Loss

My life with Julien, before cancer, was good, I had the children I wanted, the job, the house, we lived (and still do) in a beautiful part of England and dare I say I even felt smug. We were on a steady course in life, the ship was commanded by a confident Captain supported by his crew, going in the right direction. Navigating the small bumps (and big) in life until we hit this huge insurmountable mountain called loss.

Stepping Stones Surrey

Loss sets you on a different course, into the unknown, the scary and the uncertain. One minute you have all figured and the next you are figuring out what hit you. 

Then cancer fucked our lives and rewrote the script, irrevocably changing the narrative of our lives. A narrative where we speak of Julien in the paste tense, a narrative where we talk about memories and not about the present or future. A narrative which, for now, I hate.

A story where all the little things that made us a couple, and that I miss terribly, are now memories; warming up my feet on your legs, me and the kids picking you up from the train station so we could walk home together, the scrumptious chocolate cake which only you could make, holding hands, the fact that you would bring every single cleaning product (which I didn't need) and forget the bleach, all the French nicknames you had for us, listening to you talking in French, watching Rugby together, cuddling on the sofa... the list goes on.

Whilst I understand that I must carry on and live this life to the fullest because you would not want anything less, it pains me that  our story was cut short. Now, when I talk about you with those who didn't have the joy to meet you, they see you through my eyes; Julien was, you no longer are... We were the couple that traveled, we were the couple that wanted to raise children together, except now, there is no couple, just me raising two children solo.

My beloved  Ju you are and always will be in our hearts. Although life feels strange (at times) because you are not here, I must  reinvent the script incorporating the new and the old. I can only hope that I make a good job of it, now I don't have your wisdom to guide me.

I will finish this off with a poem (adapted) by Atticus:

"He was fire in the night

and when he burned the whole world 

turned to see what shone

and everyone, no everyone

would burn their fingers,

for just a touch of his flame,

but as always he'd come and he'd go,

and the night would cool again

and the world would be left in wonder

with only 

stinging cheeks

and smooth finger tips,

to remind them

He was real at all."