There will always be hurdles

The thing with grief is there will always be hurdles to jump and big fences to negotiate. Do I go round or attempt to leap over, all the while hoping I don’t spectacularly trip and fall flat on my face!

Yesterday was Fathers’ Day, a day which creeps up and I am only slightly aware of, out of the corner of my eye, just there in my peripheral vision.

You can’t avoid the displays in the supermarkets but I walk past quickly. Although I still have a dad to buy for my boys don’t and I feel at odds with that fact.

The bottom line is it’s just not fair.

((I’m reminded at this point of an old blog post I wrote about a year after Andrew died for my unravelling-edges blog - “When There are no Words”))

My dad and I, without even a word will quietly acknowledge these kinds of days, neither of us wanting to upset the boys unduly.

However the truth is this year I really thought Fathers’ Day was next Sunday.

So when I texted my brother on Saturday to give him an idea of what to buy as a gift for dad for the following Sunday he send a message back…

“Fathers’ day is tomorrow!”

“Oh shit!” I texted back!

 

(sorry for the language but that was my honest reply and I can't lie!)

You see the thing is I had spoken to dad just that morning, only briefly because I really needed to wish mum a belated happy birthday for the day before – I am failing as a daughter on all counts here!!!

I had just about managed to get a card to her on the right date and I am so grateful to Amazon who delivered a parcel to her door on the actual day too!

The order for my dad I had sent to me with the intention of wrapping and posting it next week along with the card that sat in the drawer.

So the thought was always there and to be honest dad didn’t mind in the slightest. He told me with a chuckle when we did speak yesterday, “I thought it was next week too!”

I sometimes think they make far too many allowances for me, their little girl who lost her husband. 

Life is cruel and in an ideal world these things should never happen this way round.

I will always remember that hug my dad gave me after we had seen Andrew laid out in the coffin. All I needed was my dad to kiss it better and make the overwhelming pain go away. 

From having my own boys I know just how helpless you feel as a parent when there is absolutely nothing you can do and circumstances are way beyond your control.

 All he could do that day was hold me tight.

Ever since Andrew died my dad and I have grown a lot closer, not that we were ever distant but there has been a subtle shift in our relationship which moved again earlier this year when he was diagnosed with bowel cancer.

Thankfully it was operable and after major surgery he has been given the all clear.

Both of us took the pragmatic viewpoint that everything was always going to be OK from the start – we leave the worrying in the family to be done by my mum and brother!

But our phone conversations are noticeably longer these days, we talk more and say “I love you” far more frequently than ever before.

My dad is my hero but we will never be soppy about it, this is the Fathers’ Day card I sent him today.

  

As I said he had bowel cancer and “farting” after having half your bowel removed is a big deal! I was actually there visiting him in the hospital when he let the first one out and even the nurses cheered!

There will always be hurdles to face on this journey but hopefully my dad will be around for a long time yet to hold my hand as I negotiate them. And maybe on occasion I can hold his too.

In the grand scheme of things forgetting to send him a card on the correct day is immaterial because he truly understands better than anyone that he is special to me today,  any day, every day and always.  xx

Scars and Bruises

Last month oldest son had a freak tennis accident. He was running for the ball when he collided with the tennis net post and cut his leg badly. His doubles partner continued playing and even went on to win the point while oldest son was on the floor. Alas although they were ahead in the match, a set and a break up, they then had to forfeit due to the injury.

The first I heard was a phone call from the tennis coach.

“Your son has cut his leg and needs to go to A&E to get it stitched.”

Fortunately the nearest hospital is only a few hundred yards along the road from the tennis club but I never realised just how dangerous tennis was before.

“You can see the bone.” I was informed by my son when I arrived shortly after. I didn’t want to look.

We waited and waited and eventually we were seen by a young doctor, a very young looking doctor – isn’t that when you know you are getting old?

Anyway because this young medic was also a keen sportsman he erred on the side of caution and decided not to stitch up the wound straight away but get a plastics consultant to look at it to assess if there was any tendon damage.

And so we waited for another two days before finally oldest son was operated on under general anaesthetic. Fortunately there was no tendon damage but it’s always better to be safe than sorry and he has a tale to tell.

“You’ll have a great scar,” I told him, “and when you get a girlfriend she’ll love it!”

He looked at me with all the distain of a teenage boy to his mother, as if I was mad.

