21st Century Mourning Clothes

“You’re looking really well.” “You’re doing so great.” “Not sure I’d be coping as well as you are”

Statements many people have said to me over the last few months. And I’m glad of them and their encouragement and don’t want them to stop.  And I’m glad that I am looking well… that I am eating normally, sleeping normally (mostly), can get up each morning and function. Glad that I can smile, can laugh, enjoy the company of others and make the most of the opportunities I have each day. But such statements also make me slightly uneasy. The thought crosses through my mind… maybe I should wash my hair less, try and look ‘less well?’. For it doesn’t seem quite right that I should be looking ‘so well’ when I am still reeling from the greatest loss of my life, and life as I’ve known and loved it will never be the same.

Several years ago my brother spent a summer in a Portuguese village, learning to listen to and speak to wolves as part of his University degree. He told me that in that village, many women were dressed completely in black and this signified they had been bereaved. Only after a full twelve months of walking daily with their loss would they return to wearing non-black clothes. It was obvious to everyone who saw them (my brother included) what journey they were on and it was a sad one. Of course, as I often do, they may have looked well, happy, joyful, getting on with and making the most of their life… but the black robes were a reminder that not all was well despite outward appearances.

Not that I wish to wear black for a year (I don’t own much of it for a start), as I do not necessarily want to be defined by my bereavement by strangers who would see the black dress before anything else about me. There are times when the anonymity of looking well and blending into the crowd is a relief and wearing black would just be an added burden to this already exhausting experience. 

But the fact remains, whilst I may look well and getting on with my life in as positive manner as I know how to, all is not well. My husband died. When you see me laughing and smiling and having fun, be assured, 90% of the time I really am. It is not an act. There is much in life still to smile and laugh at. But know that at the same time there will rarely be a minute during that time when I am not still processing and figuring out how this life now works without Gareth by my side. The blow is so huge it seems my brain needs to keep on going over and over what has happened and is happening to remind myself of it’s reality. And after I’ve been with you, enjoying myself and glad you’re in my life, I will no doubt leave you, get in my car and go home and at some point the tears will flow (sometimes only minutes after leaving you, sometimes hours later). The ache will return and hurt more than anything that’s hurt me before. I may be found curled up on the sofa, falling to my knees on the floor Gareth laid with his bare hands, sobbing, wailing, wanting to scream in frustration. I may have to play a mental battle in my head just to get up and carry on. It doesn’t last (thankfully). Once the emotions have played out and soothed me somewhat, I am left feeling numb and hollow, exhausted and drained. Paradoxically at the same time I can also feel happy and grateful and in wonder that I got the seven years I did with my amazing man. I need some time to recover from the emotional outburst  so I do nice things that are linked with Gareth, I try and rest, I may give you a ring and arrange to pass away some of my now free time enjoying your company.

I’m glad I’m not forced to wear black for a year. But I feel something is missing in British culture today, for how are people to know and remember the other side to ‘You’re looking so well?’ I think maybe this is why I have an urge to write, to share and explain what the whole of this experience is like, because the outward appearance only tells the story in part. So for me, my 21st Century mourning clothes began with facebook statuses and have now progressed to this blog. We shall see what happens in twelve months…

I can give you a hand if you like…?

In the summer holiday of 2006 I had taken on the challenge of coordinating a children’s holiday club, that over five consecutive days required 10 hours of planned activities (games, stories, songs, craft, drama etc) and numerous hours of setting up, tidying away, admin, as well as organising and supporting the many volunteers that helped it to run smoothly. The club had an Egyptian theme and me and Gareth naturally began bouncing thoughts off each other during Urban Sanctuary evenings, as he had many ideas developed from his experience running children’s clubs in both Africa and Cardiff. After a few of these conversations he went one step further and offered to actually help me prepare for and run the holiday club, which I was quite grateful for as the enormity of what I’d taken on was threatening to overwhelm me.

I have been told since that 2006 was one of the best, well run, summer holiday clubs volunteers and children had been part of. That I would put down in part to my slightly (ok, maybe really very ) obsessive love of all things organised and being in their proper place, but also the Gareth Kingdon touch (not forgetting the amazing team of volunteers helping that year!). He introduced me to the concept that the more messy and disgusting the games were, the more fun would be had by all (I remember one relay game using  Tesco value nappies smeared with Nutella!), and again the value in ‘thinking big.’ This photo shows the stage backdrop he spent days working on (to the right was a 8 foot, 3 dimensional pyramid made out of painted card board boxes) and the effect of his talents and efforts meant that as you walked into the hall, for a moment you really did feel like you were in the Egyptian desert.

In the weeks leading up to the holiday club he taught me many things, including how to paint Palm trees on the backdrop so that they looked like they were in the distance, and how to use an electric drill to put hooks in the wall for the backdrop to hang off. By the end of August with the holiday club behind us, I’d say we were definately very good friends and very comfortable in each other’s company. I liked him A LOT. I wasn’t sure if he liked me to the same extent, as he was very sociable and friendly with everyone. We’d spent many hours together on our own preparing for the children’s club and I realised that time was about to tell if on his part that had been purely work related or would he still want to hang out with me with no other reason than he liked my company…?

