Stuff II: The Really Big Stuff

I want to preface this post by giving you a heads up that it’s a bit ‘heavier’ than previous posts, and subsequently, the number of funny gifs are at a minimum.

In an earlier post, I discussed how people are left with stuff after someone dies, and the hardships and struggles that come along with this particular aspect of grief. The fact that you are left with objects that suddenly have lost their original purpose and how it is up to you to go about finding new meaning, redefining their value after their user has gone. In that post I outline three main types of stuff: stuff you throw away, stuff you donate, and Big Stuff. The latter being the kind of object that strongly represents the person who died and can be reimagined as an item that provides that specific warm, sad, melancholia that anyone who has lost someone knows intimately. 

However, I alluded to there being a subsection of Big Stuff that requires its own post: The Really Big Stuff (again, anyone out there with a better phrase, I’m all ears). This is the stuff that has an exceptionally powerful emotional component to them and also can’t easily be repurposed, for either practical or heartbreaking reasons. Found in a sort of liminal space that a few rare objects exist. For me, I have two pieces of Really Big Stuff that are both linked to each other. This is a post about these two items.

The first is Julie’s engagement ring. I bought it with my sister from a jewellers in Glasgow before I immigrated and proposed to her surrounded by all our friends at the camp where she grew up and where we first met, a truly perfect memory.

Jules wasn't one to wear rings, but she wore it with great pride and would love any and all compliments she’d get on it. I had made a distinct choice to not go down the super-traditional route of it being a diamond ring, and instead chose one with a sapphire as it’s centre stone, intending to match the beat-of-your-own-drum energy that Julie radiated so strongly. The idea of a ring being some sort of token of quasi-ownership (the ‘he put a ring on it’ of it all) was not something that either of us were super comfortable with, so she made a point of buying me a watch in reciprocation. Now, instead of having something that represented one person’s agreement to marry the other, we now each had an object that stood for the deep love and care we shared for each other.

This ring now sits in its box on my chest of drawers. During the shiva and on specific dates in the time since like birthdays and anniversaries, I’ve worn it on a necklace that she received from my parents, which offers some comfort, but that's only for a fraction of the entire year. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t think I’ll ever know what to do with it. It can’t be donated, it can’t be thrown out. It has become a relic of our relationship. I know that what I need to do is work on accepting that this new purpose is purposeful enough, and that I will hopefully find comfort when I tbox, but that reality feels a long way away.

The other piece of Really Big Stuff is a whole other thing altogether, her unused wedding dress.

Julie was passionate about costume, fashion and design. From the get-go, she knew she wanted a dress that was personal to her, that was different from the traditional. She reached out to a designer in Ottawa who had designed a dress for a best friend, and started working with her on creating something for our wedding. We were both keen to a) not spend ludicrous sums of money on a dress and b) to create something that could eventually be altered and adjusted for future use so it wasn’t a one-off dress. She spent ages finding a fabric that she liked to send over, and would sketch multiple ideas out before settling on the direction she wanted to go. In what feels like a poetic level of tragedy, Julie never got to wear this dress as, thanks to COVID, our wedding got postponed twice, and then cancelled after her death.

The wedding in particular, is such an intense space of sadness for me. It was initially planned for August 2020 so, by the time lockdowns started happening, we already had it pretty much planned to the minute. We had a schedule, band, food, drinks all sorted out. We had acquired the materials to make our chuppah (wedding canopy) and had spent significant time with our rabbi writing a kettubah (marriage document) that reflected our values. We were completely ready to go. This was going to be our one big opportunity to get both of our families and friends together to celebrate. We had chosen to wait two years from our engagement to have the wedding so as to allow everyone from all over enough time to make arrangements. This is one of my few lasting regrets of it all. We pushed the wedding twice as it became clear COVID was around for the long run. I have emails from family and friends in response to our postponements sending good vibes and messages along the lines of “at least we now have something to look forward to when this all ends”. This seems comically tragic at this point. It is so gut-wrenchingly frustrating that we never got there in the end.

So now, in our best friend’s mum’s house, there hangs a one-of-a-kind wedding dress, its purpose never fulfilled. It goes without saying, but it’s absolutely gorgeous. I saw it for the first time about 3 months after Julie died and it was definitely the most I had teared up since the funeral. I had debated trying to take a picture of it for this post but I couldn’t bring myself to look at it again, especially so close to her birthday.

