Widows United

There is a widow site/online community that I am a member of. A place where those who have lost a partner can vent, moan, laugh, weep their way through with others who at least have some understanding of what it is like. In the build up to Christmas the posts are understandably about all the excess pain that comes with the season of joy and goodwill to all men for us widows/widowers. From the small things, the way you’re addressed in cards or on envelopes and who’s remembered to send anything in the post at all; to the difficulties in watching your children in nativity plays singing their hearts out, albeit badly, without their daddy or mummy beside you to share that big fat moment of pride, together; to the larger ongoing issues that come from the expectations of family and friends to be over it, at least for the festive season. To the outsider’s eye (the non-widowed that is) a lot of these posts could be read as self-indulgent moans but to all those reading this who have lost a partner you will get it. It’s hard at this time of year and it’s extremely hard to keep your perspective about you. I know I am lucky to have the girls to watch in plays. There are others who weren’t so fortunate to have that longed for child before their partner died. I am lucky to have wonderful friends and family who still remember us in many presents and carefully worded cards and who don’t mind when my ‘second Christmas as a widow’ bambi legs (it’s how I actually feel – a novice at Christmas once more) mean I have forgotten to buy a gift, not made it to the post office in time or not sent proper Christmas cards…so ie their kindness has not been reciprocated (YET). So I do try to remember that I am lucky when I feel the widow bah humbugs of Christmas wash over me. If I can’t I vent to my widow friend.

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Merry Christmas Vs Bah Humbug

I really don’t know where to begin here. My thoughts are in a swirl. I thought I had Christmas sorted. All those ghosts of Christmases past were consigned to their memory boxes or loaded into my memory banks, safely, only to be visited when needed, when sanity was reigning supreme and the monster of grief was sleeping soundly somewhere other than in my head or in my heart. But. And it’s a big old BUT. In the last week Christmas has felt like the ‘quickening’ and all my efforts of tree decorating and party hosting are merely superficial because the doomsday that is the 25th is before me and it’s looming like a big, old scary marker of a day. Another day without him, another day the girls should have had with their daddy. And it is so, so hard not to compare those Christmases past with where I am now. It’s not bad where I am. It’s good. Really good, in fact, if I would stop bloody crying and comparing backwards. Backwards to London. Back to being pregnant with Isla. Pacing the hospital with Col waiting for Isla. Her arrival on Christmas Eve. Our first Christmas in our home with Evie, all excited. Isla’s wearing the same clothes Evie was around this time. Squint my eyes a bit and Isla could be our Little Doctor Evil. Let my imagination run away with myself and I can conjure up his voice on the end of the line telling me what gift I should be getting her. Bah Humbug.
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