Grief

When the storm gets rough

Marz6 Comments

Remembering that it’s ok to not always be ok.

Hi there, it’s been a while hasn’t it? September was the last time I posted on here and that was a huge milestone for us as Sammy started school. Since then, so much has happened – lockdowns, more lockdowns, a cancelled Christmas, vaccinations, elections (am so thankful Trump has gone), the list goes on. I genuinely didn’t expect us to be here nearly a year on. The storm has certainly raged over that time. 

I heard a phrase early on in the first lockdown in March last year which has stuck with me. So many people said that we were all in the ‘same boat’ – but actually we’re not. In the same storm yes absolutely, but not everyone has the same boat. Some have luxury yachts, while others are struggling to keep a dinghy afloat.  And that is the reality. The storm too can rage for people in different ways, some pass through it, taking each day as it comes. Others really find the monotony of life tough to handle. 

“Being lucky doesn’t mean that it can’t feel tough too”

I felt really hopeful last autumn that this thing that has held us to ransom for the last year, might start to leave us alone. But now as we head into February half term (yep, I’m now that person that talks in school terms), I have a 4 year old at home, again, and the juggle is absolutely real. I am clinging onto the fact that he might be able to go back to school in March, so at least work life can feel more tolerable. There is some light relief somewhere in all of this though. If I tell you that just this last week Sammy joined me on a virtual call with one of my teammates Claire, so that he could show her his herbivore and carnivore dinosaur roars, it wouldn’t be a joke. Now, it certainly gave Claire and I a much needed giggle, but there are also days when I just want to shout. Loudly. I don’t have a reason, I’m lucky and I realise I’m lucky. But being lucky doesn’t mean that it can’t feel tough too.

It felt tough last week, I hit a wall. Full pelt. Head on. I remember thinking that I couldn’t remember what my old life felt like. I questioned my marriage, my work, myself. I have since chatted to friends, work colleagues and Stu and the world already feels very different. The power of talking and teaming are very important for me. But for that moment, that week, it felt bloody hard. I know that this wall presented itself as a result of a very full on and emotional few weeks that preceded. You see, as a marketing team, we were grieving. I was grieving.

“The days and weeks after were heavy”

We’d lost our friend and teammate Jack in January in very tragic circumstances. It floored us all. Our sadness and heartache extended to Liz, also in our team and Jack’s partner. Hands down one of the toughest phone calls I have had to take. The days and weeks after that, including the day he was laid to rest this week, were heavy. There is no manual for this type of thing and so you just operate on gut instinct – well, that’s what I did I guess. Your priority is getting arms around the team, but in a way that doesn’t feel like a corporate boilerplate. For me, I simply had to be me. Show them that I too felt their pain. I hope that they knew very early on from the tears they saw me openly shed, that we are all human. 

There was a fleeting moment where I questioned the tears. Is this what ‘the boss’ should be doing in front of her team – our crew as I love to call us. There is a stigma that too often surrounds this concept of leadership and a stiff upper lip. Leadership for me is not about a corporate manual or org charts. It’s about a dialogue between one person and another. It is human and real. I knew very early on when I took this role, that I was going to be me. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am passionate. And above all else, I care. Being anything other than me would have felt dishonest to me and to the team. You will never please everyone, I understand that, but being authentic will see you a long way.

“Just be yourself and do your best”

People will always have a view of what you should or shouldn’t do, and when faced with that quandary I will always remember a great bit of advice I once heard from that wise man, my Dad – “Don’t worry Bella, just be yourself and do your best” and whenever there is a day when even being yourself and doing your best feels too hard, just remember it’s ok not to feel ok.

The irony of grief

Marz2 Comments

If only there were phones in heaven.

I started to write this piece a week or so ago. I edited it. Deleted it. Started again. It goes against all blog rules in terms of word count that’s for sure, but I felt like this was a subject that could go on and on. It’s a funny subject to write about because grief is such a personal thing. It comes in all shapes and sizes. People don’t like to talk about it. They can shy away from it. It doesn’t need to be about death, but it definitely involves the feeling of loss. 