I know that what I should do with it is donate it to a charity that can provide affordable or free wedding dresses to people who, as everyone does, deserve the celebration they want without the financial burden, but as of yet, I just can’t bring myself to do that. I know I’m under no pressure to do so and things will happen in their own time, but also I know the dress exists and is 20 mins away from me right now, just hanging there. This dress, that is a direct reflection of her taste and passions, that is shaped like her and is the single most powerful marker of a wedding that never happened. One that she was so excited for, that we had planned, that invites (and reschedules) had been sent out for. The one physical object that remains from this is her wedding dress. Giving that away feels almost impossible at this moment. This is definitely one of the more bleak ways to end a post as I know the ‘stolen wedding’ is a particularly tragic aspect of my circumstances, but unsurprisingly, grief can be exceptionally bleak at some points.

And this is the unfortunate reality of it all. Despite our best intentions to try and find some heartwarming and meaningful new purpose in the stuff left behind, sometimes, it just isn’t achievable. Sometimes, that new purpose is a reminder of what once was. A reminder of what was lost and what can’t return. It becomes ‘Sad Stuff’. It won’t get thrown out, or given away (at least immediately). It’ll likely follow you from place to place, just living it whatever space it’s been given: a drawer, a box under the bed, a shelf, existing as relic of a previous life. Ultimately, it’s about accepting that this is inevitable and knowing that hopefully, that raw sadness mellows out over time.

I’m not there yet, and I have no idea what measure of time it might take for this change to happen. I do have faith that eventually I will be able to figure out a solution with the dress and find a use for the ring, but it’s fruitless to try and force that progress. As new experiences, people and stuff enter my life, what already exists will naturally find a new space and meaning. As goes a motto between me and a best friend, that’s much easier said than felt.

This post has been distinctly more intense than others (at least from my perspective of writing it), and I feel that I don’t want to leave it on such a bleak note, so here’s a fun gif of a dog.

Birthdays

Today, April 7th, is Julie-Rae’s birthday. She would have been 32.

Birthdays, anniversaries, Fridays, there are an endless number of dates and days that have had their significance or impact twisted by the events of the last year and half.

When someone dies, each ‘first’ is particularly challenging. The first time you sleep alone, the first time you make dinner for yourself, the first time you do laundry for one etc. Each of these feel hollow and weird, like you’re suddenly out of practice and have been left unprepared. However, these firsts quickly become seconds, thirds, fourths… Eventually, you do them so regularly that they get redefined and a new norm is created. They still feel empty, but less unfamiliar and more predictable.

Important dates don’t follow this pattern. Or, perhaps they do, but the time scale in which they go through this change is greater than I have yet to experience. Since Julie died, there’ve been two of her birthdays. I’ve had two birthdays. There’s been one anniversary of her death. They haven’t had the time to become ‘normal’ or familiar. They’re still shocking and disorientating. I’ve cooked dinner for myself hundreds of times since she died, I have ‘celebrated’ her birthday twice.

Birthdays in particular hit hard. These were days that used to be filled with joy. Days that were exclusively for the other person. I shamelessly used to love my birthday. I think I’d be characterised as a fairly humble person who doesn’t particularly like being the centre of attention, but I loved that I had one day a year where you were essentially allowed, and encouraged to be, the focus.

A long running joke between us was that Julie was a terrible gift giver, while I was an exceptionally good one (one of the very few areas that I could claim the crown). Each year, bless her, she’d try and do something different or considerate and would always end up whiffing it at the final stretch. Things wouldn’t be ordered correctly, I would end up buying it for myself and she’d have to come up with some convoluted reason why I really should return it etc. etc. However, on my 29th birthday, the last one we’d spend together, she knocked it out of the park. COVID obviously limited her ability to go to stores or find an ‘experience’ based gift but, on the morning of my birthday, she presented me with a custom apron complete with a bespoke ‘logo’ and my name stitched into it. As someone who adores baking and would regularly end up flour covered, I truly could not have asked for a better gift.

However, what Julie was exceptional at when it came to birthdays, was birthday cards. Each year I (and various friends) would receive a hand made, personalised and intricate birthday card that reflected my interests and demonstrated the beauty of her creativity. They were, and still are, my pride and joy. That someone would put that much effort into creating something exclusively for me for no other reason than because they thought I deserved it was incredible.

