Memoirs of a biker widow (8)

Julia Day-Stewart - 14 Apr 18

Firsts

I keep getting told that the big ‘firsts’ are the hardest. The reality is, every first is painful no matter how irrelevant to everyone else. I found myself wincing when I realised I wasn’t hanging out any of Rob’s clothes one day.
Usually the basket would be full of his clothes, I’d picked many pairs of pants off our bedroom floor.
I missed his pants. It took me weeks to pick up the last pair of pants he’d thrown down his side of our bed. I had bizzare thoughts of preserving them. Because they were a part of him, the last pants he wore pretty much. I’d never have another pair of his pants to wash again.
This happened many times. The sudden realisation that an aspect of our life wouldn’t happen again. His beard trimmings in the sink vanished one day and never came back. I thought about brushing the tiny hairs out of his razor and keeping them. Bit weird though right ..? I’d already instructed the Mortician to pluck out some of his famous eyelashes for me to keep. I mean crikey, with all these little bits I could almost recreate him. Stupid thoughts again. Better take his footprints, handprints, fingerprints, lock of hair and eyelashes. Put them somewhere and decide what to do with them later!
I also took pictures of every single mole and freckle. Private pictures in that cold, sterile viewing room.
I just didn’t want to forget anything about him. I couldn’t.

Writing this, I just made an omelette. My first omelette since he died. Another first. Sounds so stupid doesn’t it. Getting emotional over an omelette. But I used to make him an omelette every day pretty much, I’d perfected them.
This omelette was rubbish, he’d have screwed up his beautiful nose, chuckled his raspy laugh and said something along the lines of ‘ what the fk is that’. I’d have responded with a swift punch. And that’s how we were. How I ache for him and how we were together.

Our first Christmas without him was inevitably emotional, I sat silently crying through most of it, hiding the tears when the kids were around me. I didn’t want to mess up their time by moping around. Thankful for all the messages and thoughts being sent our way. When people acknowledge the pain you are feeling, it makes it feel even more raw and real, but it’s nice to be thought of.
I didn’t put mine and Robs Santa sacks out, the kids noticed straight away.

No mater what, that huge gaping void that is left when someone dies remains there constantly. The empty seat at our family table. The plus one that has stopped on my invitations. The family of four that is now a family of three plus a baby. The extra seat in the car.

Another first. Signing a birthday card, do I write from Rob too. It doesn’t seem right to just leave him off there, he’s our family, our unit. I’d signed his name in so many cards and this was the first one to be sent without him here. Would the recipient think I was bonkers if I wrote his name? Oh gawd what do people do?. So I left him out, and have left him out ever since. Feel horrible writing cards, I rarely send them now. People must think I’m ignorant and forget their birthdays but the truth is it’s so painful to exclude him I just hate them now.
I vividly remember the first card we received as a family that didn’t include him. That hurt more than I expected.

The first time I went to Nandos and to the cinema. I’d avoided these for a very long time. It was our favourite thing to do and we had cinema cards so we could go regularly. Rob would get his giant bag of popcorn and Tango slushy, I’d get my Revels and coffee, we’d snuggle and watch the movie four rows from the top, in the middle. The best spot according to Rob.
We’d booked to go the afternoon he died and the strange thing is, I can’t remember what we were supposed to go and see.
I cancelled our cinema cards after he died. No point in having one on my own.
The first time I walked into the cinema was a good few months after and it felt ok because it had recently be refurbished and it wasn’t familiar. I’m thankful for that.

First birthday, First Christmas, First Valentines, First Father’s Day, First Anniversary. They are the big ones to other people but to me. The firsts that were the worst were the first big family get together. The first time I lit our bbq that summer, the first card I sent and received. The first fireworks night, watching them alone. The first tickets I bought for just one adult not two. The first candle lit bath. The first episode of our favourite tv series. The first food shop without his food. The first time his baby smiled, actually the first time she does anything.
Hurts.

The list goes on. The firsts continue and then they become the norm. The large empty void is there, silently lurking, to hit you when you least expect.

Julia Day-Stewart

Mum of three. Widow at 35years of age. Mother, Nurse, Realist. Broken but surviving. Lost and drowning but floating in the light of the moon. Amazed by the power of love and the strength of human compassion. I am no writer, I barely scraped past my gcses. So excuse the appalling grammar. I lost my soul mate in 2017 whilst pregnant with his first child (now aged 7 Months). One moment, one poor decision and so many lives destroyed. I decided to start a blog. Firstly to empty my head and help with my own PTSD and secondly to try and help others. Grief can be very lonely and physically destructive.

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