Time at ten

Time. In the beginning, it felt like it didn't exist. I had no sense of it whatsoever. Nothing meaningful to mark the passing of it. Those usual markers of mealtimes, day, night, none of them existed for me. Even what happened during those first impossible days is forgotten, like those things didn't exist either. Nothing mattered to me except that you were gone, and that was something I just couldn't comprehend, wouldn't accept. It wasn't true.

Gradually time re-emerged, as if through a dense fog. Only now it moved at snail's pace. Minutes took hours to pass, hours days, days weeks. I tolerated time, but it brought me no pleasure, as each second that passed carried me, involuntarily, further away from you. I dug my heels in and resisted that, clinging desperately to the hope that I could reverse time and go back to when you were there, when everything was normal, before this horror began.

Then, at some undefined point, I must have got back onto 'normal' time. I marked your one year anniversary (how could that be?). Then two and three and now, somehow, here we are at ten. Ten FFS. That's a whole decade. Almost a quarter of my life.

Time has moved on but oh, you are so missed. By so many. And you are remembered, talked about, loved, as - for as long as I'm alive at least - you always will be. Thanks for the memories, oh those memories! Thanks for teaching me (in the hardest possible way) that life is there to be lived. Thanks for making me the happy person I am today, loved once again by someone you'd approve of wholeheartedly I'm sure. Thanks for being the amazing, interesting person you were (ten years on and I'm still clearing the loft of your random stuff - didgeridoo anyone?! - you bugger!). Rest in peace my darling Tim, you really were one in a million. Here's to you!

Another thing to add to the list of things I never dreamt I'd be doing by 38

Sitting on my husband's death bed - literally, saying my painful goodbyes to him at the hospital and later at the funeral home, arranging and attending my poor 33-year-old husband's funeral, going to his inquest, attending a probate court and now, finally, commissioning a headstone. All things that appear on my list of impossible, incomprehensible, won't happen to us/me, couldn't cope even if it did happen, list of things I never ever dreamt I'd be doing by the age of 38 (just!).

The headstone has been challenging. It's been on my list of things to do for years. Almost six in fact. I beat myself up about that for a while. But accepted that I had to do it when I was ready. During that time I've done lots of thinking, had some life coaching to help with that thinking, sought advice and opinion from family and friends, done some headstone research (how odd it is to write that), stalled, delayed, procrastinated and now finally feel ready to do this.

Life coaching helped me acknowledge that I wanted T's headstone to be a tribute to the beautiful, amazing, incredible, loving, caring man who was my husband. A carefully-crafted stone proudly bearing his name and commemorating his life for all who visit to see. A reflection of the love I will always have for him, and a lasting tribute to the life of this son, brother, uncle, son-in-law, brother-in-law, colleague, friend, lover and husband who touched the lives of many. His grave is a small physical space for someone who left such a big gaping hole in the lives of the people who loved him, so the headstone needs to symbolise that love to the outside world. It needs to reflect T's strength of character and it needs to stand proud against the elements, watching over him when I can't be there to do so, which is often.

I have settled on using Lakeland slate, mainly because of T's connection to the Lakes. I introduced him to the Lake District in 1998 - a 21st birthday present - and he fell in love with the place. We returned several times in the intervening years and it's also where he chose to propose to me back in 2005. Definitely a special place for both of us. And I've chosen to commission a stonemason to craft T's headstone; a talented artist who is dedicated to his craft. I visited his workshop to see and touch his work, which was really important to me, and I know he's the right person for this job. Between us we'll do T proud and that makes me feel good.

I know there are still Headstone Hurdles ahead of me. I know that seeing the final stone - first in the workshop then at T's grave - will make it all very permanent and real and bring everything flooding back. (How how how can my gorgeous, young husband be in a grave right now, as I type in our flat, our home? How can that be? I need to go and get him out of there, bring him home, pick up where we left off...) But I also know that from then on, whenever I visit T's grave, I'll see a physical tribute to the person who was T and all he represented and I'll be proud. Happy and sad all at once, but proud of my beloved husband.