I still have those cards, and for the past two birthdays I’ve had without her, they come out of their box and I read through them. They talk of her joy at the idea of spending our lives together and her excitement for our wedding. They are her joy and boundless creativity captured on paper. I have memories of her tucked into the corner over her crafting table, shooing me away every time I tried to sneak a look, that brings me that warm sadness each time I hold them.

A selection of birthday cards

Now my birthday rings hollow. Yes, friends and family make it a special day and I am surrounded by love, but Jules is so noticeably missing. There no longer is that one dedicated person who shares the day with you and makes it all about you. It was always hard to feel deserving of being on the receiving end of such a clear expression of her love towards me, but seeing someone put so much effort into making a day special just for you, because they loved you and cared for you and, to them, you were worth every ounce of their effort, that was magic.

Widowhood is constantly a double edged sword, as not only do you lose your partner, but you also lose being a partner. Not only did I lose the person who would invest their time into making a day special for me, I lost the person for whom I loved celebrating and making feel special.

As I said earlier, there have now only been two of her birthdays since her death and therefore there’s nothing that’s familiar yet. I have made a concentrated effort to continue to recognize and ‘celebrate’ her birthday. The day defaults to sadness, so I’ve focused on trying to ensure some joy and festivities continue to exist in her honour.

This mostly involves food.

Today, I had planned on going to the cemetery, and honestly, I can’t really think of a reasonable explanation why beyond, ‘it just feels like the right thing to do’. However, because the world seems to be scheming against me, the cemetery is closed on her actual birthday this year because of passover. Even when I attempt to make sad-plans, the universe decides that’s a bit too comfortable for its liking. One meal has also been dedicated (ideally with friends) to Julie’s all-time favourite food (and my competitor for her heart), pasta.

The other thing we do, not necessarily on the day itself but around the general period, is connected to how this blog got its name.

For Julie’s 28th birthday a large group of us gathered to eat dumplings at a dim sum restaurant downtown. During this meal, we came to the conclusion that dumplings might be the all time best food type. Every culture seemed to have their variation on a dumpling and they all seemed tasty. And so the idea for the greatest dinner party of all time, Dumplings of the World, was sparked (early iterations called it Dumpling Barmitzvah but this was quickly dropped for inclusivity purposes).

Unfortunately, COVID got in the way and we were never able to realize Dumplings of the World with Julie present. During one of the intensely tumultuous days of Shiva (stay tuned for a post on ‘traditions’ surrounding death) at my place, we all sorta felt the weight of that lost memory and endeavoured to actualize it in her honour.

On April 9th, 2022, two days after what would have been Julie’s 31st birthday, we gathered to eat dumplings from all over the world. We laughed, we reminisced, and we ate. I took a photo of the spread, which our blue-tick verified friend Michal tweeted. We went viral.

The tweet the broke the internet (and our chat group). Michal would also like you to know she was blue-tick verified before Elon started making it a paid ‘privilege’.

Dumplings 2.0

Now, there was nothing about Jules in this tweet, but it brought me a lot of comfort knowing that an event hosted in her honour had been spread far and wide, and seen by over 9 million people. It clearly brought joy to others, they just didn’t know who they owed that to.

The dumpling tradition has continued. Last Saturday 15 of us all gathered again for Dumplings 2.0 and stuffed our faces one more time, because that is exactly what Jules would have wanted us to do.

Birthdays suck and will always be a difficult period for me, but (as has become a bit of a running theme with these posts) reinventing them with new traditions that honour her memory makes them a bit easier to stomach, even if that stomach is fit to burst with dim sum.

P.S. My aforementioned talented friend, Michal, wrote a beautiful essay around Jules and Dumplings of the World that was published in a Dumpling Anthology (yes, such a thing exists). Should you be interested, you can purchase it here or at other non-local options

Stuff

In what will come as a surprise to absolutely no one. When someone dies, you end up being left with a lot of stuff.

Now, obviously there’s the infinite amount of emotional baggage that you inherit, but I’m talking about the actual physical things that you are left with.

Almost the first question that needs to be addressed after someone dies is ‘what do we do with all their stuff?’. There’s likely stuff everywhere: clothes, knick-knacks, something in the fridge, books, the list goes on and on. Suddenly, all this stuff becomes ‘heavy’. Heavy with memories and burdened with purposelessness. A toothbrush abruptly loses all its function. It just sits there, unable to fulfill its duty, 9 out of 10 dentists agree.

