My beloved husband, Kent, died in January 2012, 3 years after diagnosis of a brain tumour. Our son was 2 1/2 and our daughter 3 months old. He and I were far too young. I am now hurtling through the black space of life without him.

Friday, 29 June 2012


He was to be the love of her life
Protector and defender of her heart
She would find safety in his arms
But he's gone from almost the start
Oh may she not wander and give away her gold
But keep hold of what can be torn apart

He shed tears for her when she arrived
And she'll shed tears when she knows he's gone
Together they shared just a thread of life
But that thread was golden and strong
He'll know her face in a hundred years
And together they will carry on.

Sunday, 24 June 2012


My husband died in a terrible accident.
Yes, it was awful.
Were you in it too?
Yes, I saw the whole thing happen. It was like it happened in slow motion before my very eyes. I saw what was coming and couldn't do anything about it.
Were you hurt?
Yes. Crippled for life.
For life?
They say I will be scarred for life, not crippled. But I'm not so sure. Anyway, if I can't walk beside him, where on earth would I want to go?
Perhaps walk with your children?
Yes, yes. But it will hurt.
Yes, yes. It will.

Wednesday, 20 June 2012

Cold (not really a poem)

It's raining outside
And it's raining in my heart
(And down my face).

It's cold outside
And it's cold in our bed
(I have to wear more layers).

You're not here to tell me to put on another jersey when I'm cold, or to warm my feet-cicles when they're icy. I can't seem to calculate how much meat I should be buying now, or how much pasta to cook. We have those 2 lovely white bowls we were given and now I just get one out. It doesn't even seem worth turning the warmer drawer on and you know how I like a hot plate.

It's dark outside
And it's dark in our home
(Even with the lights on).

Sunday, 17 June 2012


I have changed the setting so anyone can comment easily - I hadn't realised that wasn't possible before. I know how hard it is to know what to say, but I thought I would mention it. Thanks for all your feedback and conversations elsewhere. It does help to know you are reading and thinking of me. Do keep in touch. Xx


Sometimes the grieving is soggy and messy  - you probably know the kind. Sometimes it's like a cold, hard, heavy stone. It just sits quietly and heavily inside, leaving no room for anything else.

In the early days the image came often to me of a big red gash, running right through me. The whole of my insides felt - well, if you want to know - ripped and bloodied. (Yes I guess I am quite bloody on the inside). Someone commented to me the other day that things are raw for me - yes that's exactly it, this pain is red and raw.

I read on the website of a young widow that grieving of this kind is like carrying a king size mattress around on your back everywhere you go. She's right - I couldn't have put it better myself. The weight is so heavy sometimes it's hard to keep on walking. Sometimes you don't. Sometimes it crushes you to the floor.  

And while we're here, another image that often comes in to my mind seems to involve a cliff face and my fingernails. It's not an image I choose, it just seems to be there. I guess it is about survival. I'm holding on to something (life? sanity?) with my fingernails. I am clawing my way back (perhaps one day there will be movement) to something with my fingernails. To happiness? To normality? To healing perhaps. It seems to me there is no other way to find healing but by clawing my way to it. To be able to have a conversation with Kent would help fast track it (I keep saying God should have arranged once a week phone calls), as would some other, harder to define impossibilities. But there is nothing available, so my fingernails will have to hold on, and sometime start inching their way up the cliff. I hope there is a plateau up there somewhere.

Friday, 1 June 2012

A Bowl for my Tears

There's nothing like a cemetery visit to really rip you to pieces. I don't go very often. I prefer to go on my own, and it is hard to find the opportunity. It's also extremely emotionally draining, so I'm not desperate to go all the time. But we were returning from a visit up the coast today and would be driving right past, and the back row was fast asleep so I went while I could. I tend to start crying way before I get there. I don't know how I feel about the grave site and what it means. It's not like I need to go there to remember him - don't be ridiculous. I think of him almost every moment of the day. And everywhere I go there are places and things that remind me of him. But still, it is obviously different and significant. Given all that I have experienced, it surprises me just how much it rips me apart to see his name there, it's not as though I don't know it's there, or haven't already been ripped apart. I think also there is a difference between intentional grieving, and the grieving that just comes over you at any moment. Visiting the cemetery, intentionally putting on a song that bring up the sadness - these are different to just being hit with it.

The little guy was sick just before bed time (if you want to know, I deftly caught it in the nappy that I was about to put on him, but I didn't catch it all, if you want to know...). He had a good cry and then cheered up beautifully. I sat him down with a bowl and a blanket while I got the little girl to bed first, and then changed the sheets etc on his bed. He told me he was fine and didn't need the bowl but then picked it up and said "a bowl for my tears." Yes indeed, that's what I need. A bowl for my tears. I wonder how many bowls I am in the process of filling.