Tony would have been so proud of me last week. I took the punches but kept the temper in check. He used to say I fought first and thought later. I would rant and rave whilst he calmly stood there (probably watching the footie over my shoulder) until I stopped. Then he would pull me in for a hug against that gorgeous, warm chest of his. God, I miss that chest. But I miss not having someone to diffuse my pent up frustration and anger more, someone who would kiss and make it better.

I went to see the doctor about a pain in my elbow that, I have to admit, I’d been ignoring because I didn’t want to stop grooming. The doctor basically dismissed me, saying it was nerve pain because I had an old injury in my shoulder. I mean, she dismissed me in under two minutes saying a physio would sort it out. I felt patronised and annoyed. Then my mother in law berated me, saying my previous blog implied she was fat. I didn’t know she hadn’t heard of that song. She isn’t by the way. And to cap it all, my beloved Land Rover got broken into. Nothing was taken but I felt so violated. I took the punches, ranted and raved to the sky but didn’t lose my rag. The Scorpio’s sting was curbed, I amaze myself sometimes.

Danny Boy and Arry had a rare fight. Although it lasted less than a minute, it was enough for Danny to require stitches in his leg. Yet as soon as they stopped the scrap, they touched noses and forgot about whatever had set them off in the first place. Dogs are funny like that.

I think I’m starting to learn how to do this thing on my own. It’s easy to hate the unfairness of all that cancer bitch took from you but, let’s face it, what good would temper do? Can we change the past? No. Should we shout at the moment? Probably. Can we predict the future? Perhaps. My hurt and frustration at not having a sound board when needed isn’t going to help me get on with this widowhood thing. I tried doing the mindfulness stuff but my brain just doesn’t switch off and Tony’s relaxation breathing technique made me cough. I’d take up yoga if I could stay still long enough. But this Scorpio is rising in the right direction though me thinks, she just needs to keep the claws at bay.

A friend of mine is trying to persuade me to go on a TV programme called ‘First Dates’. She thinks I might find an equally batty dog person. Now I don’t have a face for the screen, my nose is broken and I have a gap in my back teeth. Bless Alex, she said I was being ridiculous and my cheekbones are lovely apparently. I was relaying this conversation to one of Tony’s best friends who also said I was being ridiculous; “Don’t be silly Soph” he said, “they take all sorts”. I love Phil, he knows how to make a girl laugh…..

There are some weeks I have found that can take you to the edge, the one just gone was a prime example. The stress in waiting for that ever dangling probate carrot coupled with endless bills makes me want to cry and scream of the unfairness of it all. The “why me?!” shouts to the Gods above make you feel selfish and useless at the same time especially when you don’t have that calm, solid shoulder that you always leant on at times like these.

I was loading my car for the morning walkies on Tuesday when my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number but unusually I answered it, ready with the ” don’t you think it’s a little early for PPI?” retort but it was my mother in law, Jenny. Jeremy, my wonderful, kind and loving father in law had had a heart attack and died. Shock, disbelief, guilt for the “why me” earlier thoughts went through me and then the realisation that we were both widows now. And Jenny had lost not only her son but her husband too in the space of only 8 months. And then there’s my sister in law, Frannie who had already had to fly back from Australia when her only brother died, now had to do the same for her Dad. I felt sick. There was me shouting about ‘me me me ‘ when , for them, it was a double whammy.

Callum and I drove down to Jenny on Saturday morning. We would have gone on Friday but of course, something always puts plans awry. Danny Boy and Arry had a very rare spat which ended up with Danny having stitches in his leg, my dogs seem to be getting as wound up as their mum at the moment. However we got there, 3 dogs in tow (not Danny Boy, rest for him). Jeremy’s car blocked the drive entrance which was the first oddity as he always moved it before we got there. I had to get in it to shift it forward, that felt wrong and intrusive for some reason. But I did and having unpacked car and dogs, I hugged Jenny and we went inside whilst Callum took the dogs into the garden. The last time we did this was at Christmas and unpacking the car meant unpacking presents, wine and treats – not an orchid to say sympathies or several boxes of cheesy biscuits because Jenny wanted them.

Over the weekend we talked, cried, reminisced. It struck me how different the two of us approached the early days of widowhood. Jenny had nearly 60 years with Jeremy, I had 28 with Tony. Both of us have led an independent life from that of our husbands’ in the sense that we had different interests and friends as well as time doing things as a couple but how we cope with the loss is purely our own. Jenny is one of the strongest characters and Jeremy adored her for it as we all do. She’s a ‘get on and do it’ kind of personality so it was tough to see her crumble and cry, something I still haven’t done but feel it’s looming in the near future if the last few weeks are anything to go by. I found myself suddenly being the ‘expert’ widow and giving advice when asked even though it felt the wrong way round as Jenny has always been the oracle when I needed her. And Jeremy too.

The next few days and weeks are, I think, the easier ones. Organising the funeral, thanking and inviting friends, sorting out paperwork, orders of service, catering etc keeps your mind focused on everything other than yourself. I will be on standby for whatever is needed from me but I know that it is the days and weeks after that Jenny will need us most. And Frannie and Steve (her other half). For them, life has given them the best reason to shout “why me?!”