In most people’s circumstances, there’s an added element of surreality in which this stuff is almost frozen in time. The moment of death is rarely known, so when someone does die, their spaces, and the stuff within them, are left frozen in their last moments. Laundry might be in the washer, dishes left out, or makeup not put away. For me, this is what I came back to when Julie was rushed into the hospital. Some sort of macabre museum to, what would become clear a few days later, the last actions she took on this earth.

So we end up back at the question, “what do we do with all this stuff?”. There’s likely going to be so much of it and it's now just sitting there. For me, this was deeply upsetting. I was left with countless things that now were going unused, wasted, and it really felt endless.

This leads to the unfortunate conclusion that some things just have to go to waste. I was left with multiple months' supply of contact lenses, endless bottles of nail polish, socks with holes in them, and many other things that just couldn’t be given away. Things that were only able to be used by her and can’t be used by anyone else.

So this then leads into the next step of, ‘what to do?’. What do you keep? Most things can be organized into 3 general categories: dispose, donate, keep. Each category with their own subsections and range of challenges.

Some stuff just needs to get thrown out. It feels so wrong to do this, partially because it feels like a waste, but mostly because each thing thrown out reinforces the harsh reality that they aren’t coming back, that no one is going to turn up and be annoyed that their stuff is missing. This process is painful, but that fades fairly quickly after the deed is done. The items were likely inconsequential, so their memory will fizzle away before you know it.

Then there’s donating. Most stuff will likely fall into this category. It’s the stuff that’s perfectly serviceable and could be used by others. The first pass through will be family and friends. People who will get use out of certain clothes, accessories or, in my case, the coffee machine. This was one of the more meaningful and rewarding parts. Knowing that family and friends would be able to take some sort of token or reminder of Julie’s life and that the item would continue to have a purpose. Anything not taken by others in this category gets donated to charity, the ‘everyday’ clothes that you know if you were to bump into someone wearing them, you wouldn’t immediately think “oh, that’s the thing they wore…”. These will at least hopefully provide some comfort that they will help others.

Finally, we get to the hardest one. The ‘Big Stuff’. The main type of Big Stuff are the items of which there is a strong emotional attachment to. This could be some particular pieces of clothing that were their ‘statement piece’ or a deeply personal item such as a diary. These items are the very essence of the person, they embody aspects of their personality, and represent (in the literal sense in the case of clothes) the fabric of their being.

For me, these were pieces of her  jewellery, some art work, and a handful of sweaters and dresses that Julie adored and would wear regularly. In particular, a bright orange knitted sweater that, as far as I’m concerned, she was the only person who could pull off that colour. It was also her bullet journals, labours of love and fastidious organisation where her creativity and talent shone for no one to see but herself. However, these items still, at the end of the day, sit there unused. I don’t know if I’ll keep them all forever, but I also can’t bring myself to throw them away.

It’s in this weird limbo where their purpose gets redefined. They function no longer ‘to be used’, but have morphed into a conduit for memories. That they act as a reminder of her essence while also being a tactile, physical thing, reinvents a new meaning and purpose for them. Whether or not this purpose remains the same forever is doubtful, but I guess that’s part of the process. This transformative act of establishing and building new purpose for these items is they key to ensuring things don’t feel like they are going to waste. The item continues to be useful, just differently than their creator had intended for them.

There is a subsection of Big Stuff. The Really Big Stuff (look, branding isn’t my strong suit…), but that will come in a future post. That’s a whole other dimension of upsetting that deserves its own space.

Stuff is such a huge part of loss. Things lose their meaning and purpose, only to go on and have those attributes redefined to become objects of memories. Some stuff will provide comfort, maybe immediately, maybe after an unknown amount of time. Some stuff will find new life with someone else, continuing their purpose and providing closure in knowing that they are being put to good use. Some other stuff will just be there. Not really knowing where it should go or what it might stand for. Loss is sad and trying to find meaning/happiness in everything associated with it is futile, some things will just remain as holes of sadness. Accepting this reality is where peace can lie.

Finding Others (Getting Help pt. 1)

The human brain truly is not equipped to handle intense grief on its own. We don’t have the vocabulary to express the intricacies and nuances of the experience (see: the fact I've needed to write multiple blog posts to even get a mild grip on things). In the early days, I could actively feel my brain compartmentalizing things and locking away certain worries or intrusive thoughts for a later date.

