

Well, the Happy Book has been sent on its way and should now be in Nova Scotia, being filled with happiness by Lani.

I felt a bit inhibited, being the first person in the group to make my contribution. It would be wonderful to see what the book looks like six months down the road, when people much more creative than I have filled the pages with colour. However, I did my best, and I DID have all the pages to choose from. Here are some of the bits and pieces I added to the book:

Jamie, who started the Happy Book mail marathon, is a great collage artist, and she inspired me to have a little, teeny go at it myself. Not much collage going on here, just a picture from a magazine and some words that struck a chord, but it makes me uplifted to look at it, and it has three of my favourite things in it - books, growing things, and a view through a window - hope it does something for you too.

Now, I had great fun with this page. The brief was to draw round your hand and then colour it in in whatever way you fancied - just the kind of thing you used to do back in infant class. I absolutely loved doing this. I wasn't feeling particularly merry when I started, but I set aside a couple of hours, put Murder She Wrote on the telly, snuggled up with the dog and a blanket and a pile of felt tip pens, and had a wonderful time. I really got into the decision-making process about which colour to put where, and how to divide up the space, each decision leading on to the next, but all in a very low-pressure way. It was like being a little girl again - wonderful! I think that doing a Hand Turkey (as this is called, apparently) will become a regular creative exercise for me. It'll be interesting to see how each hand differs according to my mood.

One of the pages in the Happy Book asks you to put in your favourite picture of yourself - this is mine. It was (without getting too melodramatic or tearful) probably the last time I was truly happy as a child and I love looking into the eyes of this beautiful little girl. Sometimes I wish I could go back and make it all happen differently, sometimes I wish I could just go back and be four again, but most of the time, looking at this photograph fills me with calmness and even serenity.

Well, folks, those are the main things I contributed to the book. No jokes, I'm afraid, but it was done at the darkest, coldest time of the year. I'm sure if I was to do it again in July, I would have put in different things. It was a wonderful project to be involved in - thanks Jamie, for making it all possible, and I cannot wait to see what everyone else has come up with.

Spreading Happiness - One Page at a Time

2010-01-31T07:24:00.000-08:00

I was lucky enough to stumble across the fabulous Jamie Ridler on the internet a month or so ago (don't you just love the internet sometimes?) She runs several communal projects through her website, where people (women, mainly) get a chance to explore their creativity and make their dreams reality. It's a wonderful place to visit, full of positivity, friendship and talent.

I saw that she was about to start a new project, called The Next Chapter: The Happy Book and thought "what the hell - I'll give it a go". It is a wonderful, life-enhancing project. Jamie has sent four copies of The Happy Book to people all over the world. Each of these four gets to keep the book for a week, filling as many pages as they like with pictures, words, quotes and silly things - all the things that make them happy and bring them joy. At the end of the week they send the book on to the next person on the list, and so on to 25 other people. So, for about a year, allowing for travelling time, those little books will be flying about the world, getting filled up with joy, at which time they will return to Jamie and she'll show them on her website. Isn't that a wonderful thing to do? It is great to be involved in something that offsets all the gloom and anger in the world. Spending a week thinking about what makes me happy is doing me the world of good, getting the opportunity to express all the things I am grateful for, and knowing that my words and my little pictures are maybe going to brighten someone else's day - it doesn't get much better than that.

As I said, there are four books trundling around the world. Jamie has given each project a name of its own, so we have the Glee Circle, the Mirth Circle, the Giggle Circle and the Bliss Circle. I am in the Mirth Circle and was a little nervous to discover that I was first on the list - nobody else's pictures to inspire me, but it's been okay. And being first, I got to feature in a video of Jamie posting the books, which was pretty cool!

Jamie Putting the Happy Books in the Mail from Jamie Ridler on Vimeo.

I have to send the book on to Lani in Nova Scotia, Canada next Tuesday so I am dedicating today to filling some pages with colour, fun and all things jolly - a rather nice way to spend a Sunday. I'll post again when I've got some pictures to show.

Cutting Through the Shoulds

2010-01-26T08:09:00.000-08:00

Morning, my fellow prunes and rosehips. Definitely feeling more prunish than rosehippy this morning but I live in hope.

I've had an interesting little experience that I thought I'd share and, you never know, it might help someone else along the way.

I've had a long-standing physical problem that kicked off after my husband died and is still bugging the hell out of me. I've been trying alternative therapies of all descriptions - anything that might help me fix this and feel better. Anyway, I had a flare-up of symptoms recently and called my very wise homeopath. She suggested that I read You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay, as she thought I'd find it relevant and useful.

Now, I've bought all sorts of self-help books over the years but have always avoided Louise Hay. She just seemed too big and too popular to be of any use to me. Far too many weeks in the bestseller tables to be relevant to me (how does that work? Discovering that little fact about myself was interesting in itself.) But I respect my homeopath so I went out and bought a copy. Wow - what a great book! The very first exercise brought results for me and I thought I'd share it with you.

She says to get a big bit of paper and at the top of it to write "I should..." and underneath that you make a list of five or six ways to complete that sentence. Wow - when I saw this exercise I thought it was pointless but then I thought - "well, I want to get better, let's give it a go", so I settled myself down with a coffee and tried to think of one or two "shoulds" in my life.

Once I started, I could barely stop. I discovered that my whole life is full of "shoulds". I should lose weight. I should keep the house cleaner. I should get out more. I should be able to stop the dog doing the toilet in the house. I should walk her more often. I should do some voluntary work. I should redecorate. I should cook proper meals...and on and on and on.

I realised that from the moment I woke up every morning, I was beating myself up about pretty much everything in my life. No wonder I wasn't feeling well.

Even taking the exercise just this far has been useful in the week since, but she suggests that you take each "should" statement and turn it into a "If I really wanted to, I could...", not to put further pressure on yourself, but to find out exactly what kind of pressures you are putting yourself under.

There are many more exercises in the book to work on, and I am seeing new things all the time as I do. I hadn't realised, for example, that the overwhelming message I got as a child, both from parents and society at large, (and anyone brought up in the sixties and seventies will know what I'm talking about) was that girls would never be as good as boys and that, as a woman, all I had to look forward to was being gorgeous and the target of constant sexual innuendo or plain and a figure of fun. Plain women were a waste of space and beautiful women were only useful for one thing. As an adult, of course, you try to put these things behind you but, deep down, that message is apparently still singing loud and clear in my ear. So there's lots of work to be done there.

But what I wanted to tell you about today was a practical example of the life of "should". Ever since I did this exercise, when I have found myself saying "I should", I stop myself, question myself as to why I am saying "should", and then try to rephrase the thought. I wandered into my study and thought, with a sinking heart and a pang of guilt, "I really should vacuum this carpet." Spotting the use of the dreaded s-word, I decided to find a way to rephrase the thought without saying should. I couldn't. I felt guilty about the dirty carpet and I couldn't find a way of not beating myself up about it. Then it suddenly struck me. I could say "This carpet really needs vacuuming." And that made all the difference. All of a sudden it wasn't about me being lazy and a lifelong bad housekeeper. It was simply that the carpet needed cleaning.

And once I'd had that thought, I could see that there were other solutions to the situation. If the carpet needed cleaning, I could pay someone to come in and do it. Or I could say - "Yes, it needs doing but I am not going to do it today." Or I could get the vacuum cleaner out and clean it!

I know this is a really trivial situation, but I think it represents a hundred, a thousand similar thoughts that we beat ourselves up with constantly. From now on, whatever the situation, I will try to take away the self-blame and see things in an objective way, lighten the emotional load on myself and be gentle with myself.

Paired For Life? Part 2

2010-01-01T07:31:00.000-08:00

And now for the other side...

Part 2 has taken a while to produce - the reason is that in this part I want to write about the positive side of living alone, and I haven't been feeling that positive about it, which makes it hard to write enthusiastically about! Nevertheless, I have done such a lot since I was widowed - many things through necessity, but many also because I no longer need to answer to anyone else. And that's the rub - being widowed ISN'T all bad. That knowledge brings with it a whole new bundle of guilt, but that's another post.

Where to start - well, I've just moved house, let's start there. For the first time in my life, I have chosen a house just for me, no compromises, no negotiations, and I've arranged it the way I want, and that is completely new for me. It's a funny thing to think that my student son has had more independence in his few years since leaving home than I have in my fifty years. In fact, I sometimes feel as though I am just starting out on on my life as an adult. I went straight from parental home to married home and never even went through the student-flat phase, as I lived at home when I was at University.

And settling in to this house HAS been an adventure. I've arranged things the way I want, got rid of all sorts of baggage, literal and emotional and, for the first time, I feel that I am in a house that reflects my personality. That can't be a bad thing.

Moving house has been a big thing but life alone is filled with hundreds of little delights, from having your bedroom at the temperature that suits you, to eating what and when you like.

