Blueberry (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I had my daughter, I did what most other new mothers do. I joined groups in order to talk about the colour of my baby’s shit with other mothers. People without babies find this off-putting, but when it’s blue, as my daughter’s was one morning, the value of the shared experience can not be underestimated.

“It’s blueberries,” said another mother, examining the contents of my baby’s nappy. “Nothing to worry about.”

New widowhood is no different. After M died I scrabbled about on the Internet looking for support, asked earnest librarians for details of bereavement groups in the area, told friends to research places where I might get help. And on the whole, with the exception of that unpleasant experience with the Merry Widow (I mean, JESUS CHRIST, call that support..? – Ok I’m over it…), the value of what I’ve found has been inestimable to the grieving process. The knowledge that there are other people out there, all over the globe, going through their own blueberry moments, brings comfort where there is none.

Widowhood is often described as the club that no-one wants to join. But in this club, there is a whole membership of widows who reach out to me in a way that even my oldest friends can’t. I ask for their views on everything from ashes to anti-depressants, and an answer always comes back from the ether.

So since we’re sharing, here are two reflections I read recently from the newly-bereaved which particularly resonated with me.

1) Why is the first year supposedly the worst? How are two, three, ten years without my husband easier than one?

2) When my husband died suddenly, I wasn’t shocked or numb or any of those words people use. I was simply astonished that he’d gone.

Anyway, it’s 3 am and I’m going back to bed. I know there are widows still awake, sharing thoughts, all over the country though. And new mothers. Goodnight.

English: A rendition of the musical notation for the chorus of “Jingle Bells”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Blood, sweat, tears, and a bag of sick later, and I’m back from the States. It was always going to be a challenge (ref. earlier post), but the trip threw up some revelations in addition to the airline meal.

In other circumstances, it would have been a dream excursion. A week in The Hamptons (apparently for purposes of research, but mainly spent looking for Richard Gere who lives round the corner) followed by a long weekend in New York.  I should have been grateful to have been there at all. But like a moody teenager, I couldn’t shake off the cloud of malaise which had descended over me shortly before take off in Newcastle. No amount of whoop-whoops! or high-fives were going to dispel it.

I walked on beautiful beaches, ate wonderful food, was overwhelmed by the dazzling kindness of strangers. But like in the early days of my bereavement, I seemed to be pushing against an invisible screen which prevented me from whole-hearted, visceral engagement with the world.

On reflection, the highlight of the trip for me was my daughter. She laughed and skipped and sang her way through the entire twelve days, waking next to me each morning with a smile, raring to take on the new day. She sampled radish, crab claws and a nip of American wine, (this is the kid who will normally only eat Wotsits); she collected blossom from the pavements like it was gold-dust; she chased squirrels round Battery Park, sang Jingle Bells to street vendors.

In fact, her unrelenting sunniness was so starkly reminiscent of M, in a sense it was like being there with Him. This revelation was at once heart-breaking and comforting – she broke up my malaise cloud in the same way that M always could.

He does, it seems, live on.

N.B. To my knowledge, M never collected blossom or chased squirrels round a park, but He might well have sung Jingle Bells to a street vendor.

Geordie Schooner (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m flying to the States next week. Ostensibly it’s a research trip for my doctorate, but there’ll be plenty of opportunities for fun too – I’ve been invited to a Gatsby-style cocktail party in The Hamptons by my host family for Chrissakes! How many Geordie lasses can attest to that?

The problem is – I don’t want to go. I’ve always been a nervous flyer, but this time, it’s not just about the flight.

After M died, we, as a family, had an irrepressible urge to ‘close ranks’. We didn’t like to be apart for too long – one would peel off to do a provisions run, but was always back within the hour. People left food parcels on the doorstep, but we turned friends away, daubing a metaphorical plague cross on the door.

It was a  strange existence, and to a degree, it persists. I am always relieved to be heading back to the village, despite its miserable microclimate (it brings a whole new meaning to 50 Shades of Grey) and its controversial dog shit problem (who IS that persistent offender?) A lightness of being comes over me when I drive back up the hill from the sunshine into the mist towards my house. The village and its people envelop my daughter and me in their protective cocoon, and leaving it feels dizzying and unsafe. Crossing the road into the next village sometimes feels insurmountable – how am I ever going to cross the Atlantic?

So I’m breaking the trip down into small, more manageable pieces. Pack bag – check. Get to airport – check. Order large gin and tonic in departure lounge – check. It’s the moment I realise I’m in the seat next to Leslie Nielson in Airplane that I’ll frantically disembark for the grey, grey mist of home.