“I’d rather not have a scar at all.”

Yes wouldn’t we all! 

No scars, no bruises, no visible marks to show the life we have lived.

Andrew had his appendix out when he was six or maybe it was eight, all I know is he was a very young child and he had been very poorly with it. And so he was left with thin scar on his abdomen which completely fascinated me as someone who’d never had an operation. 

As we lay in bed sometimes I would run my finger along it, just because as his wife I could, I wouldn’t recommend you go up to anyone in the street and do it.

I was amazed at how he’d been stitched back together and that although he had “nearly died” (his words but apparently true as his appendix was twisted almost bursting or whatever the medical terminology is) here he was all mended. Sometimes I even thought he was saved just for me so we could be together – melodramatic I know but I have some crazy thoughts that run around my head!

Now of course it is me who wears a scar, an invisible one that runs across my heart, cracked and broken, patched up but not totally mended, it never will be.

We all have scars and bruises, that’s what makes us human. It is those blemishes and marks that tell our story, show what we have lived through. 

Our scars show our vulnerability and they can be strangely attractive.

One day I have no doubt oldest son will find a girl who will trace the line below his knee and be captivated by his story of bravery and how he got his “war wound” – seven stitches in total. 

OK so there will probably be a lot of laughter to go with it because let’s face it running into a tennis net post is essentially a stupid thing to do, especially when you are already winning the match and the point isn’t crucial.

But it shows the character of my son, his determination and drive to do the best he can.

My own scars show I have the ability to love deeply.

One of my favourite songs this year has been Bruises by Train and Ashley Monroe, I know all the words and sing along in the car at the top of my voice, complete with American accent.

I would love to fix it all for you

I would love to fix you too

Please don’t fix a thing whatever you do.

These bruises make for better conversation…

You’re not alone in how you’ve been

Everybody loses

We all got bruises

Of course the most important scars in the whole wide world are the one’s Jesus has on his hands and feet from being nailed to the cross. I’ve read somewhere that these scars will always remain, even in Heaven, when we have new bodies and everything is made whole.

While our bruises fade away Jesus’s scars act as a reminder of what he went through for us – now you can believe that or not but I for one can’t wait to see those particular scars for real, perhaps even touch and marvel at the immense love they show…

Letter to the monster under the bed…

  I am just in time to link up with Ruth @ Learning (one day at a time) for another Letter to... 

This week We are writing to the monster under the bed...

Here's what I made of the prompt and as I wrote I discovered to my surprise that I am not quite as fearful as I once used to be...

You are a black smudge on my cream coloured bedroom carpet.

Did you think you’d escaped my notice completely?

Or do you quite like to be seen dancing your exotic eight legged quickstep?

I saw you out of the corner of my eye scurrying as fast as those long lean limbs could carry your bulbous body.

Now you are hiding under my bed.

I can’t see you but I know you are there, lurking amongst the dust and snotty dried up tissues that I’ve neglected to hoover. 

A place where both angels and us lesser mortals fear to tread!

You are the overdue tax bill I found the other day,

The falling down house next door,

The gathering leaves on the lawn.

You are the face in the mirror that wonders “why?”

The paperwork that’s piling up,

The rattling door handle that threatens to fall off,

You are a scary version of the future where I end up alone

The fear of not being a good enough parent

The dread of just getting it wrong

In reality you are a spider pure and simple. But there was a time not very long ago when I would have screamed and physically been unable to move. To actually sleep soundly in a bed with a spider beneath would have been practically impossible, but one by one I am facing my fears...

spiders, 

dogs, 

the death of a loved one

and the uncertainty that follows.

Curiously I struggled to make a list of things above that frighten me because I have grown stronger in the past three years. 

I know completely that God is ever present, even when I momentarily forget what I know to be true and the fears creep out for a merry little dance.

God has got this all figured out all I have to do is trust. He’s always there reaching out to hold my hand.

Today I have come to realise that most of the monsters under my bed are merely tissue shadows covered in dust and maybe it’s time to get the hoover out.

A dream of his own...

Oldest son has big ambitions. He wants to be a sports journalist, reporting on the major sporting events around the globe.

He is trying hard to achieve his dream and has written his own sports blog for almost two years. He has sent his writing to the local paper and been in touch with sports presenters on the radio asking for advice.

Last Saturday his persistence paid off, he got to sit in the commentary box at the football stadium where his favourite team play.