And with the new year, another good thing about being alone occurs to me. Yesterday I phoned a widowed friend to have a chat and to wish her a happy new year. We talked for twenty minutes or so. I am only too aware that if I was still married I would probably never have picked up the phone. Why not? Well, for several reasons. The first is that we would probably never have met. She was a distant neighbour who I didn't know when she knocked at my door a week or so after the Golfer died. She introduced herself, refused to come in and said merely that she herself had been widowed three months previously, that she lived at the top of the hill and that if I ever needed help or just to talk, she was there. I was so touched by this kindness from a stranger and over the years since then our friendship gradually developed. Until recently, we had never been in each other's houses, we merely chatted and compared notes as we passed on the road. A few months ago she called me and asked me for some help with her computer and our acquaintance developed into a friendship.

So when New Year approached, I thought of her, especially as the weather has been pretty extreme up there in the Highlands, and called her. She was delighted to hear from me and our conversation cheered us both, I think. I felt better both for brightening her day and for the mutual support we offered. Now, the point of this is that if I had still been a married woman, not only would I never have met her, but that even if we had met, I probably simply wouldn't think of staying in touch. This has been the case for most of the friendships that I have developed over the last four years. Before, when I was a wife and mother, I didn't need girlfriends. I had a few 'coffee' friends - women I liked who I would meet for coffee and gossip once a month or so - but I would never think of talking about anything too personal with them, and I wouldn't need to call on them if I had a problem because I had a husband to fix everything in my life.

The nature of friendship I will keep for another blog post but suffice it to say that I may NEED friends now in a way that I have never done before but that need has developed some genuine and deep friendships that will last a lifetime. It sounds like a trivial thing to say, but it's a sign of the change in my life to say that I get more Christmas cards and birthday cards now than I ever did before I was widowed. When I go to sleep at night, my thoughts are jam-packed with all the people I care about. Before, it was just the Golfer and my son, and that was about it.

I have only scraped the surface of the benefits of living alone, and I expect I'll come back to the topic and express myself a little better than I have done here but let me finish with one thought about a particular problem of being widowed which may make it more difficult to celebrate life alone. One of the most important weapons in defeating difficult times in your life is defiance. "Living well is the best revenge" is a great maxim to live by if you had parents who abused you, if you are made redundant or if your spouse runs away with the postwoman. Putting a smile on your face and trying to use that adversity to recreate a better life, even if at first it's only in defiance to the bastards who have screwed you, is a great way to deal with life's big stresses. However, when you are widowed, it is difficult to adopt this attitude (I'm not expressing myself well here but I hope I'm getting my meaning across - I'll try to write it better one day!) I have heard people say that losing their job, or even getting a serious illness like cancer, was the best thing that ever happened to them, because it transformed their lives. It is VERY difficult to say that in relation to the death of your spouse. In fact, it is unacceptable to say that publicly, even if it's true. Can you imagine what people would say if you came out with the line "Ah yes, the Golfer's death was the best thing that ever happened to me". And yet, that is the task we are faced with when our partners die. If the Golfer had walked out on me, I would have said "The Golfer walking out on me was the best thing that ever happened to me" with gusto and would have been determined to make the rest of my life as good as possible, if only to stick it to him. But he didn't walk out on me, he died on me, and I find it almost impossible to suggest out loud (even if I think it sometimes) that I am having a happier life BECAUSE he died.

I think that adds an element of difficulty to the widowed person's job of rebuilding their lives. So, for those of you out there in the same boat as me, go easy on yourselves, you are making progress, and you will be happy again. Happy New Year to all you Rosehips and Prunes out there and I wish you all a wonderful 2010!

A Christmas Thought

2009-12-25T01:26:00.000-08:00

I hope you're all having a good day, and if you are alone or unhappy, I'm sending you some positive thoughts. It is only a day, even if it feels like the world revolves around the 25th of December, and things will all get back to normal very soon.

I'm not alone this year - my son and his significant other are here - but I expect to be next year, when they will go to the in-laws, and I've been wondering what it will be like to be alone on Christmas Day. I've been used to a houseful of guests all my married life and it will be strange to be alone, but I will not become someone else's waif and stray - I am determined about that. I'll still decorate a tree, I'll still have a special meal and, in fact, I'm quite excited about that because I will be able to do a vegetarian lunch for the first time - grumpy meat-eating men have prevented this up till now. Pulling crackers might be hard, unless the dog takes the other end in her teeth. I think I'll concentrate on feeding the birds, and take a long walk with the dog.

I will shun the usual ghastly Christmas TV, except Doctor Who, of course, and instead I will put on my extended Lord of the Rings trilogy, close the curtains, snuggle up by the fire with a hot chocolate and a warm dog. When it's really dark, I will go out and wave to the Moon, and blow a kiss to Orion the Hunter as he marches across the sky - I've got a bit of a crush on him - and I will go to bed and dream of Aragorn and Orion, and heroic times.

And then on Boxing Day I will rejoin normal society and go sale-shopping!

Paired for Life? Part 1

2009-11-27T06:14:00.000-08:00

I have recently dipped the very tip of a toe into the world of internet dating. You know what it's like - you begin to fill in one of these questionnaires for a bit of fun and, before you know it, you're on the front page of Guardian Soulmates with a glass in your hand and a party grin on your blotchy face.

Thus I found myself listed on two dating websites (not on the front page though - I had the sense to untick that particular permission box) and within the day I was getting smiley faces and thumbs up and even a message or two. And that's when the cold feet began to throb.

They try to tell you there's a world of men out there waiting for you in the internet pond but really, when it comes down to it, by the time you've whittled down the age and the location to the right parameters, you find there are only a dozen guys to sort through. And I'm afraid to say I wasn't the slightest bit intrigued by any of them. It didn't look as though I was going to find my next soulmate here.

And if I wasn't going to do that, then why bother? What was it I was looking for? Someone to go to the theatre with? Sex with more than one person involved? A bloke handy with a screwdriver and a spirit level? That last one is not related to the previous one, though it could be I suppose...

The point is, faced with the reality of an actual man on the other end of the internet connection, I wasn't sure that I wanted to get involved again. I thought at first that this was just nervousness but I think there's more to it than that. I was with the Golfer for thirty years. I felt as if I was joined to him for life. Even though our marriage was not happy in later years, he was still the person who knew me best in the world. We had grown up as adults together - through university, becoming parents, getting the first grey hairs, and beginning our midlife crises. We'd been through redundancy, the death of our parents, the care of relatives. My whole adult life was entwined with this man and I'm not sure I can start again with someone else. I'm not sure I want to.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not clinging to the past and, as an atheist, I don't believe that the Golfer is still somehow here with me, nor that I will meet him again in the hereafter. I know that he is gone and that I am alone. And there is nothing I would like better than to find another soulmate, someone to love and to be cherished by. But I feel as if I have had my go at marriage. We were happy for a while and then he died. If it doesn't sound too obvious a thing to say, if he was still alive we would still be married. The fact that he is dead doesn't change my side of the equation, so to speak. It's just that it's an unbalanced equation. On the one side there is Puddock - wife, mother, dog-carer and aspiring writer; on the other side there is a photograph of a man who used to exist. I still look after a dog and have a son; I still try to write; I still hate washing dishes and resent cooking; it's just that he isn't there. I feel as if I have had my go at the bran-tub of marriage; it's just that my prize didn't last its lifetime guarantee. I'm not sure I get a second go. No refunds, no replacements.

I know there are many people out there who have happily remarried after death or divorce. I know it can be wonderful. I think maybe the life stage you are at makes a difference. I had had my family. I had, almost literally, just waved my only child off to University when my husband died. We were beginning to think about early retirement to the country - him to grow apples and play golf, me to write and sell books. We had known each other since we were twelve and been together since we were eighteen. A thirty year relationship is a very different thing from a five or a ten or even a fifteen year relationship. There's so much damn history, apart from anything else.

When he died, I was on the cusp of middle age, and now feel resolutely so. If I had been younger, there might still have been a drive to have another child, and that might have made a difference. In fact, when he was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, that was one of my first thoughts - that we could make a baby - some biological imperative kicking in, no doubt. But he was too ill and the fantasy melted away. Now I am too old, biologically. If he'd died at 40, I'd have still had a family to care for, and that would have made a difference. If he'd died at 30, I think my need for sex would have had me looking for a man PDQ. But he died at 47, just too late for either of those to be relevant.

So, though it makes me very sad to think it, and feel as if I might as well be 81, instead of 51, I don't think I am going to go looking for love. If it happens by chance, unexpectedly and out of the blue, then wonderful. But in the meantime, and not expecting it to happen, I have to adapt to a life alone.

The (Non) Joys of Dining Alone

2009-11-05T04:55:00.000-08:00

My fellow Prunes,

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman dining alone will always be given the worst table in the restaurant. I've had plenty of experience of eating out alone since I came here - partly the novelty of simply being able to walk out for food, after being a 20 minute drive from the nearest takeaway before, partly because I've been so busy sorting the house out that I couldn't lift a saucepan.

