Someone asked me today how I was doing. It was at my kids' school 'Harmony Day' and the sun was shining. I recalled that at the 'Harmony Day' last year I used the brand new wheelchair to bring mum, all rugged up, to see my kids - all dressed up and parading their outfits with the rest of the school.
My mum in law came too. I was such a big, big project, but I was determined. Mum enjoyed the day; I looked at last year's photos this morning and she was much chubbier, healthier in the face. Certainly a little more alert and appreciative to be there than she was to be anywhere in the past few months.
It cut me up. BUT: she was there. This year she was not. And so, when a fellow mum asked me how I was today I said: "You know, if you had an operation and you were missing a limb, the pain would be unbearable, right? It would actually physically ache. That's how I feel."
Those left behind feel that pain; those who die know nothing of it.
This is what struck me when I read this, below. The new chapters we simply MUST begin when someone we adore dies. And what they can teach us, even when they are no longer here.
This below is a piece - the final one, in so many ways - by UK blogger Charlotte Kitley. She wrote regularly for 'The Huffington Post' UK. Below is the intro and an excerpt:
Charlotte has blogged on The Huffington Post UK since 2013 and sadly passed away on Tuesday 16 September from bowel cancer. She wrote one final post that she wished to share with all of her readers. We are honoured to offer it to you here.
As you read this, I will no longer be here. Rich will be trying to put one foot in front of the other, to get by, a day at a time, knowing I will no longer awake next to him. He will see me in the luxury of a dream, but in the harsh morning sun, the bed will be empty. He will get two cups from the cupboard, but realise there is only one coffee to make. Lucy will need someone to reach for her hairband box, but there won't be anyone to plait her hair. Danny will have lost one of his Lego policeman, but no one will know exactly which one it is or where to look. You will look for the latest update on the blog. There won't be one, this is the final chapter.
And so I leave a gaping, unjust, cruel and pointless hole, not just in Halliford Road, but in all the homes, thoughts and memories of other loved ones, friends and families. For that I am sorry. I would love to still be with you, laughing, eating my weird and latest miracle food, chatting rubbish 'Charleyisms'. I have so much life I still want to live, but know I won't have that. I want to be there for my friends as they move with their lives, see my children grow up and become old and grumpy with Rich. All these things are to be denied of me.
But, they are not to be denied of you. So, in my absence, please, please, enjoy life. Take it by both hands, grab it, shake it and believe in every second of it. Adore your children. You have literally no idea how blessed you are to shout at them in the morning to hurry up and clean their teeth.
Embrace your loved one and if they cannot embrace you back, find someone who will. Everyone deserves to love and be loved in return. Don't settle for less. Find a job you enjoy, but don't become a slave to it. You will not have 'I wish I'd worked more' on your headstone. Dance, laugh and eat with your friends. True, honest, strong friendships are an utter blessing and a choice we get to make, rather than have to share a loyalty with because there happens to be link through blood.
Choose wisely then treasure them with all the love you can muster. Surround yourself with beautiful things. Life has a lot of grey and sadness - look for that rainbow and frame it. There is beauty in everything, sometimes you just have to look a little harder to see it.
To read the entire piece - and you must - click here.
More about the beautiful Charlotte from her 'The Huffington Post' bio:
My mum in law came too. I was such a big, big project, but I was determined. Mum enjoyed the day; I looked at last year's photos this morning and she was much chubbier, healthier in the face. Certainly a little more alert and appreciative to be there than she was to be anywhere in the past few months.
It cut me up. BUT: she was there. This year she was not. And so, when a fellow mum asked me how I was today I said: "You know, if you had an operation and you were missing a limb, the pain would be unbearable, right? It would actually physically ache. That's how I feel."
Those left behind feel that pain; those who die know nothing of it.
This is what struck me when I read this, below. The new chapters we simply MUST begin when someone we adore dies. And what they can teach us, even when they are no longer here.
This below is a piece - the final one, in so many ways - by UK blogger Charlotte Kitley. She wrote regularly for 'The Huffington Post' UK. Below is the intro and an excerpt:
Charlotte has blogged on The Huffington Post UK since 2013 and sadly passed away on Tuesday 16 September from bowel cancer. She wrote one final post that she wished to share with all of her readers. We are honoured to offer it to you here.
As you read this, I will no longer be here. Rich will be trying to put one foot in front of the other, to get by, a day at a time, knowing I will no longer awake next to him. He will see me in the luxury of a dream, but in the harsh morning sun, the bed will be empty. He will get two cups from the cupboard, but realise there is only one coffee to make. Lucy will need someone to reach for her hairband box, but there won't be anyone to plait her hair. Danny will have lost one of his Lego policeman, but no one will know exactly which one it is or where to look. You will look for the latest update on the blog. There won't be one, this is the final chapter.
