Close Down

This Christmas has been hard. The hardest since Tim died. I'd thought it would get easier but somehow everything crashed down this year. On Boxing Day I couldn't get out of the chair and since then I've days when I've functioned (and even laughed) but days when I haven't been able to get out of bed.

Perhaps it's remembering his last Christmas when he was bone-achingly tired. When he seemed vulnerable. Something in him had shifted. On 4th January we knew why - a brain tumour. But we still had hope at that point. We thought it might not be too bad, that it could be removed. It would take a couple of weeks before we learned the truth. Little did we know that we would be planning his funeral in less than three months.

It's hard to say, but I've been right on the edge, these last few weeks. Weighing up if my life's worth it. If I want to face God-knows how many more years ahead. Alone. Lonely. Missing Tim. I feel selfish writing this. Tim would be so cross with me for thinking it. But sometimes the years ahead seem so bleak.

Over Christmas, some lovely friends checked in on me by texts and emails and I am forever grateful to them. I, too, checked in on some friends who I knew might be struggling. This Christmas there was so much hoopla - 

New tee-shirt

lets get Christmas back! For many it was time for huge celebrations. For others it was just a time to get through. 

On my good days I've been training. Last week I managed two eight-mile hikes. Yesterday I managed seven miles with hills (much needed as we'll be trekking up a mountain). There's less than three months to go now, so the pressure's on.

I think it is this that's keeping me going. As I walk, my head clears. For a while I can forget who I am. Forget that I'll be going home to an empty house. I can pretend that I'm okay. I smile to the people I meet; have a chat. And somehow I don't feel so lost. I don't feel so much of a burden.

My family, as always, has been absolutely fantastic. It's impossibly hard for them, too. We all miss Tim. I'm sorry to be such a burden, I wish I could accept that life can never be the same as it was. The life I loved is gone forever.

But the facts are that my life has changed. I have changed. I used to think I was fairly good fun but now I'm a drag. I went to Shetland to punish myself for surviving. I think that doing the trek is a similar thing. Except that Shetland nourished me and in a strange way it made me see that everything will work out. Maybe the trek will do the same. It'll be a lot harder in so many ways, but just maybe it will drag me out of this and give me the push to embrace life again.

I've reached 84% of my fundraising target and the Brain Tumour charity has said that all further donations will go towards my goal, which is wonderful news (I'd thought they all had to be in by now). So, if you've got a bit to spare and you have the inclination, you can donate here.

If you got to the end of this blog - thank you. You deserve a medal!