Fast forward to now

So that’s the very beginning. Fast forward seven years, one proposal,  one wedding,  Art Foundation diploma,  Documentary Photography degree, teaching qualification, dog, operation, three houses, three churches, numerous hospital admissions, increasing daily medical supplies,  foreign holidays, awards, exhibitions, adventurous DIY projects, several jobs in the NHS and Africa, a well used Ebay account, no children and one funeral later… here I am. Writing this three months exactly since I lost my wonderful Ga as he died, whilst I hope he gained the riches and awesomeness of heaven in God’s direct presence. How am I? A question I get asked a lot now but it is too big a question to answer succinctly in a single sentence. I write this now feeling ‘loved up’ and warm and fuzzy, remembering those lovely early days getting to know Ga, and him me and am just so incredibly thankful for the experience I had of loving him, and him loving me… abundantly. I don’t mean to sound big headed, but he adored me (so many people have told me this recently!) and it’s pretty amazing to be on the receiving end of such big love. Ok now, my eyes are welling up. That’s nothing new though. The world is made up of opposites and pairs, and the natural pairing for having loved so deeply is to grieve deeply and know excruciating pain when the object of your love is gone. Tears have been a familiar friend since 21st March 2013. Sometimes the depth of sadness and pain inside my heart and soul is too great to put into words and all I can do is utilise God’s design for release and let the hot burning, or slow trickling tears flow. Embrace them, acknowledge they signify the great person and life that I have lost, give them to God, let him embrace me and let his Holy Spirit comfort me as the intense ache passes.

It may sound strange to say but I haven’t lost the greatest love of my life… that is Jesus Christ, whose love for me is even bigger than Ga’s was. I’ve lost the second greatest love (which is high up there!) and I am spurred on in the hope that my two greatest loves are together, alive and well right now. There were three of us in our marriage… me, Ga and God. Now it is just me and God again. Not my choice. But I trust God knows what he’s doing and know ultimately I will be okay through all of this as I walk with my God and without my Ga. Also I have been overwhelmed by the love and support shown to me since Gareth became sick in Liberia (all gestures, little and big). That love, support and lifted prayers are also priceless to me, and has helped and will help me walk this sad and lonely road a little easier. Thank you for it (you know who you are) and please stick with me as although it doesn’t always feel like it to me ‘I’m very early days’ in this journey of widowhood.

Back in the day…

Back to the beginning, this is the first photo I have of me and Ga. It was an old double decker bus covered in graffiti and decked out with playstation games, DJ decks and the much used Connect 4 that caused our paths to cross. We both helped out on the ‘Urban Sanctuary’ youth bus that arrived spluttering into St Mellons estate, Cardiff each week. I’d be found pouring way too much sugar into cups of tea and coffee and playing Connect 4 with the local teenagers, whilst Ga would be playing cricket outside, or bringing craft stuff to do that the rest of the team were never quite convinced would go down well but always did (card making, making fimo animals, marzipan sweets to name a few!). The first time I saw Ga the Urban Sanctuary team were having a meal (that week it was a very unhealthy English breakfast!) and as he walked in I thought ‘he’s cute.’ I was pleased when the only empty seat was next to me and over sausages and bacon got chatting, and as he shared stories about his recent time in South Africa, running a kids club with 400 children each week, and teaching them truths about HIV and AIDs using puppets, to break down the social stigma attached to the conditions, I thought ‘he’s interesting too.’ The seed was sown! So from January until May 2006 I only saw him once a week as part of the Urban Sanctuary Team and as I started to realise he was taking up an increasingly growing proportion of my thoughts I had that annoying reaction of then being too shy to talk to him at times in case he realised that the highlight of my week was talking to him! This photo is taken at Munt Beach, South Wales on a team weekend away, when thankfully that shyness was wearing off. Gareth is the first on the left and I’m second on the right.

The first joint creative venture.

NB: THIS SHOULD BE READ AFTER ‘BACK IN THE DAY’… teething problems getting used to this blogging business. On another trip with friends to Rhossili Beach in The Gower I caught my first glimpse of Gareth’s love of creating things and his attitude to ‘always think big!.’ It was a gorgeously hot sunny day and whilst we were all relaxing, soaking up the sun after some energetic splashing in the sea, Gareth announced he wanted to make a sandcastle and did any of us want to help him? Well, of course I said yes… I wasn’t going to miss any opportunity to hang out with him at this point. So off we went, me expecting the whole process wouldn’t take very long after making a mound of sand and sticking a twig in it. But Gareth had other ideas. I’m sure we were still there almost an hour later and I was getting caught up in his enthusiasm for finding a creative use for everything we could find lying on the beach. In the end our sandcastle had a moat and waterway to the sea, several levels and interior and exterior designs! It was the most fun I’d ever had building sandcastles.

Under the influence of…

In life we are influenced by many different things. Some we consciously choose to be shaped by, others we actively decide not to be. Still others, we have little choice but to be influenced by them. In January 2006 I met an artist and photographer named Gareth whose love, passion and stories from his recent time spent living in a South African township, sharing life with children and families devastated by HIV and AIDS was intriguing. Incidentally, he had the genetic condition Cystic Fibrosis. I chose to be influenced by Gareth and this blog hopes to share with you my memories of the last seven years under that influence, four and three quarters of them spent as his wife. As time goes on I also hope to reflect on how my recently acquired title of ‘widow’ shapes my future – an influence I definitely did not choose.

NB; I have split my posts into ‘THEN’ and ‘NOW’ so if you prefer you can click on these categories to focus on either mine and Gareth’s adventures, or my current one.