Search

Memoirs of a Christopher

A raw and honest look into the life of a Young Widow(ish).

Tag

love

Luck

I am screwed. I am totally and utterly, incomprehensibly screwed.

Chris was a catch. The most almighty catch I had ever had in my life. He was muscly, he was tanned, he had the most beautiful clear green eyes and thick luscious hair and when his eyes caught mine the first time we met, he strode confidently across the room to tell me, “You have a very pretty face.” The girls who had been fighting for his attention all night and I almost fell over in shock.

Now I’m not saying I’m overly hideous, and to be honest I probably do have some endearing qualities, so it’s not COMPLETELY crazy that he came to speak to me, but still… I couldn’t quite believe that he had chosen me.

Annoyingly, his amazing qualities didn’t stop there. He was intelligent. He was funny. He was incredible with his hands and could fix or build anything. Seriously, it was not a rarity for literal strangers that we had met for the first time together as a couple to turn to me and say, “Oh my god, you are soooooooo lucky!” It was such a common comment that it became a running joke for him to do something gross like fart on me, or accidentally break something, and he would turn to me with a cheeky grin on his face and tease, “Wow… You are sooooooo lucky!!”

He looked like freaking Ryan Gosling for god’s sake! (Which, by the way, he hated being compared to.)

But I was lucky. And I knew it.

Fast forward 11 months after the accident, many, many, many, MANY (times infinity) tears later, and I’m really feeling the loneliness.

I haven’t even kissed another human on the lips since the day before he died.

It’s quite a bizarre feeling to be totally and utterly in love with someone, but actively searching to hook up with someone else.

Cue last night where a quiet cocktail housewarming party turned into a tequila, vodka, peach schnapps, champagne fuelled rave. TONIGHT WAS GOING TO BE THE NIGHT!!!

I was going to break that drought, because, “It’s not like it’s going to mean anything anyway.” So I chose to do it at the dodgiest (and only) club in town.

First I had to find my prey. “Mmm, no he’s not attractive enough. Mmm.. He’s a bit sweaty. Hmm… WHAT is going on with that guy’s HAIR?” Ok. So none of these guys were gonna be a Christopher but they were going to have to do.

I started my “sexy” “woops, I accidently bumped into you” dancing, and realised I have the confidence of a gnat whilst doing this. Now, I don’t know how confident a gnat is, but I’m assuming not very. And awkward. Very, very awkward.

Unsurprisingly, none of the guys were confidently striding across the room to give me a compliment. One of them even kind of pushed me out of the way!

This was fucked.

I went and sat down on the dingy, alcohol soaked couch in the dark corner and started drunkenly reflecting my night.

I was competing against girls and getting rejected by guys that don’t even have an inch on Chris. How did my life end up like this?

Oh no. I was beginning to get my drunk cry on. Time to leave!!

After an hour of hysterical sobbing at home I passed out, and today I’ve been left with a killer hangover and lovely, puffy eyes to match.

So can you see why I am screwed?? The Bachelor plan is really starting to make sense now isn’t it!?

I don’t want this life. I don’t enjoy this life.

I just want Chris to be back, farting on me and joking how lucky I am, while seeing in his eyes that actually, he thought he was really lucky too.

Advertisements

I HAVE A MASTER PLAN!!

I am going to go on The Bachelor.

If you have no idea what The Bachelor is, go here: Rosie Recaps

And if you can’t be bothered going there, just continue reading…

The Bachelor is a reality TV program where 20 girls battle for the love of a man which is represented in the way of receiving a rose. No rose? Then adios amigos!!

Now now.. . I hear you wondering, “Why would a broken woman 25 years of age who only lost her partner just under a year ago want to go on such a thing?!”

Well hear me out.

Here is my list of why I should go on The Bachelor 2016:

Reason Number 1: You are forced to go slow. No jumping in bed with some random hottie after 25 drinks which makes you think, “YES THIS IS DEFINITELY THE RIGHT TIME FOR ME TO TRY AND MOVE ON!!” Resulting in the morning after regrets.

Reason Number 2: He has to be nice to you after you drop the W (widow) bomb. If he’s not, the nation would just deem him an asshole.

Reason Number 3: You are subtlety revealing to a wider audience your background story, resulting in a lesser chance of having to reveal the W bomb to suitors in the future (what IS the widow etiquette here? Date 1, Date 2, Date 3? Anyone? Anyone??). Admittedly there is a slight flaw in the plan at this point as the likelihood of the audience being single, heterosexual males is quite limited.

Reason Number 4: You get to dress up and look hot in sparkly dresses while drinking copious amounts of alcohol, DUUUHH.