Beautiful Ruins

A quick post as I want to record some quotes from a recent book I read. More for my musings I guess, but thought this was as good a place as any to log them:

She tossed her hair back. "I've been thinking about how people sit around for years waiting for their lives to begin, right? Like a movie. You know what I mean?… I know I felt that way. For years. It was as if I was a character in a movie and the real action was about to start at any minute. But I think some people wait forever, and only at the end of their lives do they realise that their life has happened while they were waiting for it to start."

- - - - - - -

"All we have is the story we tell. Everything we do, every decision we make, our strength, weakness, motivation, history, and character - what we believe - none of it is real; it's all part of the story we tell! But here's the thing: it's our goddamned story!"

- - - - - - -

There would seem to be nothing more obvious, 
more tangible and palpable that the present moment. 
And yet is eludes us completely.
All the sadness of life lies in that fact.
- Milan Kundera

All taken from Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter. A great book.

Roman Holiday

It's been brought to my attention that I haven't posted anything for ages. Something that I'm very aware of, but when I'm working I find blogging difficult on two counts. One is that my working life is mundane, I just don't feel the inclination to post anything - what would I even say? The second is that I lack time, and when I'm not feeling it, the posts take even longer to write. But anyway, given that I'm currently in Rome, neither of those excuses wash. So this goes out to you Lukester - with thanks for still checking in and for chasing a post xx

Given I spend half my life in Italy, it's actually a sacrilege that I've not been to Rome before now, but here I am on my first ever Roman Holiday. (Pretty shit that I've not seen the film either, come to mention it). I arrived yesterday and have had a couple of days on my own before my Italian and French friends arrive tomorrow and we're here until Sunday, so just under a week for me in this stunning city.

Rome isn't what I was expecting. It's much smaller - I've walked everywhere so far. And way more beautiful. I was expecting the history and the architecture but I was also expecting to have to put up with some less pleasant parts, like any big city, but it's not like that. It's like one big museum. It feels safe and full of tourists - like really full, by the orange-cap, audio-guide-wearing groupful. And there's historic monuments on every corner, including Roman ruins. That's Roman. And not just a bit of wall here and there. I'm talking pillars and foundations and proper intact stuff. You become a bit blasé about them after a while. Except the ruined temple that was built in the third century BC that is now a flippin' cat sanctuary - that got my attention!

The Trevi fountain is amazing - the scale of it, in a relatively small piazza, is incredible. The simplicity of the Pantheon is beautiful. And the fact it was built by Hadrian gets it instant kudos with this Northumbrian. The pristine whiteness of the Vatican against the bluest of skies this morning was stunning. I could go on and on… And the city is so green too. There's lots of trees and parks and a big wide brown river. I'm not sure why it's brown - I need to Google that. 

I've been disappointed by the food to date. I wonder if there's a correlation with the high proportion of tourists? I had an average pizza in an average restaurant last night, then tonight I sent my fish back twice as it was uncooked in the middle and I then refused to eat the mashed up, reheated, dry effort they brought me on the third try. I just paid for the wine and walked. Serves me right for not just going cheap and cheerful maybe. Given how much I love my food and how much I connect food with location, I was really disappointed. Not to mention the thought that goes into choosing where I eat when dining solo. But hey ho.

After agonising over which hotel to book, I'm really pleased I chose the one I did. It's more like a boutique B&B. The staff are super friendly, it's clean and modern and there's fresh flowers in my room - which is a lovely touch. It's really near Piazza Navona and has proved a great base for all the sights. And one of my favourite parts of the city so far is right on my doorstep - the little 'vicoli' or small streets that wind their way towards the river. Today I abandoned my guide book and just wandered and it was liberating and quiet and relatively tourist-free. Such a contrast to my sit at the Trevi fountain where I lost count of the number of photos I was asked to take.

