How are you? How’s things? How are you doing? They’re questions everyone asks. Not just when you’ve just lost someone you love, but all the time. I’m not even sure if we really want a proper answer when we do ask the question. I do it myself: “hiya, how are you?” It’s just my way of greeting people. So many people do it. But when you’re grieving that question takes on a whole new meaning. There’s a mix of emotions. You can see people looking at you to see what your face is telling them. You wonder, do they want the real answer or the answer that they’re going to feel comfortable hearing? You’re not even sure yourself what the real answer actually is.

And I’m not criticising anyone who asks me that question. In fact it shows people care, so I’d be gutted if I wasn’t asked anymore but I have to say it’s the hardest question in the world to answer right now.

How am I? I find myself answering with “I’m ok.” “We’re getting there.” “Not too bad thanks.” Easy answers because not only do I not have to think too much but the person asking the question doesn’t have to deal with what comes out of my mouth if I tell the truth.

The truthful answer to that question is that I don’t know. I don’t know how I am. I just am. I’m surviving. Getting up each day. Carrying on. I just am. I’m not ok. I’m not sure I ever will be, certainly not in the way I was before. I just am. But that doesn’t seem like adequate enough answer. Sometimes I feel like I have to say more. Go into a deeper explanation of how I am, but it’s so hard to explain as it changes from second to second, minute to minute every single moment of every single day.

At mum’s funeral the celebrant talked about something C S Lewis (I think that’s who she said anyway) said about grief. That it’s like a blanket. And I guess that is the best way I could find to describe how I am.

From the moment we were told the cancer was terminal (and in fact probably from the first moment we got the original diagnosis almost 4 years ago) I have been under a blanket of grief. Sometimes it is a thin blanket made out of that voile stuff. It’s so thin you can almost see through it and so light you could almost forget it was there. But it is there and I know it is. You may not be able to see it but it’s there, I promise you. Other times it’s made of the thickest, heaviest material you can find. There’s not a drop of light can get through it and it’s so heavy it’s hard to breath never mind move. And it constantly switches and changes from one end of the spectrum to the other and often somewhere in between. But it is always there. And the hardest part is I never know when it is going to change or what is going to make it change. Seeing Mum’s writing in Grandma’s dairy, of plans they had that Mum didn’t live to carry out. My daughter telling me that Grandma was watching her do sports day even though she wasn’t there. Walking into her house and seeing her soap on the back of the sink. So many little things which just pop up from nowhere, into my mind and pulling that blanket down over me. That must make me hard to be around because you never know which me you’re going to be faced with. And I could be the happy laughing me one second and the sobbing hysterical me a second later because anything can change that blanket of grief at any moment.

Every happy moment is tainted with this feeling of sadness. Knowing that Mum isn’t there and never will be. Tomorrow my eldest child turns 10 and his Grandma isn’t there to see it. And she should be. Last year on his birthday she was in hospital as she wasn’t well and I remember feeling so sad because she kept missing out on things. What I wouldn’t give now to be going to see her in hospital. And it feels so unfair. And I wonder will I ever be able to have a happy day again without that overwhelming feeling of loss at the end of it? Sometimes I have to walk out of the room and just pull myself together because carrying on and being ‘normal’ is the hardest, most exhausting thing I have ever had to do in my life. And I ask myself do I even want to get through a day without that sadness? I’m not sure I’m ready for that stage just yet.

 I had this meeting last night at school where they give us advice on applying for secondary schools and that was hard to get through. Not only because of the emotions of having a child about to go into year 6 (already!) but because they told us to pick the school that we think would suit our child the best. I’m not sure. I don’t know what the correct decision is. I’m torn and the one person I would have asked for advice from would have been her. Because she’s a little more removed than myself or my husband and she could always make me get things sorted in my head. And we were so similar that she could always get me to where I wanted to be. To where my gut was telling me I needed to be. But I can’t ask her anymore. It’s all on us. We have to decide it ourselves without her and that terrifies me. A friend of mine told me this week that her Mum always validated her and I loved that because that’s what my mum always did for me too. No judgement. No making me feel bad about myself. Just support, love and understanding.

My eldest also played cricket for the school team yesterday and she wasn’t there to ring afterwards to tell her he got 3 sixes. It sounds silly but those are the times I miss the most. So many little things to talk to her about. And of course I am braced for the big things like birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas but I’m not braced for those little moments that pop up throughout the day because I didn’t know they would upset me until they’ve already upset me. And of course this happens in my head. On the outside those changes to my blanket tend to be invisible. Nobody can see that I am different to how I was a second ago, which is so hard. Hard and lonely. Because if you’re not there going through that with me then how could you possibly understand? If you knew Mum you’ve probably got your own triggers and you might even realise that something has upset me as you’ve made the connection too. But for the people who didn’t know her you’re really fishing around in the dark. It’s not your fault. It’s just the way it is.

So in answer to the question of how am I? I am under a blanket. Sometimes I can manage my blanket, sometimes it almost engulfs me. Sometimes I can get on with everyday life whilst wearing my blanket. Sometimes it is so difficult I almost sink. The point is, I can’t answer your question as I don’t really know myself. I just am. But what I also am is surviving. For her. For my children and for myself. Because that’s what she would want for all of us.

One thing I do know though is that I don’t want you to stop asking me how I am as one time I may just need your help to lift the blanket. And one day that blanket might be thin enough that I know how to answer your question. x