But he didn’t just sit there idly watching, he actually got to speak on air and give his verdict on the match.

It was strange sitting at home listening to this grown up voice through my radio. He spoke knowledgeably, clearly, with no hesitation or nerves and best of all at the end, I heard him say thank you for the fantastic experience.

I have taught him well and am as proud as any mother could be.

But my pride is tinged with overwhelming sadness that his dad could not be beside me to hear him. 

I’m crying even now as I type this and I shouldn’t because I am sat in the corner of the tennis club while he has a lesson, admittedly it’s a very quiet corner and I am rarely bothered while I type but I pull my hair around my face to hide my emotion anyway.

Life is so unfair and cruel.

Andrew and I started going out when we were both working as presenters on a charity radio project. He was the most amazing DJ with his witty banter and repartee. I thought I was OK, I had dreams and aspirations in this area too but I set them aside when I met and heard Andrew, he had a natural ability that just shone. 

He also knew all about the technical side of radio and sound production and built several studios for hospital and temporary charity radio stations.

My technical abilities are limited, once upon a time I knew how to edit tape, cut it and splice it back together but I could never get the sound levels right. I did a proper interview for local radio once and my interviewee, a famous Christian speaker, helped out with the technical side because I was unsure how the tape recorder actually worked.

Andrew could have helped oldest son with all the things I don’t understand. They could have worked on demo tapes together or CDs or whatever the latest things is! I know - I am so old fashioned.

I would have loved to see them work together on something they could both enjoy. Andrew was a patient teacher and he would be thrilled at his son’s interest in broadcasting. He could have taught him so much.

But this dream was only a tiny seed when Andrew died, buried deep.

 

I know I am doing my bit, helping out as much as I can. 

It’s not just radio commentary he wants to do but also writing about sport. It is me who has read through every blog post he has written, correcting grammar and spelling but I know I am far from perfect in that department. I am aware that so many errors pass me by.

The other day I bumped into one of oldest son’s old teachers. She asked how he was getting on at college.

I beamed with pride as I told her he had settled in well and all about his radio exploits.

“He is one of the most determined kids I’ve ever met.” She told me. 

I’ve always known he is unusual among his peers because he knows exactly wants he wants out of life. From this brief conversation I have discovered he really is exceptional and it’s not just me that thinks so.

Dreams are such fragile things; they need nurturing, believing in and a tremendous amount of hard work behind the scenes to make them flourish.

The same can be said of children, even if they appear more resilient and temperamental.

Being a parent is not an easy task, but I am convinced that between us Andrew and I did a good job and somehow on my own I am still mostly getting it right.

Hopefully one day oldest son will reach his goal and everyone will be listening to his words as they resound across the airwaves.

I know this for certain - wherever I am at the time I will be the loudest, proudest mother cheering him on.

If you want to follow oldest son's sports blog you can find it here - Reports from a teenage sports fan

A prayer for the wobbly hearted

Yesterday I wrote a prayer and I decided to share it because this is how I’ve been feeling recently, slightly out of sorts and unbalanced.

Oldest son has moved on to the next stage of life - A levels, he's growing in independence yet he still needs me. Meanwhile youngest son will be choosing options this year. Things are changing for them while I seem to be stuck in a deep rut going nowhere!

 

I’ve been spending too much time on things I shouldn’t be, worrying about stuff that’s unimportant in the grand scheme of life, shutting the door on the issues I can't face and neglecting the one relationship that should mean the most – the relationship between me and my heavenly father.

God I know we’ve not spent much time together recently

Well at least I’ve not found time for you

I know you’ve been speaking to me

You’ve presented me with the gift of rainbow, a glint of sunshine, a beautiful flower

“Yes” I say with indifference as I wave you on your way

And carry on with my own schemes

But I know the absence of you in my days is what’s making my life off balance

I wobble and fall over and cry

And part of me wants to just wallow in my misery

“Nobody cares” I wail as I press the self-destruct button and bite my nails, all the while hiding under a baggy jumper

But that’s so untrue

I have so many friends and they love me, they really do

Even the ones that have seen me at almost my very worst!

If even they forgive me the odd bad mood and sharp word how much more will you always be there?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” I whisper as I climb up on your knee

Tears run down my face

“I’ve made a mess AGAIN!”

Let me rest here a while

Let me sleep in your loving arms

And when I wake be the centre of my day…