It's my own fault for choosing a holiday town. Everywhere there are noisy family groups or hand-holding couples. I can just about cope with it when I walk my mad old dog along the prom. We make an interesting little group of our own and people talk to us. I don't think I'll walk along the seashore on my own very often, though. You get fed up looking either brave or enigmatic. Sometimes you just want to look normal.

Dinner last night though was the first time I was offered the classic worst table in the room. I was proud of myself for saying "hey, what about something a bit more in the body of the kirk?" but it didn't make any difference. "I can't put a single diner at a table for four", he said, and I could sort of see his point. But I had been looking forward all day to going out and being amongst people and instead I found myself perched at a little table next to the proverbial kitchen door, with an unsmiling couple on the other side. Luckily I had brought plenty to read with me and I set about looking interesting and enigmatic. J.K. Rowling has done a great service to lone diners. Get out a notebook and begin writing and you can be sure people will notice. And suddenly you turn from a figure of pity to, at least, a figure of curiosity. You look, suddenly, more interesting than they do. I've even had people ask me if I'm writing a novel.

But still, I am fed up being the odd one out. I WANT TO BE NORMAL! I had a friend staying with me for a few nights last week and it was great to gossip over a coffee and a cake in places where I had days before been the sad lone woman. Of course, I'm back to that now. The question I want to ask is "where are all the single people?" I know there are millions of us out there. I can only assume that they are sitting at home alone in the dark. Come on, guys and girls, get out there. If I see you sitting in a restaurant I'll give you a sisterly smile of encouragement.

Progress Report

2009-11-02T04:03:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd better update you, my fellow Prunes, on progress in the new house. The dizziness has abated considerably and I only feel it now if I am feeling stressed or unhappy. I had a friend staying last week, and that was great because I could be relatively normal for a while - eating out with a person instead of a book, getting a reply from another human being when I spoke, instead of having to fill in the gaps myself and, best of all, someone to help with the washing-up. One of the most wearing things I have found since my husband had the bad taste to die on me has been the grinding, never-ending list of jobs to be tackled alone. I can put them off but I know that I will need, at some point, to decorate, cut the grass, fix the washing machine, get the window leak fixed, decorate, do the ironing, buy, and worst of all construct, Ikea storage units, decorate, did I say decorate... Every time something has to be done I know I'm the one that has to do it. For those of us spoiled by long marriages to DIY-competent men, this is one of the hardest things to accept as a side-effect of widowhood.

Of course, I feel a sense of achievement when I tackle a new job successfully, and I have awarded myself many invisible gold stars. Maybe we middle-aged and alone women should set up a network of gold star awards - where, if any one of us feels she (or he!) has done a particularly brave thing, we are automatically granted a gold star by our fellows. But I still resent having to do it all, and it doesn't half wear me down. I recognise the same feeling in the eyes of widowed friends that I meet - that weariness.

Anyway, I am continuing to settle in. Feeling a bit better physically but just as lonely as ever, so far. I think I thought that I'd be inundated with company somehow, simply by moving back to town - I was wrong. But I am getting there and, girls, for any of you out there thinking about moving house - it can be done - if I did it, you can do it!

I Got the Shakes...

2009-10-22T05:02:00.000-07:00

...but not, sadly, the Hippy Hippy Shakes.

A day or two after I moved in, I started feeling faint or dizzy when I was walking out and about in my new home town. A few years ago I would have been straight down to the doctor's, demanding tests, but I'm older and wiser now and I am pretty certain that it's all to do with moving house, so I thought I'd talk about it here a bit, in case it helps anyone else.

It only happens when I am out walking, rarely in the house. Sometimes I feel as if I'm about to faint, sometimes I just get dizzy, sometimes my legs feel heavy and about to give way - not nice! Worrying about it, of course, only makes it worse. I realised, after a day or two of the symptoms, that what I am probably having are little teeny mini panic attacks. I am furious with myself for being so weak but, as so often has happened in the four years since the Golfer died, my body deals with the grief and the stress in its own way, even while my brain is fixing a determined smile on my face, making lists of things-to-do and stating in a loud and clear voice that it will be conquering all challenges in a forthright and no-nonsense manner.

And that's just what has happened this last four years. My brain has got on with living, making plans, working hard, being brave; meanwhile my body has often gone its own way, with me feeling unaccountably sad, even though I had DECIDED NOT to be feeling that way, or having physical symptoms that brought me to my knees last year - very annoying, inconvenient and instructive.

Before I was widowed, I would have had little sympathy with a woman who was still struggling or feeling incomplete four whole years after the death of her husband - I blush to think of how insensitive I must have been. And if it was not for hearing the experience of fellow widows, I would be certain that it was just me being a wimp. But over and over, when I talk to friends who are widows (some of them who read this blog!), we find that our experiences are incredibly similar and we are all shocked that we can still be feeling so bad all this time after the death.

I remembered yesterday, as the knees gave way again, that the first time I went to Tesco after the Golfer died, I had had a similar feeling - that my legs simply would not carry me the short distance from the car to the supermarket; I felt simultaneously frozen to the spot and giddy from the sheer unbelievability that he might no longer exist - how could Tesco continue to function when he didn't exist? The thing yesterday was that I felt worse then than I did that day back in Tesco, and that was what I wanted to share with you - that you can actually feel worse years after the trauma that occurred, but not to be frightened by it. I take it, in my case, as a sign that my body is relaxing sufficiently in this new place, after four years of being ridiculously brave, to weaken a bit and exhibit these symptoms, and that must be (eventually!) a good thing. Live long and prosper, my fellow rosehips and prunes!

Moving House - Moving on?

2009-10-17T02:30:00.000-07:00

Hello my fellow rosehips and/or prunes. It's a while since I blogged here, mainly because I was getting ready to move house and didn't want to jinx anything by talking about it here. Well, I have now moved house and am more or less installed in a lovely house on the sunny Clyde Coast. I've been here a week and am, despite the unseasonably good weather, feeling ghastly.

The thing is, what you forget, at least, what I forgot, is that it's not the moving house itself that is the third most stressful thing you can do in your life, it's the settling in afterwards. It's like having a baby - people tell you how difficult it's going to be and what you, in your innocent ignorance do not realise, is that what they mean is the months and years (and years!) after the birth. You get home from the hospital feeling very proud of yourself and you think - "Right, can I have my gold star now please, and then we'll get back to normal" and you discover that, instead of being treated like a princess for being so brave and so clever, you are up to your neck in extremely smelly nappies and baby sick and are so sleep-deprived that you are beginning to understand why it is used so frequently as a successful method of torture.

It's the same with moving house. You get the damn thing sold, despite the financial slump, you find a pleasant house with a great view, you get your removal men sorted and you think, "Great, this is going to be lovely. I am on top of things. It's going to be like being on holiday when I get there." And you arrive and discover that, though the house is indeed lovely, you can't get a TV picture, you can't get digital radio an ony of your half dozen DAB radios (no signal, it turns out), the nearest Homebase is a 40 minute drive away and the house so jollily situated on the seafront is a goldfish bowl into which every pedestrian, every passing coach party and every seagull feels quite free to stare and, on occasion, point.

Ah, you see, I've come not only from living in the countryside, where a car passed my windows once every 20 minutes or so, and a walker about twice a day, but the neighbours were so private/self-sufficient/unfriendly that you could have died and they wouldn't have noticed. Actually, you could probably have run an Al-Quaida training camp and they wouldn't have noticed. This was one of the reasons I moved away - I was SO lonely. Well, there's no need to be lonely here! You could stand at your gate and you'd be talking all day. It's great but it's different - hence the stress.

Moving house (and I SHOULD have known this because I have done it before) is about more than boxes, mortgages and removal men. It's about new neighbours, new parking arrangements, new shops and routines. It's also about missing your friends and wondering if you have made a hideous mistake. This is, of course, the first time I have moved on my own. I was straight from parental home to marital home and then always had the Golfer, let's be honest, in charge with me more as camp follower. Now I get to make all the decisions which is sometimes great - yes, I AM going to have the biggest room to store all my books in and I AM going to dig up all the grass and plant a wildlife garden - but it also INCREDIBLY lonely - there's no-one to share the triumphs with - look, I've found the computer cable after only a week of searching! - and there's no-one to share the burden with. If I decide to sit down and admire the view for a while I know that, when I get up, the heating will still need to be programmed, the operating of the gas fires understood and the remaining hundred boxes unpacked, flat-folded and disposed of. It makes me sigh, I have to admit.

So I am excited to be in my new house, and I am certain that I did the right thing in moving. But I miss my friends and my routine and I miss having the Golfer around to share it with. He would have loved this house - it would have been his dream retirement home, and I'm not sure if I should therefore be happy to be living here or if it just makes it sadder.

Things Change...

2009-08-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

I haven't written much over the summer here on Rosehip or Prune but I have a good excuse - I've been selling my house!