While waiting for fish attempt number two or three to appear at dinner tonight, I had that realisation that I eventually get in most places I go to about why I'm actually here, and here on my own at that. I sent up a silent thanks to T who, through his death, has given me all of these opportunities - these places and friends and sights and sounds. The things that all add up to make my life as amazing as it is. I'm grateful and lucky and right now, I'm very happy. To be here in Rome, even alone. But knowing that this time tomorrow I'll be surrounded by laughter and love and food and drink and the prospect of four sunny, fun-filled days ahead of us. And I guess although I'm not particularly happy that I've got sucked back into the work vortex (just over a year in the same job - say it quick, it's the only way), work does make these holiday times even more special. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend a Tuesday than the day I've had today, raw fish included.

Three years a wife. Four years a widow.

It struck me this week that I've been widowed longer than I was married. That's a bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it I must. I will always wish things had worked out differently for me. And for poor T. Especially for T. But this is my lot and I have to suck it up. I've said it before but I'll say it again; I wish T could come back now. He's been gone for long enough. I've endured a lot. It would be so nice if he could reappear and we could pick up where we left off, which would admittedly take time given the person I now am, but it would also be the best thing in the world. I just know it. But it can never happen. I can never see T again. Sometimes that hits me hard too. Even now.

But I know he'd be proud of me and where I've got to. I'm in a good place. I'm happy at work (dare I say it, although they recently offered me a permanent contract which made me baulk a bit!). I'm loving my Pilates and recently went on a Pilates retreat to Majorca. Yes, on my own. I loved every second of it. I'm also trying to get my head around having a new kitchen fitted - I'm getting a bit fed up of going to visit friends in mansions/houses they've built/places they've done up while I live in the same surroundings I've lived in for the past nine years; same second hand sofas, same cheapest Ikea furniture. But I need to bite the bullet and make some changes. On my own. That bit sucks. But again, it's my lot. Bugger all anyone can do about it. I can wallow and moan and groan. Or I can get on with living, which is what I always try to do.

Speaking of which, another mantra of mine is to live in the moment and not waste valuable time and energy worrying about things that may never happen. I try really hard at this but it's not always easy. Here's an example: I wanted to book time off over Christmas but when I checked the holiday calendar at work I discovered that the world and his wife had already booked those days off. I suspected therefore that my holiday request would be refused. I agonised about having this discussion with work for weeks. Weeks. Then I plucked up the courage to put my holiday request in and it was approved. Just like that. Pah!

4

Here we are; four years on. Time passed so slowly in the beginning. I didn't know how I'd get to tomorrow, nevermind next week, and next year was beyond the realms of comprehension. But here we are at four. And the first one I'll spend in the home we shared.

This time of year will always be hard. All the difficult, 'four years ago today' memories (which, right now would probably have had T Egyptian dancing across the hall while I was trying to blowdry my hair. Not something he'd ever done before in my presence, but something that made me laugh. And it's so important that that last memory is a happy, crazy one.).

I still think of T multiple times every single day. And miss him. And love him. And wish with every single ounce of me that he was still here. I still sometimes think I've seen T at the train station, in the supermarket, on the street - it's weird and kind of hard to explain. It's like an instinct thing I guess; when you're so used to seeking that familiar face out of crowds, it becomes a habit that's hard to kick. It's like my eyes react before my brain has had the chance to correct them. Then the other day I caught myself wondering if we'd moved to NYC, as T was rooting (apologies for the use of that word, Antipodeans) for at one point, whether T might still be here today. Like Sliding Doors. Except I'll never know how that parallel life might have worked out. Which is probably just as well.

While I think of him daily, I rarely dream of T. Unfortunately. I'd like him to star in my dreams more often. When I do, it tends to always be along the same lines of him coming back from somewhere. As a slight aside, I've been watching the brilliant and compelling first series of The Returned on Channel 4, which finished last night. It's about people who come back from the dead, but in a very real way. (Well, as real as that can ever be, and it gets much less real as the series progresses, but they're tangible.) That made me wonder what it would be like if T came back. Which is just crazy thinking, but interesting too.