So as you can see this plan is ingenious and is MUCH better than my Options A, B, and C that I wrote about here:

In our year of living together in Australia, Chris and I would watch a renovation reality show called The Block religiously. Chris was super duper talented at building things out of wood and my eye was quite adept at styling. We made a pretty incredible team (and a beautiful house) and just to put the cherry on top he was a major hotty to boot! I thought we would be a shoe in for sure!!

Chris said no.

I can just see him shaking his head, showing his amusement with a slight grin on his face at my master plans right now…

Jeez, I’d better get on with practicing those head and body photo shoots needed for the application!!

DISCLAIMER: This post may or may not have been written with tongue firmly in cheek…

Maybe.

Where’s Home?

11813294_10154613227737925_2751075423724233808_n

When you discover the horrific news that your partner has been killed you find it very hard to imagine that someone so full of life, someone so healthy and happy just cannot come back.

I’d spent a lot of my relationship missing Chris, separated on opposite sides of the world, bogged down by paperwork and money, waiting for visas to be approved and taking full advantage of my holiday to Europe I had been planning for the last 5 years by taking small fortnightly trips to far flung countries.

All the while missing Chris.

In fact although I enjoyed my trips around Europe, my favourite part of the holiday was boarding the plane with the full knowledge I’d be seeing his handsome face again in a couple of hours.

The butterflies would start in my stomach as we began to land, my steps becoming more rapid until I was stalled by customs. Moving as quick as I could through the gates, bursting through with my bulky, unsteerable bag.

And there he would be.

Hands in pockets, head down, until he would look up and smile and his eyes would lock with mine. I would feel my face crack into a giant grin.

“Hello,” he’d say in his soft, always polite English voice, “How you going?”

My too-heavy bag would be easily lifted with his strong hands, both the size of dinner plates, and I would be whole again. Protected, and where I was meant to be. With Chris by my side.

… So I’m used to this constant ache. This constant need to see the person you love, but being made to wait.

But I’d always see him again.

What now?

It reminds me of a quote from the Sad Book by Michael Rosen, “I loved him very, very much, but he died anyway.”

I miss him very, very much… But he’s not coming back.

MY DOG ATE CHRIS’ HAIR!

Is one of the more peculiar phrases I am finding myself saying as a Widow(ish)… But it’s true.

She really did.

When Chris died the police officers said I wasn’t allowed to see him because of his horrific injuries. I fought them. I physically fought them, pushing them, kicking them, throwing myself at them. It didn’t make a difference. All it did was make the female police officer start to cry…

The officers gave me a promise to calm me down. A ‘white’ lie if you will, but I’m not sure how white it really was. They told me not to worry. That the morning wouldn’t have been the last time I saw him – with hungover, blurry eyes as I mumbled a goodbye. The coroner will have a look at him, and you will be able to see him then they said.

The young girl on the end of the line, she sounded the same age as me. She stuttured as she spoke and I knew it was bad news… More bad news. I wouldn’t be able to see him. At all. So badly disfigured, not even the morticians could patch him up. That was it. He was gone. Really gone.

No more Christopher. Ever.

It was like being told he had died again. I howled, and I broke, and I fell to the floor.

No more Christopher. Ever.

Ever.

I wanted to stroke my hand over the soft hairs on his chest and lay my head down so I could hear his heart beat. I wanted to stroke my hand over the back of his neck where I could feel the stubbly, prickly hairs starting to grow back from his haircut that I had given him. I wanted to cup his face, stroking his coarse beard with my thumb, and smile at him as I did whenever I felt that extra surge of love that just randomly hits you when you are with THAT person.

I couldn’t do any of it. He was gone. And I couldn’t even say goodbye. …

But back to the eaten hair.

The next stop after the coroner’s office was the Funeral Home where I was actually lucky enough to be able to hold his hands. I even tried to have a sneaky look underneath the white sheet, trying to grab as far as I could to give the best cuddle I could give (which consisted of me hugging his forearms basically).

I still wanted to stroke his hair. I still wanted to stroke his beard. Our Funeral Director was this lovely short and stout Scottish lady, loud and brash and full of humour… I wonder how she got into the business? Anyway, I digress..

I started making my ‘weird’ requests.

“Could I please have a lock of his hair? And ummm… Could you also cut off a bit of his beard for me?”

She reassured me that wasn’t the weirdest request she had ever had, and I don’t actually doubt her one bit.

I received the hair in two small fetching (sense the sarcasm) blue, velvet bags. On the inside the hair was zip locked into two miniature ziplock baggies, probably to keep it safe I imagine, rather than keep it fresh like it’s designed to do to cut up carrots.