At last, I am moving on. Moving on...it's a strange phrase. When you lose someone you love, it isn't long before a well-meaning friend will talk about 'moving on'. "Time to move on", they say to you, placing a kind hand on your arm, "your dead loved one wouldn't want you to stay sad for too long. Time to start looking forward again".

But moving on isn't something you can will to happen. Relationships are complicated things and bereavement is no less a complicated business. When your partner dies, you have to disentangle yourself from them and become a single unit again, and that takes time.

Since I've been widowed, and have talked to people who really know what it's like - that is, other widowed people and not so-called experts, I've heard of it taking five years, or even ten, to adapt to life without a husband or wife. In my case, it has taken four years to feel like an individual instead of half of a ripped-apart unit. And now I do feel like an individual, ready to start a new life in a new town.

When I showed the first couple (it's all couples) round my house and tried to explain my situation, I struggled to explain why I was moving now. The woman gently interrupted and said "you're moving on." I was initially horrified and literally stepped back at the thought that I might be moving on from my husband and thus leaving him behind. But I realised that she was quite right and I found myself nodding and smiling and saying, "yes, you're right. I AM moving on."

And so I am. The process of selling the house has moved me further on - all those new people to meet, all those decisions to make - and I am certain that I am doing the right thing. I will shed a few tears but I will not have any regrets when I walk out of the house in a couple of months time, because I will be moving on - on to Life 2.0.

The Small Incidents Post

2009-06-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

One of the small but wearing things about living alone is when something happens - a small thing - and you have no-one to share it with.. All you can do with it is tuck it away in your memory and hope one day to have someone to share it with again.

Officially the Cutest Thing on the Web Today

2009-06-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

I posted this over on The View From the Pond but I just have to share it with you over here too. If you are having a grumpy, sad or just plain down day, this WILL make you smile - guaranteed!

My friend Lianne tells me that the otters live in her home town, Vancouver, at the Aquarium. Enjoy!

Back in the Swim

2009-06-13T07:24:00.000-07:00

Hi girls (and guys). I must apologise for being away so long. When I started this blog it was supposed to be a support for anyone out there feeling lost and alone after death or divorce - buggering off for five months wasn't very supportive of me, was it?

After a foray into the real world, I'M BACK! And I hope to get Rosehip or Prune going on a more regular basis, with fun things as well as all that meaningful stuff.

New Year Non-resolutions

2009-01-08T06:59:00.001-08:00

I don't make new year resolutions - far too guilt-ridden for my liking - but I do have 2 personal hopes for 2009.

The first is to get into University. I've decided to give it a go and see if any University will take a fading intellectual-manque. I've bumbled around for three years trying to decide what to do with the life I find myself in since the Golfer died. Thought about a bookshop - too risky financially; thought about charity work - I'm not charitable enough; and then I thought "I want to do something completely different". I find that I am almost allergic to anything to do with my old life. Clinging to the wreckage of it makes me feel sad. So I'm madly trying to get my UCAS form sorted and submitted and then I just have to sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in, or not.

The other objective I have is much more personal, and too personal to reveal here. Let me say only that being widowed has physical repercussions which I intend to rectify this year!

To be absolutely honest, I have more hope that the first will happen than the second. After dipping my toe into the baffling world of dating last year, I have come to the conclusion that I may have had my one shot at love. Now that I've hit the 50 mark I seem to have crossed some invisible line that has relegated me from the first team and put me firmly onto the substitutes bench. A bloke of my age is, more than ever, going to look for someone younger than me - why have a woman of 50 when you can have a woman in her forties?

To reinforce this point, I got a letter from an old friend just before Christmas. I'd contacted him because, many years ago, we had both fancied each other but had done nothing about it. I thought - nothing ventured, nothing gained - and emailed him to say hello. I got a lovely letter back from him. He's married, which was not unexpected, but the thing I really picked up on was that this chap, who is the same age as me, now had two young children. Contrasting that with my own situation, my son is grown up and left home and I am certainly no longer able to produce a child. It was a perfect illustration of the option open to an older man. Who'd choose a dried-up old widow when they could have a fertile younger woman?

I think that is one of the reasons I have decided to try for University instead. It's a way of turning my back on the rules prescribed for my age-group and my station. I may never have sex again but I am determined to have some fun!

Happy Christmas Everyone!

2008-12-25T03:02:00.000-08:00

No snow here this Christmas, but a picture of a cloudy Christmas scene doesn't work so well, does it?

Happy Christmas, Yule, Winter Solstice or Midwinter to you all. If you are on your own, please accept a hug from me and know that you are in my thoughts.

Four (Or More) Legs Good, Two Legs Bad

2008-11-02T09:55:00.000-08:00

My little trip to friends was the final piece in a puzzle I've been, well, puzzling over for many years - what is the vital ingredient in a happy life?

I had always been a town girl and reasonably happy to be so, I thought. So when we came here ten years ago and found ourselves living in the country it was quite a change - no pub or Indian carry-out within walking distance for a start! I found it very hard. The Golfer was away on business a lot and the neighbours completely ignored us - avoided us in fact. I found, during that first winter, my bubbly personality fizzling out and I was bitterly unhappy. But at the same time, I was entranced by my surroundings. Deer would appear at dusk and we would rush to the window and watch them till they moved on. An occasional hare would melt into view and then magically melt away again. Every time I heard a buzzard cry overhead I would dash out to watch it wheel far above. I began to feel truly in touch with, and not just sympathetic to, nature.

I began to pity people who had to live in town. True, we had new worries - the constant dread of a huge tree falling, a septic tank to grapple with, and the isolation - but every time I stepped outside I felt nourished. The Golfer, after a doubtful start, began to relax too. He loved coming back here after a long and tiring business trip and would feel his bones relax as he drew near the peace of home. It was a bit like being on holiday.

After he died, it was the land that kept me going. No matter how bad I felt, a walk round the wood would refresh me, even if it made me feel all the lonelier. Living here, there wasn't anything else to cheer me up, with neighbours who avoided me and the nearest Starbucks ten miles away. I felt completely alone but at peace, if that makes sense. I began to despair of ever being part of a community of any kind again. I tried new things but it never seemed to last beyond the event itself. No matter how adventurous I was, I still landed up back at home alone in the dark at the end of it. But my garden was always there for me to remind me that even if humanity didn't want me, I was part of nature. In those early dark days of widowhood I didn't much care if humanity didn't want me anyway. I felt more like 87 than 47 and tried to be brave in the face of the certainty that the best of my life was over.

A few months ago I was surprised to find that I ached when it was time to leave a friend's house, leaving behind all that normality. I had thought that I had toughened myself sufficiently not to need other people - like them of course, and meet friends but not need them - couldn't afford to need them, they might leave me or let me down and I didn't want to feel that bad again.

At the same time I was finding that my two and a half acres wasn't giving me quite the pleasure it had before. I'd see a new flower and think - "that's all very well but you can't talk to me, or share a joke, or tell me I exist". This was new. Home, which had been a haven for me in the first months, now felt like a prison. I wanted to be out there amongst humanity. But who would choose to leave this place of tranquillity and head back to town, where you have to fight for a parking space, and it's noisy and polluted, and you don't have deer gambolling past your window as you type on your computer? As I've written here before, I was caught in a dilemma that seemed to have no solution - too lonely to stay, too scared to leave. Part of that was the fear of losing that very special daily connection to nature that I've had for ten years.

But this visit to my friends has decided me. Friendship, love and human company come first. If I ever find myself at the heart of a family again, then I might be lucky enough to live once again amongst the rest of nature. But living alone in the country, especially in this unfriendly place, deprives me of the most vital thing that surely all humans require - contact with our own species. I think it's all very Darwinian - the need to be amongst other people; the herd instinct which brings mutual protection and support is, I have found, very deep within me and is even more fundamental than the desire to be amongst the natural world. So I will head back to civilization. I just wish I could go right now.

Moving On?

2008-11-02T05:28:00.000-08:00

I'm just back from spending a few days with old friends. I had a great time and now I feel like crap. Being alone in this house has become unbearable and I am on the verge of deciding to move away from this unfriendly and unhappy place.

I've been widowed, and therefore living alone, for three years now, and a change has been working in me this last year. For the first couple of years I still felt linked to the Golfer and so, although I missed him and felt lonely without him, I also still felt like part of something - he might not be around any more but I was still his wife. At least, that's what kept me going through those awful months. But actually I lost more than my husband when he died. I lost the connection to the exciting world he inhabited, all the vicarious thrills of his international travel - the crises, the late-night phone calls and emails, the hastily arranged travel plans. My life might have been pretty dull and quiet but I was only a step away from a busy and exciting life, populated by hundreds of people that I never met but that I felt as if I knew.