It hasn't happened quite yet, but one thing about The Returned is that the dead came back at the age they were when they died. Which made me think that I'll always have photos of a 33-year old man up in my house. Even when I'm 90. T will never age. Like that other movie, whose name escapes me... Oh yeah: Forever Young :-)

The suddenness of T's death will always be difficult for me to accept. No warning, no time to prepare. One day there we were, living a normal (very much in inverted commas) life, the next T is lying in a hospital bed on a life support machine. We spend one final and very precious night 'together' (again in inverted commas), then he's wheeled away to have his ventilator turned off. See, even writing that feels surreal. Back to that feeling I've described before of, 'that can't have actually happened to me'. I don't know how I could survive that happening to T. But the weird thing is, I did.

And so, four years on also means a time for me to reflect on where I am on my journey - 4AT. I feel more self-assured, more confident in many respects, definitely sweat less of the small stuff, tolerate less shit, am comfortable in my own company, spend more time and money on my appearance than ever before and both appreciate and really try to live life to my max. That's not to say I do crazy shit the whole time. Sometimes that means going to Pilates several times a week. Sometimes that means whipping up a mean poached egg brunch. Sometimes it means basking in the sun. I have an amazing lifestyle - one which I need to be more accepting and appreciative of. And I'm lucky enough to have amazingly supportive family and friends who are there for me come rain or shine and help to keep me on the straight and narrow.

4AT also sees me reading a novel in Italian. Granted I don't understand every word, but I understand enough to get the gist and keep me turning the pages. I'm super pleased with my progress in Italian - just need to keep it up now I'm not spending quite as much time there. Having said that, I'm off to Italy soon to see everyone, swim in the sea (CANNOT WAIT!!) and go to one of the food festivals - sagre - that we went to last year, where we're guaranteed to eat exceptionally well, get rather merry and dance the night away. (Chri always tells me I need to remember two words whenever I'm out drinking, in any language: non merci, no grazie, nein danke, no thanks, no gracias... He says when I touch the stars (I think that's his expression) I need to use those two words and maintain that happy point, not descend past it, as is my wont. This time, however, Massimo has arranged for us to stay in the village where the sagra is being held, so Chri tells me that this is the only time none of us have to remember the two words. I'll be packing the milk thistle!)

Seemingly small things are also significant when I look back on how far I've come in four years. I recently did a reading at one of my good school friend's weddings. Big deal. Except it is a big deal when I think back to how just going to a wedding on my own used to be a challenge in those early days. So this time, I not only went to a wedding quite happily without a date, but I tottered down the aisle in my stilettos and did a reading in front of 130 guests. Boom!

Of course, my life isn't always rosy and exciting. I have chores and mundanity the same as the next person and the lows this year have been challenging to say the least, but I'm trying super hard to live in the moment and enjoy life and the various curveballs it throws at you. I recently read a great little book that I'd highly recommend, called 'Man's Search for Meaning' by Viktor Frankl. I like this quote, written in the Preface by Gordon W Allport:

"... to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. If there is a purpose in life at all, there must be a purpose in suffering and in dying. But no man can tell another what this purpose is. Each must find out for himself, and must accept the responsibility that his answer prescribes. If he succeeds he will grow in spite of all indignities."

That resonates with me at 4AT. Especially the growth bit.

RIP my gorgeous boy. I dedicate this post, and my life, to you.

And belatedly, part two...

After the hens' lunch we headed back to the farm and chilled out in the sunshine before a few of us set about filling jam jars with flowers. It was so nice getting to know close friends and family of the bride and groom and to be part of the preparations. It was also really good to be back on the farm with my NZ family again - I think I've said before I'm convinced Laura and I are related through our Scottish ancestors.