I opened them up and took a whiff. This was it, this was going to be my connection to Chris I was so badly craving! I sucked up the air through my nostrils like one tries to suck up a thickshake through a straw at McDonalds and… “BLERGH!” I felt instantly sick. His hair didn’t smell like him at all. It smelt like a mix of cheap deodorant and formaldehyde (which the cheap deodorant was trying to cover). Now that was a smell I did NOT want to remember.

It didn’t even look like his hair! Well it did… But his hair had become ultra blonde from working in the sun however clumped together in this little tuft it was mousy brown. And without the contrast between the spiky hair on his neck and his skin it just felt coarse and, not like the back of his warm head at all.

Now don’t get me started on the beard clippings… I could have just got the same effect digging out his old shavings from the sink!! I don’t know what I was imagining when I asked for these things, but I guess it wasn’t this.

So there the two blue, velvet bags have sat, in a basket, in the corner of my kitchen bench for 10 months now.

Our dog is half beagle, half cocker spaniel. She LOVES jumping up and getting into things. ESPECIALLY bags. It was probably only a matter of time before they got grabbed… And I like to think she can still remember the smell of her dad.

Really she did me a favour in the end.

Here is a video of a Beagle doing what our dog loves to do. No joke I once came home from work and she was STANDING on the kitchen bench.

Enjoy!

Intelligent Beagle

The Randomness That is Life…

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds – Into My Arms:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEUgORVsECs

As many of you are aware, Nick Cave suffered the shocking loss of his teenage son on July 14. For those of you who don’t know Nick Cave he is a famous Australian musician who has had a profound impact on the Australian music scene. Oddly enough, he was also on the same flight as me as I returned home from the UK after laying Chris to rest there.

After 20 hours of flying, many of them with silent tears falling from my eyes, I was a greasy, broken mess. And there Nick Cave stood. Right next to me. With his flashy clothes and his giant gold watch. At one point I even thought he was talking to me, before realising no, he was actually speaking to his manager who was standing directly behind me. His baggage came out first, as it does for a first class passenger, and then he was gone.

And there I was.

Still tear stained.

Still broken.

Still waiting for my bags.

I was bitter. I was angry. I was hurt. “Why do some people get all the luck??” I thought to myself. “Not only money, but fame, security, a loving family. EVERYTHING…”

Then this tragedy happened.

No one deserves this. No amount of money, no amount of achievement counteracts the amount of pain you feel when you lose someone so loved.

It was at this moment I realised we are all in this together.

Amanda Palmer puts it so eloquently here: http://blog.amandapalmer.net/20150716/

We all have the same vulnerabilities no matter who we are.

I wish the Cave family the deepest of condolences and the love of those around gets them through..

XX

‘The Road Not Taken’

For as long as I can remember, I have been a planner. Chris even used to make fun of me and my constant lists, and my holidays’ itineraries I would prepare 6 months in advance. It probably stems from growing up with the unpredictability of a bipolar mother and it’s consequences… Like not knowing where our next meal was coming from or whether I was going to be screamed at that day. Planning gave me stability. It gave me a goal to aim for… And for the last 10 years that strategy has been working well for me. I graduated from high school. I went to uni. Got a good paying job. Travelled, and met a (fantastic) life partner. Money was building up for our first house… But no one could have planned for this.

So now I am totally lost.

Here are my options (If I were to continue to be my old organised self.)

OPTION A

I try to imagine how it would have been if I had never met Chris, what my plan would have been then. Perhaps I could just continue on that path? But it just doesn’t seem right… If I had never met Chris I would have returned from travelling and gone back to the city to continue teaching there, buying an investment property, wining and dining on the weekends, playing netball on Wednesdays and socialising with friends from high school and uni. I would have continued to do these things with my ultimate goal being to meet someone, granted I was going to have fun doing so… And if I didn’t? I would have been enjoying my journey along the way too much to even notice. Now, I want to meet someone, but I also DON’T want to meet someone. It’s more out of loneliness and comfort rather than wanting to meet a new partner. An investment property? I have no idea what I’m going to be doing in a week let alone throwing down a coupla 100k on something that will tie me there. As for my old friends? This plan would have worked fine 3 years ago having only been out of their lives for 2 years, it would have been like nothing had changed. Now I have been out of their lives for 5 and in that time I fell in love and lost my partner in the most tragic of circumstances. They didn’t even know him… They and I are very different people to who we were and I almost don’t even want to build that reconnection at the moment. Too much effort for my already broken soul. So at the moment OPTION A is out.