And so I leave a gaping, unjust, cruel and pointless hole, not just in Halliford Road, but in all the homes, thoughts and memories of other loved ones, friends and families. For that I am sorry. I would love to still be with you, laughing, eating my weird and latest miracle food, chatting rubbish 'Charleyisms'. I have so much life I still want to live, but know I won't have that. I want to be there for my friends as they move with their lives, see my children grow up and become old and grumpy with Rich. All these things are to be denied of me.
But, they are not to be denied of you. So, in my absence, please, please, enjoy life. Take it by both hands, grab it, shake it and believe in every second of it. Adore your children. You have literally no idea how blessed you are to shout at them in the morning to hurry up and clean their teeth.
Embrace your loved one and if they cannot embrace you back, find someone who will. Everyone deserves to love and be loved in return. Don't settle for less. Find a job you enjoy, but don't become a slave to it. You will not have 'I wish I'd worked more' on your headstone. Dance, laugh and eat with your friends. True, honest, strong friendships are an utter blessing and a choice we get to make, rather than have to share a loyalty with because there happens to be link through blood.
Choose wisely then treasure them with all the love you can muster. Surround yourself with beautiful things. Life has a lot of grey and sadness - look for that rainbow and frame it. There is beauty in everything, sometimes you just have to look a little harder to see it.
To read the entire piece - and you must - click here.
I'm 35, a slummy mummy of two gorgeous kiddies aged 3 and 5, owner of a disobedient black Labrador and wife of a very understanding and patient husband. I (allegedly) listen to too much Take That, can whip up a mean cup cake and am a hopeless, though wildly enthusiastic, dancer.
In 2012, life took an unexpected twist and, rather inconveniently, I was diagnosed with stage 4 bowel cancer. Following my diagnosis, I’ve had a few operations, 25 rounds of radiotherapy and more than 30 rounds of chemotherapy. Although medically I now fall into the ‘control not cure’ group of cancer patients, I’m determined to live as normal and full life as possible.
And so I have been getting busy living; learning new and random skills such as balloon modelling, fishing, chocolate making and soon, learning to fly a helicopter. I’ve enjoyed precious moments including teaching my son to ski and watching my daughter meet her heroine, Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
I am regularly getting into trouble with my doctors for doing too much. This year I’ve been skiing, snorkelling, cycling, hiking, kayaking, sailing, swimming with dolphins and completing a 5km charity walk the day after being unhooked from my chemo machine (I needed an extra-long lie down that day!).
Whatever I get up to, there is always a smile on my face and a disaster usually lurking around the corner. But, with laughter and love, we’ve got through most things – even my colostomy bag exploding in the middle of WH Smiths (yes, really!) before boarding a flight didn’t dampen my spirits.
Life is for living and I’m loving mine (well, would rather not be spending quite so much time in hospital!). I’m here to inspire others who have been ‘written off’ and encourage them that you should never give up on living your life. You can read about my adventures at www.lifeasasemicolon.com
In 2012, life took an unexpected twist and, rather inconveniently, I was diagnosed with stage 4 bowel cancer. Following my diagnosis, I’ve had a few operations, 25 rounds of radiotherapy and more than 30 rounds of chemotherapy. Although medically I now fall into the ‘control not cure’ group of cancer patients, I’m determined to live as normal and full life as possible.
And so I have been getting busy living; learning new and random skills such as balloon modelling, fishing, chocolate making and soon, learning to fly a helicopter. I’ve enjoyed precious moments including teaching my son to ski and watching my daughter meet her heroine, Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
I am regularly getting into trouble with my doctors for doing too much. This year I’ve been skiing, snorkelling, cycling, hiking, kayaking, sailing, swimming with dolphins and completing a 5km charity walk the day after being unhooked from my chemo machine (I needed an extra-long lie down that day!).
Whatever I get up to, there is always a smile on my face and a disaster usually lurking around the corner. But, with laughter and love, we’ve got through most things – even my colostomy bag exploding in the middle of WH Smiths (yes, really!) before boarding a flight didn’t dampen my spirits.
Life is for living and I’m loving mine (well, would rather not be spending quite so much time in hospital!). I’m here to inspire others who have been ‘written off’ and encourage them that you should never give up on living your life. You can read about my adventures at www.lifeasasemicolon.com
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