The World Keeps Moving

In this episode, I talk about how the world keeps moving and turning after our loved ones have passed, even though ours has stopped. Let me know your thoughts at theheadtiltpod@gmail.com.

Apologies for any bad language!! Also, after listening to this back I realised I had said I'd go married in 2022, but it was 2021! 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Hi everyone and welcome back to the Head Tilt. I hope you've all been okay since we last met. Well, or at least as okay as we can be whenever we are and wherever we are on this grief journey that we find ourselves on. Before I get too into it, I would like to thank everyone who has listened in so far. I really do appreciate the support. So, just a little catch-up on what's been going on in the world of the head tilt and how we are navigating grief in our everyday lives. It's recently been half-term here, which means survival mode has taken on a slightly different meaning. The house has been full, loud, and somehow constantly messy, no matter how many times I tied it up. I've also looked after a friend's dog during half-term week, which sounded like a lovely idea at the time, until I realised that dogs still expect proper walks even when the weather looks like the end of days. And look, I don't regret looking after the dog. She was amazing company, and the kids thoroughly enjoyed it, but the weather kept us indoors more often than I'd like. I think the poor dog must have been absolutely bored out of her mind. Honestly, as I said, the rain has been relentless here where I live. The kind of weather where you open the curtains, look outside, and immediately want to close them again and pretend the morning hasn't started yet. And at one point I genuinely caught myself thinking I should be in Disneyland Paris right now. Not standing in the kitchen in three layers of clothing, an UDI, pajamas and slippers, just to keep the heat in, negotiating snacks and wet portreats. But life doesn't really pause for half-term or weather or even exhaustion. It just keeps ticking along, whether you feel ready for it or not. And strangely, that thought is what leads me into what I'd like to talk about today in this podcast. But before we get into that, I wanted to share something I think might become a regular part of the podcast. Something I'm calling my griefiest moment this week. Because grief doesn't only live in anniversaries or big milestones. Sometimes it arrives quietly when we're least expecting it. This week mine came from my photo timeline. Pictures of Adrian with our first granddaughter and our first grandson. Moments I've seen before, moments I already knew by heart, but for some reason seeing them this week hit differently. I suddenly felt this deep awareness that our newest granddaughter won't have those moments with him. And it's not as though that thought hasn't crossed my mind before. Of course it has. I talked about it with my daughter on many occasions throughout her pregnancy. But grief doesn't always follow logic, does it? Sometimes understanding something in your head is completely different from feeling it in your heart. And the strange thing was I couldn't stop looking at the photos, even though they hurt. Maybe it was because they hurt, maybe it was because they were proof of love, proof he was here, proof of something real that still matters. And maybe you've had moments like that too. Something small that suddenly brings everything rushing back. A song, a smell, a photograph, a place you used to go together. Those moments where your heart remembers something before your mind is ready for it. So the main thing I'd want to talk about this week is how the world keeps moving after our loved ones have passed. And moments like the ones I mentioned have made me think a lot this week about something many of us experience after loss. It's how your world can completely stop while everyone else's keeps moving. Because after someone dies, there's this part of you that almost wants to stop strangers in the street and say, My husband just died, or my mum, or my dad, or my nan. And it's not for sympathy, it's just because you want the world to pause for a moment and recognise that something enormous has happened. But it doesn't pause. There isn't a moment where the world gently says, Take your time. Instead, almost immediately, there are things that need doing. There are phone calls, appointments, forms, decisions. You suddenly find yourself learning about things you never expected to know or needed to know. Things like undertakers, death certificates, the registrations. And I remember thinking, how do people know what to do? Is there a checklist somewhere that everyone received except me? Because it's not like moving house. Most people roughly know how that works. But death has its own process. And unless you've walked this road before, you're constantly wondering: am I doing this right? Have I forgotten something? There was a meeting with The Undertaker discussing music and flowers and timings while I was still trying to understand that Adrian was actually gone. And in some ways, I was very fortunate. Adrian and I had been able to talk about some of this before he died. He'd already chosen two pieces of music that he wanted to his funeral, which, looking back, was such a gift, even though it didn't feel like it at the time. But there were still so many decisions to make. The type of coffin, the date of the funeral, what would he be buried in, meeting the celebrant and talking about his life. And all of those conversations are happening while your brain is still trying to catch up with what has actually happened. Because Adrian died just before Christmas, there were delays in the process as well. Things that normally