OPTION B

I continue working up here in the country with the friends who became like family and who knew Chris and I inside out. They watched as our love blossomed and became our first friends as a couple. They saw us develop our house into a home and grow our family with our puppy, Willow. We shared our dreams with them and they shared their dreams with us. We held their newborn children. They were there when I got the news. They cried with me and they held me. Now on the face of it, ‘Option B’ seems like a winner… But… It is here I feel lost. It is here where the accident happened. It is here I feel like I am keeping going just for the sake of keeping going. This place represents every hope we had… And everything that is now broken. Everything I see and do reminds me of him here. From the shops to where I walk my dog. Understandably my friends want to talk about Chris with me here, which most of the time is great… Except sometimes I wish my brain would stop constantly thinking about him. That hurt is always there, here.

OPTION C

I kind of fell into teaching and although I do enjoy it, I do wonder if this is something I would do for the rest of my life. In the past it didn’t worry me, as Chris and I were discussing having children in the near future and I believed my new ‘career’ would be staying at home and mothering them. We did say however, that being a stay at home (for me) probably wouldn’t be enough. Although undoubtedly it is the hardest job in the world, the constant monotony of certain aspects of it would probably drive me bonkers.. The idea was floated that I study midwifery part-time, off campus, while I had the kids (see what I mean by being a planner, it was all mapped out!!) Birth has always fascinated me and seeing as it was going to be a part of my near future I was incredibly inspired. I also took inspiration from Chris’ past bravery… After leaving school and qualifying as an Engineer at uni he landed a cushy job, but for him it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a true passion. So he left his job and went back to school to qualify as a carpenter, a job that resulted in a pay cut. To his dying day he was using that skill to build furniture, a career he wanted to do in the future. I just loved that he had the balls to do that. Anyway, back to ‘Option C’. I go back to the city and study midwifery, using my teaching degree to teach casually. I will live with my dad and my mind will be occupied by full time study… This sounds good in theory, BUT midwifery earns a whole 20 grand less than what I currently do AND I will be losing all my benefits I’ve gained over the last 5 years of working as a teacher. I will be leaving my ‘family’ up here, and I will still have the same disconnect issues from my old friends as with ‘Option A’.

I guess the moral of the story is every option is now fucking scary. The world and future that once looked so bright and hopeful is now dark and full of unknowns.

I just hope I choose the right one…

The Difference Between a Young Widow(ish) and a Young Widow(er)

Chris and I had a whirlwind romance. It was no joke, like the plotline of a movie. One of his friends even suggested that we write a book about our story!! Chris was travelling around the world from England, and I was working in a small country town in Australia as a Teacher. He and his mate had ran out of money so they went their separate ways and began working as farmhands to get some extra cash. One night in my town there was a rodeo. Now, if you met Chris or I you would soon realise that we are both not your stereotypical rodeo attenders!! The likelihood of us both being there at that moment in time was so small… Anyway, we had a literal eyes lock across the room moment, he came up and spoke to me and as they say, ‘That was the end of the story!’ Except it wasn’t. We ended up chasing each other around the world, knowing that we were to be together forever… Which I guess brings me to why I am a Young Widow(ish) and not a Young Widow(er). Chris and I never married. We didn’t ever fully intend to either. Sure the idea was always at the back of our mind, but we were committed to each other. We loved each other. We travelled across the world for each other, and would do anything the other needed. We didn’t NEED a wedding, so made commitments in other ways, Chris giving up his life in England to come and join me here. The fact that he was a mad motocross fan and would spend thousands of dollars on motorbikes probably affected the choice as well.. “You can’t ride a wedding!” he’d always joke.

I guess that’s one of the reasons I’m writing this blog.. Even in the ‘Young Widow’ world, I don’t seem to fit. Young Widows range from 18 to 60 somethings, however the most vocal seem to be that middle aged group who have built their houses, had their children and their marriage for at least 20 years. When they’re talking about their children who are the same age as you, you tend to get a bit resentful and bitter that they were so lucky to have that time. I am not saying it is any less painful. It’s just so different. So damn hard to relate to! I live in a town where the median age is something ridiculous.. Like 7 years old or something. That’s because it’s a working town, where young men and their partners come to earn some serious cash and set up their families. Exactly what Chris and I were trying to do. Although marriage wasn’t really on the cards, children definitely were, with him even saying the week before he died, “I’m ready. I want one.” It was a topic we would discuss daily. We were saving up to buy a house, and if he was still here we would have done so by now. What I’m trying to say is, I’m surrounded by people who are having babies and getting married. 9 weddings so far just from my workplace alone this year. The babies have already started popping up from them. I guess I just feel so isolated. From my little bubble that I’m living in here, but also in the online bubble as well. I hope from doing this I will maybe find some people I can relate to.. Or even better perhaps someone will read this and be able to relate and get some relief themselves.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