No escape from the G-word

At the beginning of my week’s annual leave I was hopeful and expectant that it would be a relatively light hearted one (after the slog of Christmas), especially as it was filled with nice things such as going walking and spending a night in a B and B with my mum, catching up with friends and going to London for 4 days. But there is no escape for a widow from her grief. Even the act of enjoying the things mentioned above then naturally catapults you to the memories of when holidays were filled doing those things with Gareth, and physically aching in the desire to want to be doing them again with him right now. It is so wearisome. So draining. So ongoing, so all consuming at times. One morning I met a friend for coffee in the cafe where Ga had previously had a successful exhibition. Forgetting it was a weekday morning and hence full of yummy mummies feeding their newborns and sharing stories of parenthood with their fellow NCT friends (I counted 6 babies under 3 months within a 3 metre radius of me).  Looking in from the outside, and a sudden burst of green-eyed jealousy and longing came over me. I want to be in that club. I want to be able to join in with the baby and maternity leave talk whilst Ga earns our living taking photos. And what am I doing once I leave the cafe? Driving to the natural beauty spot where I last left my Ga, and standing 6 foot over his lifeless body, placing flowers on the grass, as it’s the nearest I can get to him. Sometimes I find this place comforting. Not today though. Despite the sunshine it galls me that I have to find comfort in the fact my husband is buried in a beautiful place. It galls me that I am comforted knowing I am physically close to him at this place. As my tears flow it galls me that really there is no comfort here, for no matter where I am in the world, it makes no difference really as I can’t have a conversation with him, or make plans with him, or laugh with him, or hug him or kiss him. Death, I hate you.

There really is no escape for me from grief, no matter how much I want some time out from it.

I think I have been trying quite hard to even up the balance of sadness and hard times by filling as much of my time as possible with fun, positive, feel good things to do (It’s helped but the scales still aren’t even). The wise writer of Ecclesiastes 3 states ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter…a time to weep and a time to laugh….a time to mourn and a time to dance…’ If Ga could see me now I think he’d be pleasantly surprised at the higher priority I now give to relaxing and doing fun stuff (although he’d be gutted he wasn’t here to reap the benefit of it). There’s a little part of me that feels a bit guilty, a bit over indulgent in being so nice to myself but hey, there’s a time for everything right…and if it’s not now for seeking pleasure above pain then when is? For the pain of widowhood is chronically excruciating. I think it’s healthy to pepper that with sprinkles of happiness wherever I can (within reason of course…I may be suffering but that doesn’t give me the right to trample over other people’s needs and desires just to get mine met)

However one area that has changed as I’ve sought pleasure over pain has been my personal relationship with Jesus. He’s been my closest friend since I first welcomed him into my heart as a teenager, and over the years, through experience I’ve learnt how great it is to spend time together on our own every day, talking to each other; me with my words, him through the Bible and the Holy Spirit (who took residence in my soul since the day I invited him in). Sometimes it’s been my favourite part of my day, others a bit of a slog, and others I’ve pushed that precious time out completely due to my own business (and isn’t that the way with all relationships?). When Gareth was sick, we had time together every morning as I ate my breakfast, and those times left me strengthened and assured knowing whatever the day would bring, Jesus was with me, by my side through it all, and with him alongside me I was able to face whatever was coming. In that ITU room you may have only seen one wife sitting by her husband’s bedside. In reality there were three of us. I could not have coped as well as I did with the past year without His strength, love and support. Those daily times have continued, with my bible reading becoming focused around passages related to grief, mourning and life after physical death.

But since about November, I’ve got out of the habit of taking time every day to meet with my Lord. It’s not been a conscious thing, just gradually I’ve stopped fitting it in during my day. I’m not suddenly angry with God, or not wanting to communicate with him (I still do talk with him informally as I’m going about my day, and am hungry for fellowship and to meet with him at church and house group). It’s not like I don’t know how beneficial it would be to spend time with him on a regular basis, but somewhere along the line I had enough. I think it’s because for so long now, whenever I have sat and met with him one-to-one, all I’ve been able to offer him are my tears. As he’s the one I’m most honest with, he gets it all, the bawling, the wracking sobs, the slow quiet tears tricking down my cheeks without me realizing they’ve spilled. And I think I reached a point where I was tired of always crying in that place, despite the peace that would often follow.  So I stopped the daily meetings. And didn’t really notice as I sought to fill my days with nice stuff that keeps the tears at bay a bit more.

And in stark contrast to my inability to escape from my grief, my God has not escaped me. The psalmist who wrote Psalm 139 questions ‘Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?’ and answers with ‘Even if I dwell in the innermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.’ I have been too emotionally, spiritually and physically fatigued to keep my tight grip on my sweet Lord, but I don’t need to stay strong for He is strong enough for the both of us and never, ever lets go of his tight grip of love and compassion on me. My brain is mostly too fuzzy for longwinded prayers right now, but I know so many of you continue to pray for me and He hears those prayers and continues to hold me secure in his arms.

