The Luckiest

I have music on a loop that I listen to in the car.  There is one song that never fails to reduce me to tears: Ben Folds, The Luckiest.

I don't often feel lucky.
(I mean, who here really feels that luck has been shining on them?) 
Sudden death really doesn't count in the "lucky" stakes.

In fact, in the three years leading up to the accident, we lost both Greg's parents to the most hideous of cancers.  This left he and is siblings at odds over the will with Greg the person in the middle trying to make everyone happy, whilst making himself miserable in the process.

...and he'd just managed to get everyone to a shaky agreement, but was dead within months.


Suddenly
Brutally.
Dead.

"Lucky" was not a description I would have used to describe our lives.


Until I started to think about it.

Because Greg and I, we were The Luckiest.

Not many people get to marry the love of their lives. 

Many never even get to meet them.

But we did both.

Inseparable from the moment we met and fell in love.



We had a love that was real and solid.
Never wavering.
Never faltering.

We finished each other's sentences and could tell what the other person was thinking with a look.

We laughed at the same things and we cried at the same things.

We were are soulmates who balanced each other perfectly.

We loved.

Deeply.

Completely.

Soul-shaping love.

...and what we had (still have) was so rare and beautiful, that we really were among  The Luckiest people on the planet.

The small things

When Michele asked me to write here, there is only one thing I clearly remember her saying in the brief - write as honestly as I can from where I am NOW.

So that's what I try to do each week.... write my now.
my truth.
As honestly as I can.
My soul stripped bare.

Some weeks, I am OK.  Good even.  But other weeks, I am not so good.
This is one of those weeks.

I am sick.  My chest rattles as I suck air in and out. My head pounds.  My eyes leak. My energy has evaporated and I am light headed whenever I try to do anything.
I am tired.
I am sick of the petty squabbles over who farted on who's pillow.
I am tired of cooking and cleaning when I am not working or preparing for work.
I am sick of being in charge of everything.  All the big things and all the small things.
I feel like I'm sinking under the weight of a life that was meant to have two parents involved in bringing up the children.
I am angry at a God I no longer believe in (I said I was being honest - I didn't say my thoughts had to make sense to you).
If anyone had told me I'd still be feeling this aching pain 26 months later, I think I would have given up right then and there when I first heard the news that he was dead.

I feel like I am going backwards into my grief when I have been trying so long to move forwards through it.
This is not like me at all.
I am a do-er.
A pick-yourself-up-er.
A set-your-goal-and-go-for-it-er.
A great believer in the almighty I CAN do it.
And I always achieve what I set my mind to.
Except when I don't.

Early this morning, I sat on our my bed and the tears just ran in rivers down my face. I wanted to be held by his arms.  I wanted someone to look at me like I was the most beautiful and precious jewel they'd ever seen.  I wanted someone to tell me they loved me above all else.

....and then my kids came in with their hilarious home-made Mother's Day gifts.
The small things they had painstakingly made out of bits and bobs they had collected.
....and they hugged me, and told me I was the best mother in the world (they are easily pleased).
...and I realised....
I am loved.

Life still sucks beyond the telling of it, but I am loved.
These two little souls are here, in front of me, looking at me like I am the most precious jewel they have ever seen.
Holding me in their arms.
Telling me that they love me so much.


....and I say a silent prayer of thanks to the God I no longer believe in.
The God of small things....

Handmade jewels