“Don’t worry about affording rent right now, you're good for at least a few months, focus on making sure you get dressed and have a shower (not in that order)”

- My Brain, probably

I thought of it as some sort of survival mechanism. My brain knew that I was in the midst of a hurricane within a whirlpool within an tsunami of worries, emotions, and stresses, and it knew it wasn’t able to handle it all at once, so it actively shut things away. I want to write in more depth about this part of things at a later date, but what I want to focus on now is how it became almost immediately apparent that this defensive action from my brain wasn’t sustainable. I couldn't keep putting things in boxes marked ‘Later’ forever, but also, I was in no way equipped to open the boxes that already existed alone. I needed help.

via GIPHY

I went back to Glasgow for a month or so after Julie died to be with family, take some time to recover, and to step back from ‘real life’ so I could have a moment to think about what would come next. One thought that kept coming back again and again in a way that almost felt compulsive was that I needed to talk to someone who had been in my position. I yearned to speak to anyone who might be able to understand, or could shine even a dim light on what might lie ahead. It became almost obsessive. Any time I’d try and think about what comes next or what I needed to do, I would always default to, “I need to find someone like me”.

Most of this stemmed from feeling so truly alone in the whole experience, which makes sense. The “Widowed Before 30 Club” doesn’t have the largest membership, and is not a club that you go about boasting being a part of. You are surrounded by countless loved ones who want to help in whichever way they can, but ultimately fall short at the final hurdle. They don’t know what it’s like to live this experience. They can empathize, but at the end of the day, their life will continue mostly as it was before. The entirety of my life and what I had envisioned would come next had gone. I needed to know I wasn’t alone. I wanted to believe that things would get better.

This was meant as a joke, but honestly, there’s some truth to the fact that the idea that things could get better felt alien and impossible

This drive led me to Bereaved Families of Ontario (BFO), a free-to-access charity that provides support services for those who have experienced a loss. The real pull of BFO is that they are peer-led. All their facilitators are people who have experiences a loss in one way or another. Put simply, they ‘get it’. As soon as I found them, I reached out and signed up. I was paired up with a facilitator who had been through a similar experience as me for a few intake one-on-ones and it was a game changer. Here was someone who, when they said “I understand…”, I had no sarcastic response to, because they truly did know. They validated each and every worry, thought, emotion, and idiosyncrasy I shared and it truly felt like a weight was being lifted off of me. My experiences were ‘normal’ (in a highly abnormal situation to be fair), which was such a relief.

These intake meetings were done in preparation for an 8-week support group, the “Younger Spousal Loss (Under 55 Group)” (‘Younger’ doing a lot of heavy lifting when you realize you’re almost half the age of the cut off). Without a doubt, this was the single most impactful and restorative ‘healing’ steps I took after Julie’s death. Suddenly, I had gone from feeling completely alone to meeting and hearing from 10 other people who were in, or had been in, a similar place as me. Here were people who weren’t quite in the boat I was in, but we were definitely adrift on the same ocean. Absolutely everything was validated, here were people who did understand, they didn’t need to say they can only imagine how what it must be like, because they actually knew what it must be like.

They were also all at different stages in their grief. I was one of the ‘freshest’, while others were months, or even years, down the line. Now, I was meeting people who had managed to reinvent their lives, start anew and take ownership over their tragedy, turning it into a positive force of their beings. There was hope.

Me being introspective at group therapy

It also allowed me to shine a light back on myself in ways that I wasn’t expecting. While listening to everyone share their personal stories, I was overcome by how sad and tragic they all were. I even caught myself thinking, “my god, I can’t imagine what that must be like.” before realizing, “Wait… I know exactly what that must feel like…”.

Moments like these really reinforced the surreality of it all. But also these moments allowed me to better understand how my friends and family must feel towards me.

I found the whole experience transformative and invaluable. It by no means ‘cured’ my grief or made everything better, but I can’t stress enough how powerful that level of validation was. These were my peers, I wasn't alone, things will change.

I am indebted to BFO for the comfort and peace of mind they provided me. I highly recommend anyone who is experiencing a close, personal grief to try and find a group of people with similar experiences. Company really is the best medicine.

The Most Wonderful Thing About Triggers...

Just in case the ‘joke’ in the title was a bit too obscure…

“You can try and prepare for anything you think will be triggering, but ultimately, it’s the random and unexpected thing that’ll floor you.” - Me

In the first few months after Julie’s death, I vividly remember stressing and worrying over my fear that everything would be triggering to me in some form or another. I could see friends and family skirting round certain issues or conversation topics because it was ‘too soon’ or ‘too real’ for me.

