sadness

Sadness sweeps

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Sadness has swept me away today. 

You know that kind of helpless, frustrating, enraging sadness that cuts deep through every layer of you? 

The kind of sadness that hits that secret place deep inside, a place you thought would always be hidden, a place no one would dare enter, least not without feeling your Roth!  

The sacred place where you tenderly but firmly hold the hearts of your nearest and dearest. Every instinct in you gripping them tight like your life depends on it. You hold them close, those beautiful hearts, wrapped in love, in laughter. All the memories you shared along the way now just life lessons- experiences from which we have grown. 

Over the years, as you own heart hurts and heals again, you strengthen the barriers around that sacred place to enforce the shield that will keep your precious cargo safe from harm. You simply won’t allow anyone to feel like you did, so you give all you have then a bit more, in the hope that anguish passes right by.

But despite your best effort,when least expected pain hits. And it hits hard. 

In that moment. That fucking helpless-out of control-angry at life moment, in which all you can do is hold them close, whilst silently praying that as you wrap your arms around, and squeeze their shuddering shoulders tight that it might, it just might be enough to hold all their broken pieces together- if even for just one more day! 

The realisation hits, your prayer was made in vain. You hold them close, tighter still, pull them in to you; squirrelling them away into your sacred place… but It’s too late. 

Your collar is wet from the rolling tears of despair. You intake a sharp breath, it’s all you can do to contain your own boiling emotions, as the deafening sound you tried so hard to never, ever hear, creeps through the cries. The sound of heartbreak. 

Fuck! So helpless! 

No words make it better. No jokes will bring a smile. So you just hold her. Stroke her hair. And show her the love she deserves. A soft kiss on the head. Another tissue. Hugs of plenty. 

But the pain rages on. 

There’s is nothing. Not one thing that you can do to save her from this moment. 

The sadness sweeps on. 

X

Sad times

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Today I’m writing from a deck chair in my back garden. The sun is bursting the sky. O is out with his friends and the baby is fast asleep. You would be forgiven for thinking that right about now life sounds good.

Sadly that is not the case. For the past two weeks my heart has been heavy. Sad. Broken. Yet strangely calm. 

I have put off writing this post for days now in fear that I wouldn’t find the words to say what I truly feel. Yet, I also cannot let this time past unnoticed. Unrecognised. So here it is. 

On Monday May 16th, whilst sat in London at a conference with work I received a message from my mother that shattered my life as I know it. My darling Nanna who has been sick in hospital since Christmas wasn’t expected to last the night. 

My gasp at seeing this news combined with my instantaneously welling eyes, alerted my boss that something was wrong. I showed the message to him and was immediately bundled out of the room and sent home. Once outside and away from the curious eyes of the other participants I broke into uncontrolled sobs. 

I had to see her. I had to say goodbye. To tell her “I love you”. 

The train ride home, looking back now was a bit of a blur. I just recall checking my phone a million times dreading another message saying she had gone. That I was too late. She would never know!! 

Thankfully that message never came. 

Nothing ever prepares one to say goodbye; no pain felt before, no matter how hard you think you’ve had it previously, no matter how old or experienced. It’s horrible. Truly, madly stomach turning horrible. 

She looked so tiny, so frail. Half the magnificent woman I knew her to be. Gaunt and still. Try as she might to talk to us her body just wouldn’t comply. And her words were silent. 

I mustered everything inside of me to fight back the tears from forming but they were rebellious in their escape. My efforts were wasted. We sat. All of us. Aunties, uncles, cousins, grandchildren and mum, trying to be calm, to not scare her. No idea between us if she knew what was ahead. If she had any level of comprehension of the hand she had been dealt. That soon she and my granddad would be reunited in eternal peace. 

The feeling was somber but I don’t think I would be wrong to say that it was somewhat conflicted. We we watching her suffer more and more every day, and had been for such a long time. Her mind active but body weak. Her frustration growing daily at her inability to jump outa bed and just get on with life. Her pain and suffering literally shrinking her before our very eyes. No one wanted her to go, but we also knew that she didn’t want this. Such a lively woman, sharp, whitty, independent, proud. She was also (god awful) stubborn and always right (even when so wrong)! But that was who she was and we loved her despite it. Now here she was almost lifeless before us. We hoped for her that the suffering would end soon. But feeling like that is so hard when you selfishly don’t want them to go.

In her typical way, she had other ideas. She clung on for 6 more agonising days, finally passing peacefully in her sleep on Saturday May 21st.

I had been to see her that morning. I sat holding her hand and watched as she slept. When it was time to go, as I had done each time I had left her side the days before, I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. Not knowing if it would be the last time. So as I gave her a soft but lingering kiss on the forehead I said “Goodnight, God bless. I love you” and each time without fail the tears would form as I glanced behind me before my exit.