might move quite quickly suddenly slowed down because offices were closed or were working limited hours. So even after speaking to the undertaker and finalising a lot of the details, we couldn't actually set a funeral date yet. Because we had to wait for the death certificate to be completed, which meant everything felt like it was hovering for a period of time. Nothing was finished, nothing had properly begun. Just waiting in limbo. And although I had incredible support around me, there were still parts of the process that I had to handle myself. Not because I wanted to do it alone, not because I was trying to be strong or be a martyr, but because legally certain things could only be done by me as his wife. Forms had to be signed by me, information had to come from me, phone calls had to be made by me. So even with people standing beside me, some parts of grief are responsibilities that only you can carry. Then it came to registering the death, answering factual questions about someone you love, reducing their whole life into dates and details. And here in the UK, there is a service called Tell Us Once, and we were given this form of the registration. And in theory, this is a really helpful system. You go onto the government website, enter the details, and it notifies all the relevant government departments for you. And logically, I knew that was helpful. But grief doesn't always trust logic. Because afterwards I still kept thinking, have I told everyone? What if I've missed something? And I suddenly became aware that I was responsible for someone else's entire existence on paper at a time when I could barely trust myself to remember what day it was. And then come the phone calls to the banks, the DVLA, insurance companies, each one beginning the same way. I'm ringing to let you know that my husband has died. And every time I said it, it felt both unreal and painfully final. But then there are the unexpected things like letters from the opticians, memberships, clubs. These letters arrive and addressed to someone who isn't here anymore. Little reminders that life is still moving forward on paper, even when yours has just stopped. And alongside that, you're telling people, friends, family, colleagues, people who mattered to you and your loved one that's passed. And as I said, Adrian died just before Christmas. I actually delayed telling some people because I didn't want to spoil their Christmas, even though mine was already, well, looking pretty shit at this point. But it's something very human about that, isn't there? Even in the heartbreak, we're still protecting other people. If you're listening to this and you're at that stage right now, juggling paperwork and phone calls while your heart is breaking, please know that you're not doing grief wrong. That strange mix of practical tasks and deep sadness is something many of us experience. It's messy, it's exhausting, but it's also very normal. And while this is all going on, we go into survival mode. Grief is on its own heavy enough, but grief very rarely arrives alone. There are children to care for in my circumstances, meals to cook, decisions to make. I was exhausted, emotionally raw, and somehow I still expected myself to function normally. No wonder everything felt too much. Because it was too much. Sometimes grief was looking like paperwork at midnight. Sometimes it was like standing in a supermarket unable to choose between two types of bread because my brain simply refused to decide. Probably couldn't decide. And I felt like I was failing. I felt like I was overloaded, but I wasn't failing. I was overloaded, but I kept going. Not because I was strong, not because I was ready, but because life keeps moving. Whether I felt I was able to move with it or not. You operate on autopilot. And in early grief, survival is the achievement. Getting through the day counts. Breathing counts. Showing up imperfectly still counts. And over time something slowly begins to shift. It's not quick, it's not neat, but little by little you start to find moments where breathing feels easier again. Moments where memories bring warmth as well as sadness. It doesn't mean the loss disappears, it just means you're learning to carry it. And maybe that's the part I want to leave you with today. If life feels like it's moving far too fast while you're still trying to understand what's just happened, there's nothing wrong with you. Grief changes your pace. The world may keep moving, but you're allowed to move slowly within it. You're allowed to feel overwhelmed. Because when someone you love dies, you're learning how to live in a world that looks the same, that feels completely different. And if you are in those early days, survival is enough. Getting through today is enough. Just being here is enough. I have my good days and my bad days, but I am still here. But if you do feel like you're struggling, please reach out for support, either through your GP or by looking for a counsellor or a therapist that can help you. Next time I'd like to talk about something many people don't expect when grief arrives, the ways it shows up in our bodies, the exhaustion, the brain fog, the tension and aches that seem to come from nowhere. Because grief isn't only emotional, it's physical too. And in future episodes, I'd love to hear about your grieviest moments, the small unexpected moments where grief shows up. Because sometimes sharing those stories reminds us that we are not as alone as we might feel. You can contact me at theheadpod at gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you. Until then, take things at your own pace. Be gentle with yourself. You do you. And if you need to, tilt your head a little and look at things from a different angle. Take care now. Speak to you soon.