Episode 20: The Week Grief Caught Up With Me

After a few weeks away, I'm back - and this episode explains why.

A conversation with a patient, a hospital appointment with Oscar, a failed camping trip and a grief wave so powerful I could no longer outrun it.

For the first time in a long time I stopped pretending I was OK.

If you've ever felt pressure to be "better" before you're ready, this conversation is for you.

Grab a coffee and join me ☕️🖤

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:03

Hello and welcome back to the LA Morning Coffee Club, the podcast where grief is intense, humour is finally ground, and strength sneaks up on you like a double shot. Well I'm back. I wasn't sure I would be yet, but I wanted to explain my absence not just from the last few weeks' episodes, but from my friends, my family, and honestly myself.

SPEAKER_00 0:29

Because these past few weeks, I disappeared.

SPEAKER_01 0:33

There's no denying that my life is challenging. I don't think I need to explain that to anyone. But I recently had this feeling like something was building, like I was standing on the edge of something. And I did what I always do, I pushed it down and I carried on. Up until a few weeks ago. For those that don't know, when I'm not recording this podcast, I work as a dental hygienist. I was at work seeing a last patient of the day when she leaned in and whispered, So what happened to that girl whose husband died? Is she back at work yet? And in that moment something in me just broke. Um that's me. She laughed and said, Oops, and then said, Oh, how are you then? How the fuck do you think I am? How would you be? But instead, I said what we're all trained to say I'm fine. But of course, I really, really wasn't. I could feel my eyes stinging, filling with tears, whilst she carried on talking about something completely trivial like the weather. My nurse could see it, and she tried to usher her out of the room as quickly as possible. The second that door closed, I just started sobbing, completely broken. And in that moment I realized a few things. One, to strangers, I'm just the girl whose husband died. Two, the most life-altering thing that has ever happened to me is just passing gossip to someone else. And three, that people expect me to be okay. To be back, to be functioning, to be over it. And let me tell you now, I am nowhere near fucking over it. That night, after I put Oscar to bed, I sat in the garden and cried and chain smoked cigarette after cigarette. The next day I took Oscar to the children's hospital just for a routine heart check. And sitting in that waiting room, I realized that I was the only parent there alone. Everyone else had someone, and I didn't. Obviously Oscar was incredible, he was calm, smiling, letting them do all the scans and tests that they needed. And then the consultant asked me if Oscar knew why he was there. So I turned to Oscar and said Yes, Oscar, you know that Daddy died because he had a poorly heart, and today the doctor's checking your heart to make sure it's healthy. And he just sat there nodding and smiling. The doctor told him that his heart was healthy, and I felt this huge wave of relief. I still went home exhausted. We were meant to go camping, just me, Oscar and Honey, but I decided to delay it by a day. Again, after Oscar was in bed, sat in the garden and smoked and cried all night. The next morning, running on pretty much nothing, I packed the car up anyway, we drove to Pembrokeshire to this beautiful campsite that was right on the beach. Oscar playing, me just trying to hold it together. We were asleep by 8 pm in the tent, but I didn't sleep. I just lay there with this heavy, overwhelming sadness. And in the morning, I packed up straight away and we came home. That's when my friend Abby messaged me. I'd been ignoring her daily 8pm calls for a few days now. But finally I texted her and said, I'm not okay. She told us to come straight over to hers, and I just burst into tears because even surrounded by Oscar and Honey, I felt completely alone. That night we sat together, I smoked and cried for hours and hours while Abby listened. The next morning I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't stop crying. Oscar went to his grandmother's, I just existed. I messaged my friends and family WhatsApp group to say, I'm really struggling. The replies came flooding in. Calls, messages, support, but I ignored all of them. The next day wasn't any better. And that scared me because I realized this wasn't a wave. It wasn't passing. So I called my GP, they couldn't see me for a few weeks. I called bereavement charity, they didn't answer. So I decided to call Samaritans. Now I want to state this clearly. I was not suicidal, I just needed someone to listen. And I spoke to this amazing volunteer for nearly an hour. I also spoke to my therapist, I started journaling, walking, and for the first time in a long time, I stopped running from my grief. I just sat with it.

SPEAKER_00 5:35

And I'm learning something really hard.