When he died, inevitably all that disappeared too. I was concentrating so hard on being brave those first two years after his death that I didn't have time to notice how very different, how sparse, my life was now. Part of it was of our own doing - we had always been a pretty private couple - he didn't like to mix business and home life, home was the place he came to recuperate - so we didn't have many friends, only colleagues. Luckily, I had a couple of friends of my own, otherwise I wouldn't have got this far but, as almost all my family and his too, were dead, when he died I was left practically alone in the world. Just me and my son and my little dog. The son had, by a cruel coincidence, gone off to University the same month that the Golfer died so, when I woke up from my stupor of grief a year ago, I was appalled at what my life was now. I went from living in a house with a family and two businesses being run from it, to living alone with just an old dog for company, almost overnight.

So this last year has felt worse than anything that preceded it. I will even admit that I have felt almost suicidal at times. I can now at least bear to be around married friends, I can go to their houses and see their normal lives without wanting to stab myself in the eyes. But I want to live it again, desperately. I might never marry again - who'd put up with a book-collecting aspiring intellectual who never wants to cook another meal but loves playing WOrld of Warcraft? Not an enticing prospect to your average middle-aged guy, you'll agree. But I can at least live amongst friends, and in a neighbourhood where people talk to you and aren't afraid to offer a helping hand.

The friends I was visiting last week live in the town I used to live in before we came to the wild and woolly Highlands. I love going back. People look you in the eye and they love to talk. It's partly nosiness of course, but oh! how I long for that nosiness after ten years of being blanked by the people here.

When I was staying there, at one point we had two new mums, a new dad, and two babies in the house as well as the three of us and my little dog. It was bliss and I wanted it never to stop. I could hardly bear to drag myself back here. But I checked out a house for sale while I was there, and I loved it, and I think, I really think that I am going to do it. I just need to talk to my son and then I think I'm actually going to put my house on the market (and stuff the credit crunch) and that means I could soon be living amongst normal people again, with a social life, and company, and a new life. I cannot wait!

I Am a Glorious Chicken...?

2008-10-24T01:31:00.000-07:00

I've been (and still am)suffering from a really irritating old woman's problem which I won't go into here - nothing serious but chronic and distracting. I was in a bookshop yesterday, feeling sorry for myself and pretty desperate about the future when a card in the Edward Monkton section caught my eye:

And it really inspired me. I love Edward Monkton's work. He's done the Madness Hamsters, the Handbag of Glory and the Shoe of Salvation, amongst others. My favourite is my fridge magnet that has the question Are You Normal? and a little person shouting at the top of their voice NO! Pretty much summed up how I've been feeling this last few years and curiously comforting every time I open the door.

And he's done it again. When you've hit fifty and it really really feels as if it's downhill from here, no matter how optimistic and Pollyanna-ish you try to be, the thought that each year you live adds a glorious feather to the Chicken of your Life really bucks you up.

I now have an image of myself as a fabulous mythical phoenix-chicken, with many feathers. Some are long and silky and multi-hued. Some are, frankly, a bit straggly and hardly worthy of the title feather. But each one adds to the unique creation that is me.

It's a helluva better thought than the old one of bits falling off, drooping and breaking down!

(You can buy Edward Monkton stuff here or in loads of shops - I see a lot of them in Waterstones.)

Altogether now...

MAY EACH YEAR BE A FEATHER ON THE GLORIOUS CHICKEN OF LIFE AS IT SOARS UNTAMED AND BEAUTIFUL TOWARDS THE GOLDEN SUN.

Nothing Like a Bit of Support

2008-10-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

Hello fellow Rosehips

I've been having one or two menopausal irritations recently which have rather spoiled my summer, but I think I am on the mend at last, having had a proper diagnosis at last (only took four goes!).

As you do, I was madly searching the internet for information and support and came across this great website. All the information seems to be good but I am finding the forum particularly useful. I really felt as if I was the only one suffering with these symptoms and all of a sudden I have found dozens of other women who are not just suffering with them but some who have actually recovered and are feeling well again - the joy!

I'm going to put a banner at the top of the page too, so you'll always have somewhere quick to click but here's a link too:

Menopause Matters

I'm Back

2008-10-09T01:50:00.000-07:00

Hi all

I've been away, I am rather horrified to discover, for two months. The good news is that it has been, on the whole, for positive reasons. I've been sort of building a bit of a new life for myself, or at least, the foundations of one, and I guess I didn't want to risk jinxing it by writing about it here.

Now, don't get too excited, my little rosehips/prunes, I haven't taken any huge leaps. I just kept on taking the baby steps that I've been taking for the last three years. It's just that I found that the last few baby steps took me out of the shadows and into the sunshine.

Grief is a process, the experts tell us. I didn't understand that until recently, when I found that I was moving along this conveyor belt, almost despite myself. Despite myself, because the further you move along it, the further behind you leave the dead person that you loved. But you can't move back, you have to go with it and, at last, after three horrible years, I can say that I feel almost whole.

Things started moving fast forward when I decided to have a go at dating. Not that I have actually succeeded in dating anyone yet but at least the willingness is there. The only thing I was brave enough to try at first was an introduction agency. Felt very brave, and nervous, signing on with them but found pretty quickly that it was too conservative and slow-moving for me. I began to fancy speed dating, and wondered if they did it for old people like me. I was amazed to discover that they did and signed up for an evening before I had time to change my mind.

I was nervous when I went along but amazed to discover when I got there that there were other people much more nervous than I was. I had a great night. I didn't meet the man of my dreams, and I didn't meet anyone I really wanted to date, but I did talk to a dozen guys without sending them screaming from the room. When I drove home the next day (having had to drive south for the event - the Highlands are a dating dead zone) I felt like a new woman. I'd also spent a night in the big city and was impatient at the thought of coming back to the isolation and boredom of life here. By the time I got home I realised that I wanted to work again - now that was a surprise!

So now, a month later, I am working towards opening my own business. When I stop and take a breath, I can scarcely believe that I'm doing it. Back in January, when I was almost suicidal with loneliness and desperation, I couldn't have dreamt that I would be where I am today. It's not perfect, of course. I'm still too isolated. I still panic when something goes wrong round the house. But I have plans now, and modest ambitions. I am living again.

Talking to Strangers

2008-08-12T09:01:00.000-07:00

I'm just back from seeing my counsellor. This is the third time since the Golfer died that I have consulted a counsellor. Each time I went for several months then thought I was fixed and left. Then, a few months further on, I would find myself crawling back. It's very dispiriting. When I was 'normal' - i.e. married, I would have had very little sympathy for someone who still needed help THREE YEARS after their husband had died. I'd have thought they were malingering.

From this side of the fence I (obviously) see it very differently. For whatever reason (and there are a few), I find that I need that extra person to talk things through with, and I am very glad indeed that my counsellor is there. I can say things to her that I cannot say to my son or my friends. I still don't dig down too far, and I don't cry, but I find the sessions a useful safety valve, a place to be honest instead of putting on a brave face, and it is great simply to talk for an hour to a sympathetic listener.

But of course, the very fact that I need to use a stranger as that sympathetic listener highlights my situation all the more. When I was 'normal', and in a relatively happy marriage, I talked things through with my husband. I didn't need to pay someone to listen to me.Even though we argued a lot in the later days, when the chips were down he was always there for me. HE WAS PART OF MY TRIBE. It isn't just that he knew me better than anyone else alive, he cared about me more than anyone else in the world.

It is humiliating to have to go to outsiders for help, whether it's because I can't clear the block in my drains, or I've bumped my head and I'm worried that I'll have a haemorrhage in the night and no-one will know, or because I am simply lonely and I've talked to all my friends and I'm still lonely. It was a standing joke between us that when the Golfer came back from a long business trip he had to be ready to sit down with a big mug of tea (or a large glass of wine) because I was going to have two weeks' worth of conversation and gossip to get out. And he always did it, sometimes even willingly! Now I have to spread those conversations out amongst friends and professionals, and I understand how those little old ladies feel that you see in town talking at length to shop assistants. It isn't just that they are lonely. They are trying to replace the aching gaps in their lives left by family who have died or gone away.

So I go every week to my counsellor. And I'm very glad that she is available to me. But I wish more than anything that I didn't need her, that I was normal again.

The (Not Quite) Agony and the (Nowhere Near) Ecstasy

2008-07-30T12:43:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged here much the last month. I have been so miserable I haven't wanted to inflict it on anyone. I would never have believed that I could still be feeling this screwed up nearly three years after the Golfer's death, but I am. In fact, I feel worse now than I did at the beginning. But that is a good sign, at least I hope it is.

In the first couple of years, I was focussed on surviving, proving to myself and the world that I could manage on my own. There were lots of new things to learn, new challenges and also, let's be honest, the novelty of having no-one to answer to. I didn't have time to think about the reality of it all. Hell, I didn't let myself think about the reality of it all. Now I find I am beginning to thaw out, I'm raising my head for the first time in three years and I'm saying "Shit! How the hell did I get here? I don't like this. Can I go back now please?"

In this respect, I don't think my situation is much different from people who have been through divorce. It's the same feeling (I would think) of a life plan torn up and of the unpalatable choice of starting out all over again or of clinging to what is left of the old life. Neither is appealing.