I want to finish this post by sharing with you how I’ve been encouraged these last few days in London. Months ago me and a friend booked to attend a 4 day event at Soul Survivor UK, called ‘Naturally Supernatural.’ It was a time to learn more about and interact with the Holy Spirit of the Bible. Soul Survivor impressed me years back with their acknowledgment of the authority of God over the words of the Bible, intellectual, sensible and compassionate discussion and teaching of said words, and their willingness to give the Holy Spirit freedom to move as he wants to. When Gareth died I knew that I wanted to meet with the Holy Spirit on a whole new level throughout this grieving process, so in the summer attended ‘Momentum‘ and then ‘Naturally Supernatural’ last week. It’s always awesome to worship Jesus with so many others. It’s become even more awesome to sing of how Jesus knows what it is to suffer and die at an early age, like my Ga did, but to know he did it willingly, purposefully so that 2000ish years later I can sing joyfully in the midst of my grief that Jesus didn’t stay dead, but came back to life and is living in heaven now, and because of that horrific death on a cross so long ago, Ga’s death is not so horrific for whilst his body remains in that natural field, his spirit and soul is dancing freely with his friend Jesus. And last week, as in the summer, there were times when the Holy Spirit interacted with me in such very sweet, wonderful ways, such as God kindly giving complete strangers who were praying for me such specific pictures and words that have been incredibly detailed about aspects of my life at those times; they were like a little nudge from him ‘I know Clare. I haven’t forgotten. I see your pain. I remember. I want you to know I know the littlest details in your life. I love you.’ I know this is an honest account of my widowhood journey, but those little love notes from God are just between me and him ,they are too personal to share here. But it excites me. The God of the whole entire universe, who knows everything there is to know and to who nothing is impossible is concerned about little me and my circumstances. And cares enough to let me know it in such a personal way.

That knowledge has fortified me and spurs me on as I move ever closer to the first anniversary. As I finish this I am remembering that a year ago tonight was our last night together at home, spent packing (me organising his medicines) and getting ready for him to fly to Liberia the next day. A whole year. And after tomorrow I can no longer look back on ‘this time last year’ and say life was as we knew it. The beginning of the end is fast approaching…

Getting by with a little help from my friends.

“What do I do when my love is away.
(Does it worry you to be alone)
How do I feel by the end of the day
(Are you sad because you’re on your own)
No, I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm, get high with a little help from my friends,
Mmm, gonna to try with a little help from my friends”

I’ve had a busy couple of weeks after a refreshing holiday in Devon with four girl friends, that involved learning to surf and swimming lots in the sea. On a scale of one to ten I’d give it twelve. Of course I thought about Ga lots and missed being able to ring him and fill him in with the days events terribly, but I laughed a lot, had great fun and really enjoyed myself with my friends. And looking back, I am a little bewildered yet grateful that only 4 months into losing Ga I can say that.

It seems illogical to smile again let alone laugh when you watched your husband die three days before your 33rd birthday.

Mulling it over recently, as well as having God’s Holy Spirit within me, comforting me, giving me strength and encouraging me along this bleak, dreary experience, I am blessed with an abundance of friends that do indeed help me get by, as The Beatle’s lyrics above say… Thinking back over the last few months, friends have cooked for me when I had no motivation to do so myself, have showered me with cards, words and gifts that remind me they care for me, hugged me, listened to me talk about Gareth again…and again…and again. They have given me advice, helped practically when the enormity of managing my home and garden on my own has overwhelmed me (the relatively decent state of my garden is proof of this!). They have had fun with me, challenged me to try new things (such as rock climbing), embraced me when I ache for my old life. They have prayed with me, and for me and encouraged me to keep going. They’ve praised me for little things like just getting up and functioning on a day to day basis.

A feel I need to also mention my family here, especially my mom and dad, who have (with great difficulty on their part I’m sure) got the right balance of being there for me practically and physically whilst giving me time and space to grieve on my own. Two weeks ago they returned to me (albeit temporarily) the third member of the Kingdon household, Ben (our 10 year old collie/terrier-cross dog). He’d been with us since me and Ga got married 5 years ago, and whenever we went on holiday, he’d go to my parents (who spoilt him rotten – he was always in a sulk for a day or two when he came back to us!). Whilst Ga was sick, they looked after him and have continued to do so for the last 4 months as I hadn’t felt able to have him home on my own until now. I looked after him for two weeks whilst they went on holiday, and it’s been a bittersweet fortnight. Sweet as he was mine and Ga’s ‘baby’ (especially in the absence of children in our home) and we found contentment in our family of three. I have numerous amusing and comforting memories of the three of us together, many of them involving Ga teasing Ben and teaching him tricks. Bitter as it’s a stark reminder that we’re a family of two only now and ‘daddy’ is missing. And now Ben’s gone back to my parents again (as now I’m working full time I can’t look after him on my own without him becoming an increasingly frustrated ball of energy and excitement), does that make me a family of one?