SPEAKER_01 5:38

Healing alone is one of the hardest things you can do. Not distracting yourself, not filling every moment, not using other people to fill the void because they simply can't. This is my work to sit in it, to understand it, to build something stable inside myself so that one day I can show up fully again. And somewhere in between all of this, I also realised something else. I don't actually want to smoke anymore. It started as a way to feel close to Alex, smoking the same brand of Rollux he used to smoke when we met all those years ago in the French Alps. But it quickly became a crutch. It was my one form of control, my one rebellion, my quiet self-destruction.

SPEAKER_00 6:26

And I actually started to hate it. So I stopped. I also recently came across something called the 90 second rule.

SPEAKER_01 6:37

And I want to share that with you. So there was this neuroscientist that said emotions actually only physically last 90 seconds in the body. And after that, it's just us. It's our thoughts, our stories, it's the loop we keep feeding. And it made me think, if that's true, then why does grief feel endless? Maybe it's because grief isn't just one emotion, it's waves. 90 seconds of sadness followed by 90 seconds of anger, of fear, of longing, on this constant repeat. And maybe healing isn't about stopping the waves, but learning how to sit through each one without reaching for something to numb it. So that's where I've been. Not gone, just in it. Oscar. One day when you're older, you might listen to this and understand these months differently. You'll know that mummy wasn't tired, she was just heartbroken. But I hope you also know this. You never had to fix me. Your smiles, your cuddles, your little hand reaching for mine, they carried me more than you'll ever realise. I want you to grow up knowing that these feelings are not something to hide from. You don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to pretend you're okay to make other people feel comfortable. If your heart hurts one day, talk, cry, rest, ask for help. And never let the world rush your healing. There's no deadline for missing someone you love. And so if you're in it too, just know that I see you. Because grief doesn't follow a timeline. It doesn't care how many months have passed, doesn't care what people think you should be doing by now. It's been nearly 18 months since Alex died. 18 months. And some days that feels impossibly long, like I've lived ten different lifetimes without him. And other days, honestly, it feels like 18 seconds, like he's just gone out and might walk back through that door at any moment. That's the strange thing about grief.

SPEAKER_00 8:58

Time just stops making sense. I know this is really strange to say this out loud, but I actually really miss when Alex died.

SPEAKER_01 9:12

Now of course I don't miss the absolute trauma of that day. I don't miss the sadness and the heartbreak and absolute despair. I mean I still carry that with me every day anyway. They've never really gone away. What I mean by that is I miss the days that are closest to him. So I heard this analogy and I think this will resonate with a lot of people. So the day that your loved one passed away is hotel room number one. Every year that goes by, there's a new hotel room that's adjoining hotel room number one. So it's a new room, you can't go back to that first room, and your loved one can't come with you to the next room. So every year that goes by, you get further and further away from each other. But what I like to believe is that actually all of these hotel rooms are actually in a loop, they're in a circle, and eventually you end up going back to that hotel room number one, the one with your loved one in. Which is actually quite beautiful. So as time's passing, I think I'm realising just how far away I am from Alex.

SPEAKER_00 10:21

And I don't like it.

SPEAKER_01 10:23

I don't want to get further and further away from him.

SPEAKER_00 10:26

I want to go back. I want to stay with him. But it helps me picturing that hotel room analogy. And although I feel like I'm going further away, I'm also getting closer. I think people also look at you after a while and assume that you must be better.

SPEAKER_01 10:47

Like you're back at work, you're replying to messages again, you managed to smile today, you laughed at something, so they see you and think, oh good, she's healing. But healing doesn't mean finished. It doesn't mean the pain disappears, it just means that you're learning how to carry it differently. There is absolutely no pressure to be okay before you're okay. I'm learning that the hard way now. You don't owe people a performance of healing. You don't need to shrink your grief to make other people feel comfortable. And you don't have to meet anyone else's timeline. Listen to yourself, your body knows, your mind knows, and your heart knows. If you're exhausted, just rest. If you're angry, it's okay to be angry. And if you need help, please ask for it. And if all you did today was survive something really heavy that no one else could see, then that still counts. I've spent so long trying to outrun this grief, trying to prove that I was coping, trying to be strong all the time. But I know now strength isn't pretending you're fine. Sometimes strength is actually admitting I'm not okay right now. Thank you for being patient with me. This has been the Early Morning Coffee Club. Thanks for listening. I'm sorry you're here, but I'm glad we're here together. I'll see you next week.