For the first time since he died, I have been ill. That doesn't help the mood but, more importantly, it feels as if my body is telling me that it's had enough of all this bravery and stiff-upper-lippedness and that it wants to have a damn good tantrum.

All this seems to be heralding a new phase in my life. I am, for the first time, unbearably lonely. After two years of my house being my safe haven, now it feels like a prison, and a pretty sad one at that. I'm only really happy when I'm with other people. I even found myself crying when friends went away this weekend. (I have rarely cried since he died.) And I'm back with a counsellor - mainly because I'm scared that I'll cover up all this new pain as I am used to doing, and I don't think I should be doing that. But this is all good, I am certain. I think it marks the end of my grief process (or at least the beginning of the end) and the re-emergence of a Puddock, blinking as she steps back out into the sunlit lanes of society. I hope so!

I'm still not at all certain that I want to leave behind those thirty years that I spent with the Golfer. I'm not sure how you move ahead into another path, into new relationships without nullifying the past. It's going to be an interesting next few steps, that's for sure.

Taking the Plunge

2008-07-18T09:29:00.000-07:00

Well, after nearly three years of widowhood, I have finally snapped. I seem to be a different person. I am fed up being lonely and cannot bear the thought of another thirty years of isolation and ever-increasing loopiness. I WANT TO BE NORMAL AGAIN!!

So I have taken the plunge and joined a dating agency. Who'd have thought it? I certainly wouldn't until last week.

I think (I hope) that it's a good and normal thing to want to do though. All I know is that I don't want to spend another day, never mind the rest of my life, alone. So what happened?

For the first two and a half years after the Golfer died, the grief was all about him. It was a mixture of sadness at the life he wouldn't have; and guilt that I would carry on living; it was partly a kind of loyalty to the Puddock/Golfer tribe - he might be gone but we'd keep things going; and there was an overwhelming feeling that I had had my go at love - I had had my throw of the dice at 18, fallen in love, filled a house, I had done the raising kids bit, it was just bad luck that our go had run out early but I just had to accept it and live with the consequences. I don't know where this thought came from but it was at the bottom of everything I did these last thirty-odd months. I behaved, I guess, as if he had gone away on a particularly long business trip, and I had done what I usually did when he went away - I had done my best to be brave and fill my time productively. Then - bam! - out of nowhere a voice in my head began yelling - "This is not enough! I'm drowning here. I'm invisible and I'm drowning."

It is as if my body has got fed up waiting for my brain to come to its senses and is giving me permission to risk being happy again. I'm feeling grotty and I know it's down to stress and loneliness and frustration. All my symptoms disappear when I'm with friends or busy. The house, which was a refuge for me in the early days, I never felt lonely here, now feels like a prison. Yet all the time my brain was plodding along with the plan. But the body has won out - it made me feel so ill and so depressed that I knew I had to do something. And first order of the day seemed to be to at least meet some men. Second order of the day is to move away from this unhappy place and third order is to find a new career but first things first...

So I've done it! I don't expect to meet the second love of my life but it will be lovely to have male company again, even if it's just coffee and a chat. Wish me luck!

Two Paths in a Wood

2008-07-08T02:23:00.000-07:00

I've been reviewing my situation, as Fagin said in the movie, and I've come to the conclusion that I have a choice to make. I've been dashing around in ever diminishing circles with one mad idea after another and, frankly, I'm dizzy.

As I've written about here before, when the Golfer died, it happened at practically the same time as my only child trundled off to University. Shortly after, I closed down my little business for various reasons but mainly because it chained me to the house answering the telephone, which isolated me even more than I already was. Consequently I became a widow, an empty-nester and unemployed pretty much all in one fell swoop. I was so busy being brave about it all that it's only now, nearly three years later, that the whole hideous truth is beginning to dawn on me - hence the dizziness.

As I've also written about here recently, I have suddenly begun to want to be in male company again. As I've thawed out, I've realised all the normality of everyday family life that I've lost, and I miss it terribly. I can scarcely bear to be in the house now because it reminds me how alone I am.

Obviously this cannot go on, so I've been trying to think of the best way forward. I've had a brilliant and dynamic new idea every day, and every day the previous one has looked ridiculous. I am now a very confused Puddock.

I realised today that part of the confusion stems from trying to achieve two totally different things - following both the paths in the wood, in fact. Part of me wants, more than anything, to share my daily life with someone again. But I also want to find a new purpose in my life. Living in the middle of nowhere, in a part of the country famed for its reserved people, makes it kinda difficult even to meet people, never mind find a twin soul. So plans to cope with this have included moving to a city - Edinburgh, say, going on a course that will get me meeting interesting people, or finding a job that will do the same.

But is that all I'm looking for in life - a bloke to make it all better?

Not All Bad

2008-06-11T08:37:00.000-07:00

Sorry all, that I haven't posted here for a while. Do you know, I think it's because I've actually had a life! Okay, it's only been gardening and meeting friends, and doing the odd arty course, but it has felt great. After nearly three years of living unwillingly alone, I think I am getting the hang of it.

So this article that I bumped into online, via the Daily Mail website, seemed just the thing to share - The Joys of Living Alone. Here are some of the best bits -

We are the ones who know the bliss of waking on a weekday morning to a calm and clutter-free home, with time to grind the coffee beans, bathe to the sound of Bach and perhaps do a few yoga stretches before setting off for work - pretty well impossible if you share your home with others.

Living alone allows creativity to flourish.
Author Frances Fyfield, in her 50s, believes solitude permits her to be more herself and even helps her relationships more than marriage.
"I have had fewer but more sustainable relationships since my marriage," she says. "There are all sorts of ways to live and love."

This is a new phenomenon made possible by the fact that women can now afford to do what they want - and increasingly, what they want is to live alone.

One of them is 58-year-old Lucy Austin.
"My children don't know what's wrong with me," she says.
"They really like Tom, my partner of the past few years.
"I was nervous of telling them about my new relationship, but it's a long time since their father died and they were delighted for me.
"They are anxious for us to get married or move in together.
"I know it's what Tom would like, and I think my daughters are worried that if I don't marry him, he will go off with someone else!"

But that is a risk Lucy is willing to take: "I am very happy and it is lovely to have a companion to go to the theatre or dinner with on a Saturday night.
"It's great to have someone to go on holiday with. But I am quite adamant that we live apart: I love living alone and don't want to live with anyone else again."

Donna Baxter, 50, who has lived alone happily for four years since her divorce, says, "It may be different now for women who spend decades partying and being single when they're young.

"But for those of us who spent our 20s and 30s either bringing up children or, like me, working and bringing up children, the joy I get from the extra hours I seem to have gained by living on my own just cannot be overemphasised.
"My husband would grouch if I had the bedside light on to read after he wanted to sleep.
"Now I read until four in the morning, munching digestives in bed with the World Service on the radio.
"Sometimes I laugh out loud because I'm so happy!
"I have met a kind man whose company I enjoy, but I honestly can't see myself ever giving up the freedom I now have to do exactly what I want, when I want."

I wonder what are the best bits of living alone for you? (let's not think about the bad stuff today)

For me, it would have to be:

The freedom to eat what and when I want, and ESPECIALLY, not having to cook for anyone else, after more than thirty years of it.

The calmness. No arguments, Radio 3 with my breakfast if I want it or - sheer decadence - The Rockford Files...

Dressing to please myself. I really, really don't care what anyone thinks about how I look and for the first time in my life I find I am developing my own style - Annie Oakley meets Worzel Gummidge...

Making and maintaining friendships. When I was one of the smug married brigade, we didn't need friends, we had each other. Now I find that, although obviously I need friends more than I did, I also am available for them and their problems more than I ever was before. I've strengthened some wonderful friendships in the last three years, with benefits on both sides.

Feeling Disorientated Can Be Good For Your Health - Honest!

2008-05-11T08:17:00.000-07:00

One of the worst things about being me at the moment is the feeling of being adrift - cut off from so much of my past, all that youthful optimism squished and, despite my best efforts and for the first time in my life, apparently incapable of jollying myself out of it.

But you don't have to be widowed to be in this state. People find themselves alone or cut off in middle life for all sorts of reasons. I've talked to many fellow bloggers who feel the same as I do - people in all sorts of situations. What links us is the sensation that we have fallen off the life path we thought we were on and we are having difficulty finding a new purpose to our lives.

It's an extremely scary feeling. I was always an upbeat kind of Puddock and I am used to making the best of what life throws at me. It is a new sensation not to be able to roll up my sleeves and...do what? That is the point of course - there is no point at the moment. For twenty years or so, I've known exactly what was required of me every day. [It wasn't necessarily what I would have chosen to be doing with my day but I had responsibilities to people (and dogs) that I loved and I was generally speaking, glad to be mum and cook, secretary and housemaid (okay - not so keen on the last one.) I didn't have time to think about what I would do if I was free of the responsibility. I bought into the get married, have kids, then sit back and be surrounded by family for the rest of your life thing, only to find myself kicked off that particular ocean liner and cast adrift three years ago. But that's just my story. Everyone has their own.