I don’t know what that makes me really. Thinking about it just being me now makes me miserable at times. But I’ve recently been reminded at church that families come in all shapes and sizes, the stereotypical one with husband, wife and 2.4 kids, the couples who can’t have children (been there!), those who choose not to have children, same sex couples with or without children, those who are single (think I fit in this category now aswell), widowed. How wonderfully affirming it was to hear a message that whilst immediate family is important (and how much I treasure mine), community relationships are also vitally essential in living well. I may no longer have a husband, I may not be a mother, but I’m linked to numerous other people – my church community, my neighbours, my longstanding friends from school and university and elsewhere, my work colleagues, my new friends in Widowed and Young (WAY). And through immediate family and these numerous ties I find I still belong somewhere, I still matter, I’m still cared about and loved deeply, I’m kept afloat in this rough sea of grief and loss.

There is some good advice found in the Bible in Ecclesiastes Chapter 4 verses 9-12 that says ‘Two are better than one, because they have good return for their labour. If either of them falls down, the other can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls over and has no-one to help them up.’ I’m reaping the benefits of having so many people in my life helping me pick up the pieces following Gareth’s death. And I hope even in this time where I’m needing to be held up much more than I normally do I can help lift up others too.

Cystic Fibrosis; the mutual dive into the unknown.

From very early on I was aware from others that Gareth had the genetic condition Cystic Fibrosis, a life shortening disease that affects almost 10,000 people in the U.K. We didn’t really talk about it together until after the holiday club, when Gareth continued to invite me to hang out with him and I began to believe our future potentially held more than friendship alone.

I looked up Cystic Fibrosis on the internet and found sober reading… it is a genetic disease which causes the body to produce thick mucus which affects the lungs and the digestive system in particular, causing troublesome coughs, repeated chest infections and poor weight gain. Fertility problems are common, and most men are infertile from birth, due to the tubes that carry sperm becoming blocked. In 2006 the average life expectancy was 31 (Gareth was almost 24) although with research and improved treatments that age is ever increasing. 

Gareth first brought the subject up one Sunday afternoon whilst cooking a roast chicken dinner for me. He asked me to read a chapter in a book someone had written about him, about how inspiring the author had found him because not long after getting diagnosed with cystic fibrosis aged 20 (a late diagnosis, most people are diagnosed at birth) he went to Africa to help AIDS orphans and ‘even though he may not live to see his thirties’ Gareth’s attitude was ‘I may not have long, so what can I do with the time I’ve got?’ I have often written diaries and to ensure my retelling of this is as objective as possible, below is my diary entry from this time;

“When I read the bit about his life expectancy my first thought was ‘Well that would give us seven years then’ and he said (whilst getting roast chicken out of the oven) something like ‘it’s a bit better picture now.’ I took this to mean he may well live a bit longer than this… So in all my thoughts about us getting married at the back of mind is the knowledge there is a good chance i’ll watch him die, and have to live part of my latter life without him. Not that this for a millisecond has given me doubts, but I need to get my head around that. I read magazines and the news and so often hear of tragedies where young people lose their lives unexpectedly. I am reminded that God alone knows the day each one of us will die and whilst Gareth’s been given a rough timescale, either one of us doesn’t know if tomorrow would be our last, and this fills me with peace about it.”

Getting my head around that didn’t involve any further research on the internet. Although I am a nurse and can easily access endless articles on the disease, he was not my work. He was  someone very dear to me and I decided I would learn about Gareth’s cystic fibrosis from Gareth himself, one day at a time. Getting my head around it did involve me asking God for some reassurance about taking the next step to soon becoming Ga’s girlfriend. I believe God speaks to us, 2000 years ago through Jesus actually living amongst us, and today mainly though his words in the Bible, but also through his Spirit, independently or working through other people. Within a week of me asking God for reassurance, a friend rang me up out of the blue (who knew nothing about Gareth) and told me he didn’t know why, but recently, every time he’d read certain words from the bible he’d thought of me and had an urge to tell me them. Two of these were Jeremiah Chapter 29, verse 11 and Psalm 23. These say “For I know the plans I have for you…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future.” and Psalm 23 includes “Even though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” For me, those words were the reassurance I needed to know that whatever would happen with me and Ga, ultimately, all would be okay for both of us.

Meanwhile unknown to me, Gareth was battling with such thoughts as “who would want to go out with me with such a short life expectancy?” and “is it fair to expect anyone to take on all this with me?” It breaks my heart that him, and others who have so much to deal with completely outside their own control, have sat alone and thought others would be better off without them in their lives. Some may say it’s a valid question to ask. I disagree!! We are so much more than our genetic makeup and physical abilities. We all have something wonderful to offer, and I’m sooooooooo incredibly thankful that in the end Ga decided he was worth romance and love and commitment and decided he would ask me out. And I’m glad I chose to say yes (if he asked me out). If I’d have walked away then I knew I would have been a fool, and missed out on so so much with Gareth. It works the other way too, I too had my own insecurities and issues I would bring with me into a relationship and Gareth chose to say ‘Yes’ to all of me as well. Since then I’ve met many wonderful men and women, with cystic fibrosis, or their partners who encourage me immensely, that there are actually many people in this world who did what me and Ga did…

…we looked Cystic Fibrosis in the eye, aware of what a romance with it may well contain, and we took a deep breathe and chose to dive in together.