I decided to write this a week or so ago because this weekend sees us dive into Father’s Day in the UK. A day when my brother and I used to take the old man down to a local pub and have fish and chips and a pint (him not me). That was a tradition we had and something that Chris and I (Chris is my brother, for those of you who don’t know), along with my Mum, Stu and now Sammy have tried to do since – fish and chips down the pub. I say since, because my Dad is no longer here. He died in 2011. Milestones and dates always crop up in the year when you are reminded of the loss. Reminded of the fact that you no longer need to buy that ‘Dad’ card anymore. Simple things, yet the things I have personally found very hard. 

“I used to take the old man down to the local for fish and chips and a pint!”

So, what about this irony I mention. The irony that the person you want to talk to about how you’re feeling, what you did that day, that piece of advice you might need. That person you want to talk to about the loss you feel, the grief, is the person that is no longer here. I have said many times “if only there were phones in heaven”. Just to have one more call. One last chat, or in our case debate about some topic or other. For me that comes from the sudden nature of what happened to him, to us. I don’t think that differs if you lose a loved one after a lengthy illness either. Despite having time perhaps to say all the things you want, that feeling of wanting to say more never goes away, for me anyway.

My Dad was the person who was practical, opinionated – and those of you reading this who knew him, know exactly what I mean – he had a solution for everything. Yes, he was stubborn, but he did always have an answer, even if it wasn’t the one you wanted to hear. So many times, since his death I have wanted one more chat. On the big life choices. That void for me is still so huge, especially when it comes to my career and work. He was good at that stuff. Yes I miss so much about him and feel angry that he never got to meet Stu or his grandson, but as a daughter I just wish I could have one more chat.

One of the biggest decisions I ever made when he was alive was when I decided to move to Singapore for work. I remember the calls to my Mum and Dad so clearly. My Mum said “why do you want to move so many miles away. It’s so far, you can’t just ‘pop’ home”, she wasn’t so sure about her baby girl moving to the other side of the world. She relented of course, and was very proud of me, but at first, she wasn’t entirely ok with it. The call with my Dad on the other hand, “Brilliant Bella (my Dad’s nickname for me), you must do it, why on earth would you even be second guessing, pack your bags and go and I will visit you” – all said in his Croatian way. That was the other side of the coin. And I did go, and he did visit. What transpired on the second leg of that work trip, when I moved on to Australia, was that I was in Sydney when I got that call from my Mum to say he had gone. My first thought? I am so many miles away from home. And let me tell you, those words from my Mum rang in my ears on that god-awful flight home.

“Brilliant Bella! Pack your bags and go”

This week I caught up with a work friend who recently lost her husband. We chatted with two other work friends. It was lovely. And all of us on that call, whilst there to find out how she was doing, realised that we had all suffered loss. Different types of loss of course, but we all knew grief. Painful, heart aching, stomach churning grief. And yet we were all surviving. This made me remember a quote I saw many years ago which reads “little by little we let go of loss, but never of love”. That’s why despite always feeling like a little piece of my heart has gone forever and there are days when I miss him immensely, or get choked at realising I haven’t looked at his picture in a while and I’ve forgotten what he looked like, the love remains. What I will add here before we get too tear jerky, is my Dad wasn’t a saint, we argued, a lot, but, as an adult I found that he was the one who gave me the other side to the coin, and without question he loved us. So, the love does outweigh the loss. Always. And it is that love that keeps the loss under control, for me. 

“Little by little we let go of loss, but never of love”

More poignantly, and heartbreakingly, this piece has even more meaning for me, because today one of my closest friends lost her beautiful Mum. I have cried for her. Knowing that she too now is at the hands of grief and loss. A different kind, because it is unique to us all, but nevertheless, a heart wrenching feeling. My greatest hope is that the immense love they had will help carry her through. In the last six months, two of my other friends lost their Dads. Loss and grief are all around for so many, every day. But if we hold onto the love, then that is where we can hold onto hope.

Of course, given it is Father’s Day this weekend, I am now lucky that I get to celebrate another wonderful father in my Stu. Sammy gets to buy him another mug (what else do you buy them?!) and whilst this ‘new world’ we live in means we can’t go to a pub tomorrow; we might keep the tradition alive and have fish and chips! The irony there though, is that I’d love to call my old man to tell him that.

In memory of all those we have lost who are dear to us . My candle is alight.