I think I’ve reached the ‘grey’ stage of widowhood. It’s the bit between the chaos of sorting out your past life as a married person and the frustration of not being able to move forward until probate is finalised. You live in a sort of functioning fog; sleep, eat, work and repeat. It becomes the norm as the rest of the world carries on around you. The rush of friends popping round, ringing and messaging you starts to fade as others get on with their lives and you feel too needy to ring them. So you don’t, you just close the emotional door and pretend you are fine on your own. Clients book in their dogs for grooming or boarding and you smile and say yes. The ‘how are you doings’ become ‘can you/would you’ and you say yes. Anything to fill the days ahead. Home and work become a safety net, the routine keeps you going.

And yet there are those who scupper that routine and badger you into going out even when your mind says ‘no no I’m okay here’. They seem to have a sixth sense for when you are feeling at your lowest and take you out of the dirge. From a last minute text “do you want to go to the cinema this afternoon?” to a “let’s go and see an exhibition at the Tate of someone you have never heard of but might enjoy this weekend” , they get you out whether you want to or not. We know them as friends but they are so much more.

Tony had over 150 people at his funeral, something none of the family expected but were incredibly touched by. He lived for his friends and family and it showed. It wasn’t just the number of donations to the charities we supported, it was how important his friends felt attending his funeral was. People came from as far as New Zealand, Australia and the US to say goodbye and reminisce with others. It was, to say the least, a very special day. But life goes on and the months pass and promises to keep in touch become a murmur.

The funny thing is that those who you least expect are those that walk back into your life. One of Tony’s oldest friends from childhood who, despite living in Australia now, has kept in touch as has one in Ireland. I have to admit his offer of bringing a couple of dogs and having his country cottage to myself is very tempting , I’m hoping Brexit doesn’t ruin that dream! But those who know me best are the ones who never forget. A trip to the cinema and a walk through Leicester Square was memorable as Tony and I spent much of our dating days up there. I loved the exhibition at the Tate, who knew I’d like stained glass that much? And the lunch followed by another cinema showing that ended up in a 5 hour chit chat and far too much wine in the pub was just what the therapist would have recommended.

Friends come and go, that’s life. But this widow will always appreciate the last minute “let’s go” even if I might sound grumpy at the time. Ignore my negatives because your positives stop the fog. As my dogs would say, if they could, every day is a great day to get out of the house…..

It’s been a pretty awful week. To be honest like most weeks, forgettable as in nothing really happened. Just another week counted off, week number 34 to be precise. But it was the first one that almost broke me, I almost stalled the engine.

I don’t think anyone can be prepared for widowhood, it’s not as though it something that’s taught at school or practised like a driving test. It’s like you learn on the job, rushing around like a sugar-shot six year old for the first month or so sorting out funeral arrangements, direct debit changes, account closures and mountains and mountains of paperwork. And then suddenly everything is done, your job is finished. Probate is out of your hands, that part of your life controlled by faceless legals but you keep the engine running because if you don’t, you’ll stall it. And if you stall, will you break down? So you just keep your foot on the pedal, filling your days with work and mundane tasks so you can collapse into bed every night and go through the same the next day.

But I have a secret fuel for my engine, woof oil. For all the times they have hogged the bed, barked at next door’s cat, pooped where you step and left dog hair on every piece of furniture, they are there when you need a paw. They make you get up every morning because you have to go to the park and act like you’ve never seen a park before. They kiss you at the moment you least expected it but needed it most. They snore, fart and bark in their sleep but you know you’re not alone at night.

And so I introduce to you my ‘woofers’; Arry, Alice, Danny Boy, Simi, Evee, Gizmo, Yogi Bear, Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco. The best engine oil ……

Tony always played football on a Sunday. It was the one day of the week he relished, whether they won or lost. He’d then come home, shower and watch the footie on the telly whilst I read or wrote, we always knew what to do on a Sunday.

Tony died in my arms on the 17th of May 2018 at the age of 56. He had just been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer but it was a cardiac arrest that took him from me after 28 years together. The suddenness of it all and the days that followed is a story for another day but the emptiness builds with time. You spend so much time in the first months sorting out what needs to be done so you can carry on without your other half, you aren’t prepared for the ‘what to do now’ when you have filed the last statement. So what to do on a Sunday now?

A great friend who lost her husband two years ago told me not to make any major changes in the first year. Don’t sell your house, don’t change your job, don’t move country. And so far, I haven’t gone that far but I have made a decision about Sundays. Sundays are family days now. The dogs don’t go to the park, we lie in. I get up and make coffee and get back into bed . I watch the news surrounded by sleeping pooches who don’t seem to mind not going to the park, in fact they seem to be reluctant to move at all. It’s as though they know Mum needs this. Dogs are funny like that. I’m not sure what else Sundays will entail but lying in bed with a laptop and a cup of coffee surrounded by pampered passed out pooches is a start.

That’s me, a widow plus woofs starting life again.