Being back in this place reminded me once again how much I've moved on in the past three years. After T's death I can remember being told that things would gradually improve with the passing of time. That things wouldn't always be so bleak, so colourless. That meant nothing at the time. Now I can see how true that is. It's imperceptible really, until you have something to measure it against. The me that arrived in NZ three years' ago was a broken, fragile, bewildered me - still reeling. Still grieving. Less a shadow of my former self; more a different person altogether. It felt good coming back. Remembering the past, acknowledging the journey I'm on, looking to the future with a happier, lighter heart.

One of my new friends, a super lovely friend of Laura's called Katie, and I stayed with some super lovely neighbours that night; an Irish lady called Margaret and her husband Chris. We were made to feel so incredibly welcome and at home in their home. Sharing a bed with Katie just a few short hours after meeting her helped cement our friendship. We woke up on the morning of the wedding to a slightly hazy day that held the promise of hot sun to come. After a cooked breakfast with our hosts, Katie and I headed over to the farm to lend a hand with the preparations. We hung pom-poms in the sheep shed, arranged flowers, set tables - whatever was required to help make things less stressful for the bride and groom. I felt the burden of responsibility when Laura asked me to do a walk around as if I were her - checking for an out of place fork, a missing glass, a cardboard box poking out from under a tablecloth. Laura was calm and serene, as I'd expected she would be.

After a quick fashion show for Katie, it was decided that my black jump-suit was too avant-garde for a Kiwi wedding (lol!) so I settled on one of my favourite black dresses. There was barely time to do my make up and hair, grabbing some pastry-less quiche and wine with Margaret, before it was time to head back over to the farm for the ceremony. By then the sun was out and the farm was awash with guests, all there to help Laura, Steve and Rose celebrate their special day. There was a palpable buzz in the air. I was so pleased I'd flown half-way around the world to be there to join in the celebrations.

The ceremony was beautiful. The bride and wedding party looked gorgeous. The service, conducted by the most lovely padre (who I drunkenly christened Pedro), was lovely. The setting and weather were perfect. It was very special and very unique. After the ceremony we stood in the sunshine, drinking champagne and eating delicious canapés, including the most delicious macaroons. Later on the guests meandered through the trees towards the marquee overlooking the fields. Katie and I took a short cut to be there to shower the bride and groom in confetti as they arrived. We perched on logs in the warm sunshine, drinking more champagne, talking about the day, getting to know other guests, admiring how lovely everything was. It was picture perfect - like something you'd see featured in a magazine.

Dinner was delicious - hog and lamb roast with wonderful fresh, homemade-style salads; my kinda food. The wine was good. Obviously; most wine in NZ is. The speeches made me cry. I cried for Laura's brother, James, who died five years ago (today, in fact). I cried for Laura's family. I cried for T and for me. And I cried because it was these two facts combined that meant I was even at Laura's wedding. Despite the geographical distance, Laura and I definitely became closer as a result of that.

The compulsory dancing began after dinner. And I got compulsorily drunk, as is my wont at weddings. I even karaoked (thankfully with the mic stand, not the mic), which is also compulsory for me at weddings, despite knowing full well I can't sing. Wouldn't be a wedding without it though! Later in the evening Laura's brother and I discovered a stash of leftover champagne. Which we drank out of whatever glass we had in our hand when we staggered to the esky, which was sometimes a pint glass. Oh well. That's what weddings are for. Angus reckons his hangover lasted three days as a result. And he's just young. I smoked celebratory cigars with Pedro the padre, a glowstick (used to light the path to the portaloo) around my neck. Then a male guest changed into his mankini, as he'd promised he would. Persuading him to wait until 10pm to do so was one of the better things I did that night. Not sure all the guests would have approved of him doing so before the watershed, although I think both the bride and groom's mothers were pretty happy, even requesting a photo of the three of them together. All in all, it was a pretty awesome day. I was so happy to be part of it.