I hadn’t been home long when the call came. I saw “mum” appear on my phone and I knew. I sat to answer. She was gone. I literally broke. Right there and then the flood gates opened. Even now writing this my eyes are streaming recalling that moment. 

So now I sit today in my garden two weeks on, waiting to visit her in the chapel of rest before she is laid to ground on Thursday. 

The time has passed so slowly since. In an odd way life moves on. Things seem normal and then there are moments when it hits me all over again. She’s gone. Never again will she share stories of me as a toddler waving around her priceless Royal Albert dinner service. Or the time I got my granddad drunk on 2 hot toddies. Never again will I jump from sitting on her finger whilst she rolls around in hysterics laughing- (that one never got old for her)! 

There were so, so many great times we shared, and too many tears along the way. But regardless of the situation she was, and always will be a formidable woman. A force to be reckoned with. A trait that I hope to have inherited from her. 

But now she sleeps. 

To my Nanna always and forever my inspiration, I will love you with every breath in me. 

Rest in peace my darling X

Sunday Mornings

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Our churchToday I’m in a funk. Actually I’ve been in this funk for a few days now. Maybe it’s just the time of year, dark gloomy weather combined with the memories of the past Christmas, my first alone in oh, such a long time. My first with Albert. Or possibly it’s just sheer exhaustion gained from a gregarious baby who is simply refusing to sleep! Either way I’m feeling low.

I shouldn’t really be sad, I mean I sit here today cosy in my warm home, the wind blowing a gale outside my window. Albert’s snuggled in under my chin watching Christmas movies both of us in our pj’s and Oliver still in bed… He is a teenager after all. What could be better?

Well it’s Sunday morning. Which for as long as I can remember was my time. Prior to our moved to DE “he” would take Oli out for an adventure and give me an extra hour or two in bed. Bliss! We playfully called it “daddily duddly” time! The “adventure” itself may have only been going for a hair cut or a trip to the supermarket but let’s face it, time alone with daddy to a little boy is always exciting.

Oli loved their mornings together. On their return he would babble away about the games they played whilst driving; who won at eye spy and that daddy cheated, as always! Him beaming at his happy boy and the fun they had. A proud daddy for sure! Me happy with the love in my home. Life was good!

Then we moved to DE and the ritual of me time continued. The only difference being without the sleep. I would potter on in to town to meet my ladies. Two amazing ladies might I add!

Sunday morning breakfast became our church. We complained about the kids, the husbands, the other mum’s, chevron stripes, work etc but we always laughed. God we laughed! Especially when it came to ordering (in our broken German) which often went something like this…
“drei Omelettes mit Schinken und Käse bitte”
“drei?”
“Ja.”
“mit Schinken und Käse?”
“Ja!!!”
“Omelettes?”
“JA!”

Her-Huffs gets stress, cannot understand three women ordering three breakfasts.

Us- roll eyes, giggle- why doesn’t she get this? Every week it’s the same ritual?? Seriously even our German isn’t that bad!

During the summer we would sit outside basking in the sun for way too long; batting off calls from the kids fighting back home, or texts from the hubby asking where we put whatever unimportant object he couldn’t find, because it’s not right under his nose.
We would plan our next outing – generally a beer festival of some kind, or just a good old drinking session! During the winter we moved inside drowning in layer upon layer of German winter protection!

We would reminisce of times past, friends absent – still missed, but we always laughed. Regardless of the seriousness of the topic of the day these ladies knew just how to take any situation and take the piss. Even surviving cancer didn’t escape our gentle teasing!

On the occasions my ladies and I didn’t meet, “he”, Oli and I would do something together. Go to a flomarkt, visit a new town, go for a bike ride or simply go for breakfast together in one of the hundreds of cafes on our doorstep. It was great family time. Once again I felt so blessed for the joy and love in my home. Life in my eyes couldn’t have been better. Clearly he and I were not on the same page…he took advantage of my “me time” to get some “him” time  and the second I left the house he dashed off to shag his slutty mistress of the day!

After “D day” breakfast with my bitches continued but now we had a new team member in Albert!
Loved and pamper by my girls the poor kid was swapped between them a million times during those few hours together.
The laughing had slowed as they listened sympathetically to whatever new piece of information I had to share on the state of my once happy life and marriage. Even after weeks and months of story’s of his disgraceful behaviour they still sat and listened to my endless whining. Always offering support, words of love, of strength.
Often shocked at the new revelation but yet not surprised. Even back then, with the little we knew of exactly what he had been doing, we wouldn’t have put anything past him. He was capable of anything! And has proven as such a million times over.

Those breakfasts were my sanctuary, my safety, my sanity! And today they are still so precious to me, so much so, as I sit here today I miss it so much it hurts.