I came across a great book called Navigating Midlife: women becoming themselves by Robyn Vickers-Willis. I think I may even have bought it before the Golfer died (that's what I mean about it not being an exclusively widow issue) and there was one section that struck a particular chord with me, becasue it told me that all that pain and disorientation I was suffering could have a useful purpose. That thought got me through some tough times before and so, hitting a major trough these last few days, I searched out the book again and, lo, it was still useful! She describes it as a normal phase of our lives and calls it liminality. It is one of three phases in the transformation that takes place in midlife - separation, liminality and reintegration. Here's what she says:

There are strong feelings of confusion, bewilderment, disorientation, alienation, fragmentation and drift as we let go of our old self and personal world and float towards the not yet known more complete Self and newly created personal world.

In liminality we are like the migrants on board their boat on the way to Australia. They know they have left behind their old identity and their old life. They are not sure what it is like where they are going. Many find this time terrifying. Some start doubting that they can create a new life and wonder whether they could return to the old.

During this time we come closer to our unconscious. At this stage dreams, inner images, daydreams and writing helped me identify new parts of my Self and new directions for my life. I was also becoming more authentic in my relationships. Questions passing through my mind at liminality were:
If I am not the person I thought I was, who am I?
What is me and what is not me?
Am I ever going to feel 'normal' again?
What is the right direction for me?
What's important to me? What do I want to make time for?
How can I create what I want?

Later, she talks about moving into the reintegration phase but sometimes slipping back into liminality (and this is the bit that helped me.) She says:

Now when I am in liminality I remind myself to feel excited, rather than scared, as I know that I am likely to bring to consciousness another part of my Self. My reward is a more complete feeling of Self.

...in other words, all that disorientation probably means that you are making progress towards something better, stronger and on firmer ground.

I've highlighted the bits that really struck me. I'd also use a different metaphor. My feeling is more one of being kicked off the sunny path through the forest, full of bustling, noisy families and golden people and left with a dark and scary path through the wild wood, with no idea of where it's going. The thing that Robyn tells us is that that thorny path could well be leading to a wonderful sunlit glade, with deer and fluffy rabbits, and that we would never have got to that sunlit spot if we hadn't taken that dark and thorny road. Onwards and upwards people!

Making The Cat Laugh

2008-05-09T16:41:00.000-07:00

When I first realised that I was not just widowed, but that I now qualified as single again, I thought I'd better brush up on what it meant to be single these days. So when I found Making the Cat Laugh - one woman's journal of single life on the margins by Lynne Truss on the shelves of my local Waterstones, I grabbed it and headed to the nearest cafe straight away.

Five minutes later I was laughing like a drain and thinking there might be hope for me after all. Here are a couple of quotes:

One of the more difficult things to accept about being newly single is that there is no one to strike chore-bargains with. You know the sort of thing: 'If you do the breakfast, I'll take the bin out'; 'I'll get the milk, you get the papers.' Make such fair's-fair suggestions to the cat, I find, and it will just look preoccupied, and suddenly remember an urgent appointment outside.

Looking on the bright side, however, there is great consolation in the knowledge that the Mr Nobody who takes out the bin is also the Mr Nobody who moves things around so that you can't find them. Take the TV remote control, for example. In my old co-habiting days, how many times did I search frantically among sofa cushions for it, knowing in my heavy heart that it was probably travelling anti-clockwise on the M25 by now, snug in a coat pocket on the back seat of the boyfriend's car? Living alone, then, it is no wonder you rejoice that things remain precisely where you left them. You feel a great warmth inside on the day you realize that if you haven't finished the marmalade, there is still some marmalade left. The only interference I have experienced since living alone was when I emerged from the bath one day to discover the word 'trhjwqxz' on my otherwise blank word-processor screen. I gulped, and stood stock still for a minute, feeling the pulse race in my neck. And then I realized that a cat had made a dash across the keyboard.

And this is the one that made me nearly fall off my chair. A male friend had dropped into conversation that she reminded him of the Michelle Pfeiffer character in Batman Returns. She was extremely chuffed until she saw the film and realized that he meant the Michelle Pfeiffer frumpy librarian before she becomes Catwoman:

No wonder Selina escapes this paltry existence by assuming the identity of Catwoman ('I am Catwoman, hear me roar'). The only problem is that, before it can happen, she must suffer a brutal death from defenestration - which gives pause to all the would-be Catwomen in the audience who are fed up shouting 'Honey I'm home' to an empty flat. I mean, is it worth chucking yourself off the Shell building on the remote chance it might turn you into Catwoman? I'm still weighing it up.

But if it boils down to clothes, I am sunk. You see, in order to become Catwoman it is important that you can rummage in your wardrobe for an old patent-leather coat; you then rip its seams and magically re-fashion it into the appropriate figure-hugging costume. Imagine your disappointment, then, if having flung yourself from a high roof (and become a glassy-eyed un-dead) you opened your closet, snapping your expectant pinking shears, to find only a brown calf-length fun-fur, with no patent leather in sight. You would have to become Teddywoman instead, and it would not be the same. 'I am Teddywoman, hear me not make any aggressive noise', you would say lamely, as you sat with your arms out in front of you, unable to bend your elbows.

Fab stuff.

Not Doing What It Says On The Tin

2008-05-09T16:27:00.000-07:00

Hi all

I haven't blogged much here this week - I've been far too fed up, which isn't much use in a blog that's supposed to be supportive and inspiring, is it? It reminds me of a funny (and true) exchange I had a few years ago when I was looking for some support.

My first winter up here in the chilly north was a real culture shock, and I suffered badly for the first time from Seasonal Affective Disorder. I found on the internet that there was a local support group for sufferers and phoned the local organiser to find out about events and meetings, only to be told that he, the organiser, was a bit down just now and that he might organise something when he felt a bit better!

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I decided to laugh, and found, not for the last time in my life, that support networks sometimes have bloody great big holes in them.

Squish And Release

2008-05-08T02:03:00.000-07:00

Morning all!

Thought I'd share with you the latest armament in my battle against the demons of middle-age angst - isn't he jolly?

I was buying t-shirts (seeing as it looks like summer might be coming this year after all) when I saw a tub full of these stress balls near the till. Feeling particularly stressed as it was Monday morning and the first coach load of tourists had already disgorged grannies from the North of England onto the streets of Inverness to wreak havoc, I had to have one.

He's been my faithful companion ever since. I love his cheery little face and his determined message - life is good (say it often enough and you will believe it.)
I squish him when I'm angry and throw him up and down when I'm happy, so if nothing else I'm exercising my arm.

You can check out the company and especially their cheery t-shirts here.

Maw Not Yaw

2008-05-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

So, why is this blog all about being middle-aged and widowed? Well, as I looked around for support groups when my husband died, the ones I found all seemed to be aimed at those widowed young. Luckily for me, I just about qualified as young, so I was able to use three excellent sites: The WAY Foundation - aimed at the Widowed And Young, Merry Widow, originally aimed at the young widowed, though now claiming to be for everyone, and YWBB - Young Widow Bulletin Board. But it struck me as unfair and a bit mean to exclude the older widowed, either actively, by the membership rules, or in more subtle ways.

I fell, as I so often seem to do, between the categories. I was classified as young when the Golfer died, but my family had left home, so I had little in common with the young mums on the message boards. More than that though, I felt that somehow older widows and widowers were being told - well, you've had your life - you should think yourself lucky. And of course, that is true, to an extent. It's one of the many glib truths we all say to ourselves, if not to the people concerned.

But have you thought about what that actually means? I didn't, until I experienced widowhood myself, and wondered what it must be like for people older than myself, unlikely to have time to 'make a new life for themselves', as we are constantly being exhorted to do. You may, like me, have been in a very longterm relationship (married 24 years, together since we were 18), or you may have been on a second or third marriage. It doesn't really matter. The difficulty for the older widowed person is that, in a way, your life is over. Your children, if you had them, have left home and are making their own lives. You may be retired, or you may have been deep in retirement plans with your spouse. It is not only hard to start over again when you are older, you actually can't start over in the important things - you've had your family, you've had your career. I think this makes being widowed after your mid-forties hard in ways that are quite different from the challenges of being widowed young.

For another thing, you probably don't have parents around for support. That was, and still is, one of the most difficult things for me. My parents have been dead for ten years, my in-laws are dead, there is no-one to lean on.

One of the other problems of a long marriage (it certainly was in my case) is that you haven't spent a lot of time cultivating your own friendships. You may have married couples as friends but they melt away like snow in Spring when you are alone, as if being widowed might be contagious. Can't blame anyone for that of course - it's my own fault that I didn't keep up my own friendships - but that doesn't alter the situation one finds oneself in.

