(no subject)
The anniversary of Ian's death is here, and I'm still fluctuating between 'OMG, it can't be true' and finding it difficult to even remember what it was like to live with a significant other. I had several stiff drinks last night because I thought I wouldn't sleep too well and I probably would have slept soundly, but Timothy had a nightmare at 1.30am. He got back to sleep with relative ease, but I was wide awake until 4.00amish, and then did that horrible dozing thing from them till 6.30am when I finally gave up and got up.
My plan for today was always going to be fluid. I couldn't even decide last night whether I would go to work or whether I would just slouch around home feeling sorry for myself. I ended up staying at home, mostly because Jake felt too upset to go to school.
The younger two went without fuss because they both had a new sports club to attend after school and didn't want to miss that. Timothy, it turns out, missed assembly because he was in tears but the school didn't ring me to tell me that (if they had, I would have just gone and got him).
Jake and I got some flowers and went to the crash site (or as near to as I could get) to place them. Its a horrible narrow road with no parking except a private driveway, so I couldn't stay there too long. We did time it so we were there for when the accident happened twelve months ago (although, at the time I didn't find out about it until five hours after it had happened).
We went home after that and flowers arrived from my mother in New Zealand and from Crystalclaws; both had me in floods of tears. Last night, one of Ian's Lib Dem friends came over with a huge bunch of white roses, so the house is full of colour tonight and I can't help but smile - I do adore flowers.
Once school was over the lads and I released a balloon in the local park (a purple heart) with some messages written to Ian on the side of it, and then we went out for a meal as a special treat.
Its been a day of reflection and remembrance for me. All through the day I have been recalling where I was and what I was doing twelve months ago. I remember my last conversation with Ian on the phone, I remember what I was doing when there was a knock on the door and the confusion I felt at seeing a policeman there. I remember the horrible task of sitting the boys down to tell them their Dad had died and the struggle of finding the right words. I remember feeling hyper aware of the two policemen in the room listening while I told the boys and feeling so helpless when Timothy cried and asked if he could have a new daddy. I remember the awful, awful task of ringing up Ian's mother and telling her over the phone what had happened; something, I think, that was harder to do than telling the boys because the phone is such an impersonal way to communicate. I remember feeling so alone after the boys went to bed, how silent the house was, and how I went into shock during the night once I had finished all the things I felt I had to do before I stopped and let myself think of what had happened.
I feel relief that I have made it though the last twelve months and am still relatively sane at the end of it. My melt-downs are few and far between; I don't have to dash off to the loos at work anymore to have a quick cry. I can look at Ian's photo on my desk and smile at him in the morning rather than feel like wailing.
I've heard from some widows that the second year is harder than the first. I hope that isn't true for me. I'm more of the opinion that the absolute worst has happened and I've done all the hard stuff now. I'm ready to move on with my life whilst treasuring my memories of spending wonderful years with an exceptional man.
My plan for today was always going to be fluid. I couldn't even decide last night whether I would go to work or whether I would just slouch around home feeling sorry for myself. I ended up staying at home, mostly because Jake felt too upset to go to school.
The younger two went without fuss because they both had a new sports club to attend after school and didn't want to miss that. Timothy, it turns out, missed assembly because he was in tears but the school didn't ring me to tell me that (if they had, I would have just gone and got him).
Jake and I got some flowers and went to the crash site (or as near to as I could get) to place them. Its a horrible narrow road with no parking except a private driveway, so I couldn't stay there too long. We did time it so we were there for when the accident happened twelve months ago (although, at the time I didn't find out about it until five hours after it had happened).
We went home after that and flowers arrived from my mother in New Zealand and from Crystalclaws; both had me in floods of tears. Last night, one of Ian's Lib Dem friends came over with a huge bunch of white roses, so the house is full of colour tonight and I can't help but smile - I do adore flowers.
Once school was over the lads and I released a balloon in the local park (a purple heart) with some messages written to Ian on the side of it, and then we went out for a meal as a special treat.
Its been a day of reflection and remembrance for me. All through the day I have been recalling where I was and what I was doing twelve months ago. I remember my last conversation with Ian on the phone, I remember what I was doing when there was a knock on the door and the confusion I felt at seeing a policeman there. I remember the horrible task of sitting the boys down to tell them their Dad had died and the struggle of finding the right words. I remember feeling hyper aware of the two policemen in the room listening while I told the boys and feeling so helpless when Timothy cried and asked if he could have a new daddy. I remember the awful, awful task of ringing up Ian's mother and telling her over the phone what had happened; something, I think, that was harder to do than telling the boys because the phone is such an impersonal way to communicate. I remember feeling so alone after the boys went to bed, how silent the house was, and how I went into shock during the night once I had finished all the things I felt I had to do before I stopped and let myself think of what had happened.
I feel relief that I have made it though the last twelve months and am still relatively sane at the end of it. My melt-downs are few and far between; I don't have to dash off to the loos at work anymore to have a quick cry. I can look at Ian's photo on my desk and smile at him in the morning rather than feel like wailing.
I've heard from some widows that the second year is harder than the first. I hope that isn't true for me. I'm more of the opinion that the absolute worst has happened and I've done all the hard stuff now. I'm ready to move on with my life whilst treasuring my memories of spending wonderful years with an exceptional man.