God bless you ladies and the memories you’ve given me. I hope and pray that this Devine universe will one day give us all Sunday morning breakfast together once again!

xxx

Praying for Paris

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Praying for parisI woke this morning to the terrible devastating news of what a tragic place our world has become.

Paris, the city of love has yet again become the target of some very small minded and evil souls.

Mass murder – nothing less than slaughter of innocent people… And all for what??
Religion?
Greed?
Politics?

Children will wake to the news their parents won’t be home for dinner, mothers and fathers will rise from slumber only to bury their children. So so sad.

Today I will smile at my babas giggles. I will squeeze Oli that bit tighter and I will thank god for all I have and hold dear whilst sending prayers to Paris x

Hurting Heart

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06.59am, Sunday morning. A simple Sunday morning just like every other. The sun is just peeking through the crack of my cheap velour Ikea curtains. Through the damp haze which blurs the usually sharp outline I can tell there is a chill in the air. The kind of chill that signals the start of September, a change is a foot.

Yet today I don’t welcome the morning. I feel heavy. So, so heavy. I glance across at my Albie. My beautiful precious baby boy. He’s still. Not his usual babbling self, climbing and grabbing at me in an effort to wake me from my blissful slumber. He feels the weight. The pressure of the day that is to come. He lies still, watching me. His ever evolving eyes bearing deep inside me. Eyes that have so much soul, so deep for a baby not yet 12 months old, too deep for one so young.

Our eyes connect and I feel his sadness, my sadness reflected. My glance is distracted by a black mark on the silk pillow. The evidence of what transpired last night. The mark of my turmoil. The stains of my tears leaving a physical mark for all to see, unlike the ones hidden; buried deep inside me, locked away for eternity. Those tears, all those heavy heartfelt tears, the tears I cried for him and his betrayal. The tears I cried for a love lost, a life forgotten and memories never made. Now stained, no – tattooed deep on to my core. But these tear stains are not for him. I won’t cry any more tears for him. I can’t.

Those stains were made crying for another heart, a hurting heart, an angry heart. The broken heart of my innocent Oliver. Too old to be sheltered too young to understand, nevertheless he feels the pain, the grief, he mourns a life that will never be. All those emotions too complicated to express a vocab not yet mature enough to articulate the complexities of thoughts rolling around his mind. As if puberty wasn’t enough to handle he now has a whole new life to navigate. A life he didn’t ask for, a life he doesn’t want, but yet this is the life he has.

So it’s not surprising, I guess, that today I wake to the aftermath of his wroth. An anger derived from hurt, a burden carried for so long that it finally exploded like a disturbed volcano. Molten larva sprayed all over me, yet I’m frozen to the spot. All I can do is watch as my freckled-face boy breaks his heart. His tears gushing like burst dams down his face. Teeth clenched and fists balled as his shouts and screams that this is all my fault. I’m ruining his life. I’ve ruined his life!! After all I married that man, so by default I did this, I caused it. I’m the root of his turmoil.

In the heat of the moment, the rawness of emotion over comes me and so we stand, fighting fire with fire. Words are spoken, words that will never be forgotten, words that can never be undone. Another line in the tattoo permanently left deep on the soul. This time his soul. An innocent soul. The real victim in all this.

He goads me to hit him as I stand holding Albie, his physical touch shocks me. Shoving me and pushing me, a sight I thought I would never see. That’s not him. That’s not my sweet gentle boy. I’m scared, angry and ashamed. Ashamed that I failed him. I failed him on every level. I failed to teach him how to express himself without violence, I failed to teach him right from wrong, I failed to make him feel safe. Surely  that’s every basic human’s right.; to feel safe? To know you’re loved? Yet standing here right now reflecting on what has been, I know he doesn’t. He feels let down, disappointed in me. The one person in the world a boy should be able to rely on is his mother. I failed to protect him from the harsh reality of life, from the cruelness this world has to offer.

Eventually we go to our corners, him crying in his solitude, me in mine. I can’t stand it. The echo of his sobs consume the house. A house not yet a home. Sure it has our “stuff” in it. But there’s no joy – no laughter -no memories to recall in times of need. Only sadness and fear fills this house.

Despite my anger, my tears, I go to him. To my baby boy. I hold him. I make him feel my love. He doesn’t want it. I feel his resistance, his defences are up. He bristles as I touch him. But I am stronger in my embrace. Eventually he weakens and he holds me back. It’s a small gesture. It’s my apology it’s my silent way of saying, “I’ll do better tomorrow”. ” I’ll try again to steal away your pain”. Then to sleep.

Now here, in the mist of daybreak I’ll collect myself. Try to gather some strength, some words of comfort, someway to heal the wounds of a mindless senseless war in which my child is the victim and I pray for peace. Not quiet peace but peace of mind for my baby boy. My boo.

Until then I will carry your hurting heart. x