So if your husband, wife or partner dies after the age of 45 or so, you can find yourself more alone than you have ever been in your life, and with no obvious way of making things better. That is why this blog is dedicated to older people who find themselves unwillingly alone. I hope lots of you will comment on and add to my stories and experience here. Maybe we can help and inspire others out there as lonely as me!

Dating (or not)

2008-05-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

When you've been widowed you do, after a time, and rather to your amazement, begin to think about dating again. Some people seem to get back on the horse, so to speak, quite quickly. Bereavement, like the relationship it comes from, is complex and although the general experience might tend to follow a certain course, the detail of each person's grief process is as unique as the marriage they were once part of.

So when I write here about getting used to being a middle-aged singleton, I am writing from my one unique perspective. I know other people have a very different tale to tell - because they are older or younger than I am, because they were newly married or married for forty years, because they were in a happy or an unhappy marriage.

For the first eighteen months or so after the Golfer died, I was not the slightest bit interested in getting hooked up with another man, for a variety of reasons, not all of them commendable.

I felt tremendous guilt for surviving and it would have felt disloyal even to think about "replacing" him.

For that first year and a half, it felt as though he had just gone on a particularly long business trip. I still felt married to him, so the question of finding another man did not occur to me.

I felt as if I had had my 'go' at marriage. The fact that it was over at the age of 47 was tough but I just had to accept it. (I think this might be a difference between being divorced and being widowed - when a marriage ends in divorce I think it might feel as if the marriage got broken and so there is more of an inclination to go out and have another go. Anyone agree with this?)

And now for the guilty secret - I found, even in the early days, moments of delight in the freedom I now had. No more need to check before I moved the furniture round, I could eat when and what I wanted, get up and go to bed when I fancied. Blissfully happy through most of our marriage, in the later years things had started to go downhill and we had found ourselves bickering over the smallest domestic trivia. The release from that was a guilty pleasure, and when I did begin to realise that there might be life after the Golfer, I was damned if I was going to give up all these new freedoms just as I had found them. Unattractive isn't it? But true.

So now, getting on for three years after his death, I pretty much accept and believe that he is dead, and I find myself hankering (sometimes) to have a close and symbiotic relationship again in my life (assuming you don't count the one I have with my dog.) It's hard to be single for the first time in your life, approaching fifty. So far I have been far too cowardly to do anything more than skulk on the internet dating sites - and a very scary experience that is too. But I'm in a quandary, because I really, really, do not want to give up the control I have over my life, and I'm not sure there is a man out there who is capable of dealing with that.

Sartre Says...

2008-04-29T02:23:00.000-07:00

While browsing wise quotes for my Monday Bit of Wisdom spot on another blog of mine, The View From the Pond, I came across this one from Jean-Paul Sartre, and thought it would do nicely for here:

"If you are lonely when you're alone, you are in bad company."

I think that's a good target for anyone who finds themselves having to get used to being alone after sharing their lives with someone for a long time - to be content in one's own company.

Samaritans - Not Just For Suicide

2008-04-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

By the way, I must recommend the Samaritans. I've called them twice since the Golfer died - most embarrassed the first time, as I am used to coping on my own. Also, I had assumed that they were there just for people thinking of killing themselves and, at least the first time I called, I wasn't near that stage, I was just desperately lonely.

But I had seen a leaflet in my local supermarket, aimed at farmers who might be feeling isolated, and it struck me then that the Samaritans weren't just for the suicidal. I kept that at the back of my mind and, when a few months later I got really desperate to talk to someone, I called.

There's a quote from a caller on their website:

"There's very few places you can go to in the world where you can pick up a telephone and another human being, no matter why they're doing it, will listen to you unconditionally. If you want to pour out in a phonecall, they will listen for hours, for as long as you need them to."

Samaritans caller

- that sums up how I feel about the Samaritans. I've used them twice, I don't know if I'll ever need to use them again, but it is comforting to know that there will be a friendly ear at the other end of the phone if I do feel lonely, isolated or suicidal in the future.

Getting Used To It

2008-04-27T10:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's time for another Puddock ramble. I'm still not sure which direction this blog is going to head in, so forgive me if I plunge one way, then change my mind in a week or two.

I've had a pretty good week. Widowed now for more than two and a half years, I find that I am definitely through the grief process. How do I define that? Well, in my experience at least, I knew I was through it when I became comfortable with myself as a single unit, instead of as part of a couple.

I reached this point by way of baby steps, and the occasional grazed knee. In fact, it's been after some of my worst moments that I have really begun to make progress - it really has been a case of 'always darkest before the dawn'. January 1st was a horrendous day for me - a drain-centred domestic crisis, with no-one to call on as all my friends were off doing nice normal family things with their nice normal families, being in the midst of a dark and gloomy winter, and the feeling that things were never going to get any better, had me calling the Samaritans after really beginning to think that suicide might become an option for me.

After talking myself out for half an hour, I felt a bit better, and found I had regained some of my old resilience and defiance. I got the big gloves on, screwed up the drain rods, and set to work on my drains again - this time not thinking poor little me (well - a bit) but instead - brave, clever me and stuff the rest of the world. I still had to get the professionals in the next day but I was so proud of myself for attempting the job myself. No-one could take that away from me. Ever since that low point, life has been steadily improving. And somewhere along the line, I stopped feeling like a wife left to cope while her husband was away on some (extremely) long business trip and began to feel like my own person. There is nothing like being up to your elbows in shit (literally) for giving you credibility as a real, genuine grown-up.

With that new-found self-belief, I began to really believe that I had a right to exist. I began to stand up for myself. And I stopped feeling guilty for being alive, when my lovely husband was dead.

So now, three months on, how am I doing? I still get depressed from time to time - sometimes unexpectedly and inexplicably. I still think about the pain of the Golfer's illness and his anger at dying before he was ready, but it doesn't crack me up the way it used to. And at last, after thirty years of being entwined with another human being, I feel that I am standing straight on my own - I am going to be okay.

Old Lady Bites Back

2008-04-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

This blog isn't going to be all gloom and despondency about living alone and getting older - oh no! Every so often (or maybe very often) there will be inspiring and sustaining posts like this one. Here is my first Rosehip or Prune heroine, courtesy of Archie's Archive- watch and enjoy:

Borg, alone

2008-04-16T01:56:00.000-07:00

It's two and a half years since my husband died and I've done a lot of growing in that time. I hope in this blog both to describe my experience of the process of getting through the grief process and also the baffling (and sometimes hilarious) experience of being single in middle-age. Hmm - awkward balance, that. But then so is life. I'm hoping that loads of people in similar positions will comment and add their experience to the blog. It's always good to know that you aren't alone when you discover that you have forgotten where the stop cock is (surely you used to know. It can't be in that many places. Where the hell is it?, you yell, as water gushes from that burst pipe), or that you have absolutely no idea how to get a date, never mind how to behave on one, you've been out of practice for so many years.

So I thought today I'd kick off with a simple thing. As I was packing up my bottles and paper to take to the recycling depot this morning, I remembered that doing this chore was an event worthy of a diary entry and a big gold star in the first months after the Golfer (my late husband) died. Seems daft now, and the job is (almost) routine now, but I wondered why I could possibly have found it challenging in the early days.

I think I've figured it out. When he was still alive, whenever I did a job like that - filling up the car with petrol, doing the recycling, going on a long journey - simple, routine things, I always knew that if anything went wrong - if I got to the garage and I had forgotten my purse, if I leaned too far and fell into the recycling bin, if a got a flat tyre - then he, the wonderful man, would be there to get me out of my pickle (or my recycling bin.) That is why the smallest, most trivial task becomes a worry and a trial once you are widowed (or divorced, I guess) - there is no longer anyone there to pick you up if you fall on your face.

And that is one of the biggest and most fundamental tasks of the grief process - learning to survive being separated from the entity that was you-and-your-husband. I felt like Seven of Nine (though without the skintight suit) separated from the Borg. It is hard

Rosehip or prune?

2008-04-14T02:01:00.000-07:00

The title of the blog was inspired by something I read a few years ago in a book for older women, in which the author, to make us feel good about ourselves as we age, said that if young women were rosbuds, then women in their middle age should see themselves as beautiful rosehips. I rather liked that analogy. It stuck with me, and I am desperately trying to ignore the wrinkles and see the rosehip that I truly am. But sometimes I feel more like a prune...

Surviving alone?

2008-04-14T01:34:00.000-07:00

This is a blog dedicated to those of us trying to make sense of lives changed by death or divorce, especially those of us who are in our forties or older. It came about from my own experience of being widowed at 47, in the same month that my only child left home to go to University. It has been difficult - still is - to find a new purpose to my life.

I've been blogging - The View From the Pond, where I muse about living in an existentialist Universe and Two and a Half Acres, where I blog about the nature around me here in the Highlands of Scotland - for nine months and have met many people in the same boat as I am - widowed or divorced, middle-aged, and trying really hard to get on with their lives. Our experiences filter through into our posts on other topics and I thought it would be nice to have a dedicated blog for us to share our problems and our good news, our fears, frustrations and hopes.