The next day I was meant to head back to Laura's house ready to catch a flight to Melbourne with Janelle. Instead I called Qantas at 5.30am on the Monday morning to change my flight so I could stay on in NZ for a couple of extra days. Then called them again a couple of days later and changed my flight again. Went on a roadtrip up the coast to Hawke's Bay, Napier and Gisborne. Learnt how to corner on the twisty NZ roads. Camped. Swam in the sea. Ate fish and chips on the beach, washed down by delicious Esk Valley wine. Ate Sunday lunch at a winery, under the shade of the olive trees, a seven-piece ukulele band playing. Got my nose pierced. It was all pretty amazing. Liberating, refreshing and fun. Something out of the ordinary. Totally unexpected. It felt like I was really and truly living in the moment. Finally! It also meant I got to hang out more with Laura and Rose. I sorted out a couple of her kitchen cupboards, got to know Rose a bit better. Helped them do a supermarket shop. Put the world to rights. It was all good.

Eventually, after 13 instead of 5 days in NZ, it was time for me to say my goodbyes and head to Australia. Again, it was a bit of a landmark moment being back in Melbourne. Back to the flat I'd helped Janelle move into three years ago. Walking the Tan every day. Having lunch beside the sea. The familiarity of Flinders Street station. Meeting up with Ben, who Tim and I met in Peru over 10 years ago, for a couple of indulgent sunny afternoon wines. Catching up over a delicious Mexican meal with my school friend, Chris, and his now wife, Genevieve. Everything was the same as it had been three years previous. But so very different. I think the same is true of Janelle too. And that makes me happy. We've both come a long way in three years. All for the better.

From Melbourne it was on to Singapore for what turned out to be a drunken haze of a weekend with Pam and Mick. There was champagne on Pam's terrace to celebrate the birth of her nephew. Frozen margaritas and a Mexican meal to celebrate her friend's birthday on Arab Street. Shisha and buckets of beer at a street cafe one balmy evening. More drinks with a very old family friend - I was bridesmaid at his sister's wedding when I was 9. He just happened to be in Singapore on business that weekend; it's a small world. A mani pedi. Of course. A rugby game - cheering Mick on as he played in the sweltering Singaporean heat. How, I don't know. Then a house party with very drunken rugby boys and WAGs and on to Club Street. A night that somehow involved a fight with an overly agressive bouncer (not me, I hasten to add), the police being called and me telling a very drunken boy about T as the only way to connect with him in his drunken fury. Then the aftermath. Waking up to Babybel wrappers and hangovers. Struggling through lunch in China Town. An afternoon of back-to-back dvds (and some sleeping during the very long, not overly riveting Lincoln) and McDonald's home delivery. I'd expect nothing less from a weekend with Pam!

On Monday I managed 100 lengths in the pool before meeting Pam after work and heading, in a torrential downpour, to a hawker centre to meet Mick for dinner. Then it was time for me to get a taxi back to the airport, yet another amazing trip to the southern hemisphere drawing to a close.

Coming back to the flat was hard. Partly because I'd just stepped off a long-haul overnight flight. Partly because the tenants had left the place in a mess. Partly because I was coming home after 8 amazing months away. Partly because it felt like going back in time, back to a previous life that didn't feel connected to my present life. Partly because it was winter and cold and grey and depressing. I literally burst into tears as I walked through the door. Didn't want to be there. At all.

Since then I've settled back into life in my flat. It's nice to have access to more than one suitcase's worth of stuff. It's nice to have a base and not feel like I'm constantly relying on generous friends' hospitality. Nice to be sleeping in the same bed for more than a few nights in a row. My bed. I've started, slowly, to clear shit out the loft. Shit that I've been hoarding for far too long. Two-people's worth of shit. It's not always easy, but it's necessary. I'm also working again. That bit's the easy bit. It's good having some routine, earning some money, having a distraction and some purpose. I'm doing pilates at least twice a week and absolutely love it. I'm going to give Bikram yoga a try too. I've discovered a nice independent coffee shop in my hood. Like hanging out there. I've bumped into a friend at the station after work and gone for an impromptu G&T. I've had Graeme to stay, and my Italian friend Luisella. I've caught up with London-based friends. People who always welcome me back into their lives with open arms, regardless of how long I've been away. That all helps.