It Starts with a Cuppa

There are days when I would love someone to take care of me. To notice that I’m tired without me having to explain it. To make the decision, sort the problem, or put a cup of tea in front of me and say, “Sit down. I’ve got this.” Then I hear, “Mum?” And I’m needed again. A missing school item. A question. Something to eat. A worry that suddenly comes out at bedtime, just when I thought we were finally settling down. The boys still need their mum. And I’m still here, trying to be her while learning how to live without their dad. Before Paul died, I knew how to be a mother in our family. That doesn’t mean we had everything figured out. We had the same busy, messy life as everyone else, with school, sports, work, and children who somehow always needed something at the least convenient moment. But there were two of us. I could tell him what had happened. Ask what he thought. Hand something over when I was running out of patience. We could worry about the boys together. Now there are decisi...

 People tell you that losing your husband will break your heart. They tell you the funeral will be hard. The anniversaries. His birthday. Christmas. All the dates you can see coming and wish you could somehow step around. But nobody can prepare you for widowhood on an ordinary Tuesday. The kettle is on. The boys need something. There are bills to pay, appointments to make, and a dinner you haven’t thought about yet. And you’re standing in the kitchen thinking, How am I supposed to do all of this without you? Nobody tells you how much of your marriage lives in the things you never thought to notice. The look across a room when you both know what the other is thinking. Having someone to tell about a ridiculous conversation. Being able to say, “Will you deal with this? I haven’t the patience today.” You don’t realize how often you share the weight of a day until every bit of it lands on you. Even when you weren’t in the same room, you knew you had someone. That knowing is a huge thing...

 This one is hard to explain unless you've lived it. Nobody is waiting for you. I don't mean that nobody loves me. I have people who love me. I have my boys. I have family and friends. I mean your person isn't waiting for you. Nobody is wondering when you'll be home. Nobody is getting the completely unnecessary text saying, "I'm on my way." Nobody is lying beside you at the end of the night while you tell them something that could absolutely have waited until morning. Nobody is automatically your plus-one. You don't realize how many tiny parts of life belong to being somebody's person until suddenly you're not anybody's person anymore. And sometimes it hits in the strangest places. A wedding invitation. A table full of couples. A school event. A holiday. Watching everyone get into their cars together at the end of the night while you get into yours alone. I'm not looking around wishing those people didn't have what they have. Quite...

 There is something nobody really prepares you for after someone dies. Everyone goes home. I don't mean that in an angry way. People have lives. Jobs. Children. Responsibilities. Their own problems waiting for them. And when Paul was sick, we were surrounded by some of the most incredible people. People prayed. People checked in. People showed up. Our family, friends, teammates and community wrapped themselves around us. When you are walking through something as frightening as cancer, you quickly learn just how good people can be. And when Paul died, they showed up again. There were messages. Flowers. Cards. Food. Hugs. People standing beside us when there really weren't any words that could make what happened okay. For those first days, you're almost carried. And then something happens. Life starts again. For everyone else. But Your Life Doesn't Start Again That's the strange part. The funeral ends. People go back to work. The messages slow down. The flowers eventu...

  People love the word grit . It sounds strong, doesn’t it? Like someone standing on top of a mountain, fists in the air, inspirational music playing dramatically in the background. My version of grit looks slightly different. It usually involves messy hair, a cup of tea, a child asking me where his shoes are when they are quite literally beside him, and me quietly wondering how early is too early to go back to bed. But over the last few years, I’ve learned something about grit. Grit isn’t about never falling apart. It’s about what you do after you do. And believe me, I have fallen apart. More than once. There were days during Paul’s illness when I felt like I was holding our entire world together with duct tape, prayer, caffeine, and sheer stubbornness. There were appointments, medications, children, work, sports, meals, laundry and all the ordinary pieces of family life that somehow don’t stop just because your world has been turned upside down. Cancer didn't care that there wer...

  In my first post, I shared why this journey begins with a cuppa. I wrote about the sign in my kitchen, the problems Mum is expected to solve, and the conversations that can begin when someone pulls out a chair and puts the kettle on. Now it is time to tell you more about the story behind the cuppa. My story begins with grá. Grá is the Irish word for love. And for me, grá begins with a man named Paul. Paul and I were only 21 and 22 years old when we met. Six months later, we did what every sensible young couple with their entire lives ahead of them would do. We secretly got married. Apparently, patience and carefully considered decisions were not the foundation of our marriage. But love was. We had no idea what the future would hold, but we knew we wanted to face it together. For the next 23 years, that is exactly what we did. We created a home filled with family, sporting schedules, school bags, muddy shoes, laughter, disagreements, and the beautiful chaos that never feels partic...