I actively avoided any media that involved hospital scenes because I knew I’d get flashbacks to Jules’ time comatose in the ICU. When driving west in the city, I would chose a route that didn’t take me past the hospital. I stopped cooking certain dinners because they were her favourite or something we enjoyed making together. I took active steps to restrict my potential exposure to any obvious triggers.

Each of these were steps I took to try and avoid having a breakdown and becoming paralyzed in the moment. To stop that feeling of the world falling out from under me and everything becoming muffled. Kinda like that dolly zoom in Jaws but, instead of a killer shark, it’s trauma.

Like this, but sad

But, and you can probably see where this is going, no matter how hard I tried to circumvent things or avoid them, time and time again, it was (and continues to be) something totally innocuous or unexpected that has been triggering.

For example, during my first week returning to work after Julie’s death. Obviously there was a lot there that I could foresee: leaving in the morning without anyone (other than the dog) to say good bye to, knowing I’d have to chat with my students about why I’ve been away for the first two months of school etc. etc.

However, what I found out was that I had absolutely no difficulties telling a bunch of 9 year olds that the woman I love had died suddenly and I that I had needed some time to go home and be with my family. I could do that without even a crack in my voice or taking a moment to wipe away tears. Nope, what got me was when I was on recess duty. A kid came up to me and said “Excuse me, do you think someone could ride a penguin like a horse?”. I had never met this kid before, I don't think they even knew me, but as soon as they asked their fantastic question, my hand habitually went to my pocket to grab my phone so I could share it with Jules. Bang. Trigger.

I think a small 9 year old could. I definitely could not.

This floored me. I don’t like throwing around the term ‘panic or anxiety attack’ as there are people out there who are grappling with serious, diagnosed panic/anxiety disorders but I probably was dipping my toes in at the shallow end. I don’t remember the rest of the duty, but I do remember constantly opening my phone and going to messages just in the hopes that something would have changed. For the life of me, I could not shake this fixation on how I couldn’t text her anymore out of my head. It became invasive. The whole day I spiralled around this new awareness, all because of penguins.

And it feels weird. I have very matter-of-factly, with total nonchalance, told the mobile provider that I needed to cancel her account. “Why?” the lady on the other end asked so innocently, “Oh, because she’s dead and I don’t want to keep paying the bill.” I replied casually. But finding a particularly great deal on a new frying pan I'd been keen to buy, I’m a blubbering mess. Do I know why? Of course not. There’s no line to be drawn between a good bargain and our relationship (though perhaps a wittier observer could make a fun joke here…). There doesn’t need to be. What would that help with? Would I have to avoid any and all sales for the rest of my life? My mum would disown me!

And when I say anything can be a trigger, I really mean it. Here is a small handful of such things:

• Having to put the bed sheet on by myself

• A math problem in a worksheet that uses the letters of her initials

• Running out of toilet paper while on the toilet

• Finding a tear in a piece of clothing

• Birthday cards

• Toothache

• Getting my haircut

• A funny looking dog I saw on a walk

Each one of these have, at one time or another, completely derailed my day and brought a whole torrent of upsetting thoughts and feelings bubbling to the surface.

Now, this isn’t to say that the things I can anticipate being triggering, won’t be triggering. A lot of the time they are. I continue to struggle with hospitals (ambulances in particular are quite something!) and certain places still bring back memories of happier times (so then subsequently result in sadness). What I am trying to say is that no matter how much you try and avoid triggering situations, they are truly unavoidable. I can’t hide from everything forever as I will inevitably interact with something that seems innocuous but ends up knocking me off my feet. There’s always going to be that thing that you didn’t think of, or the other thing that you had no reason to think of, but somehow managed to generate a response nonetheless.

Essentially, avoiding things only sets me up for failure. Obviously, I’m not being reckless, but if triggers are unavoidable and unpredictable, I can’t let my fear of them dictate my life. I will go to friends’ weddings, I will watch movies/TV shows involving death, I will go to our favourite restaurants and I will do so on my terms with me in control.

While this post focused on my personal journey and connections to triggers, I do want to write a post in the near future: ‘Triggers + Others: The Admirable (if Futile) Intentions of Those Close to You’ that will explore the weird societal conditioning we have had to feel compelled to protect the bereaved. That, however, is for a later date.

Accepting that everything has the potential to be a trigger has given me an aspect of agency and ownership over all this. I can’t avoid them so I may as well go out there and face them head on.

What's this all about?

On August 18th, 2021, my fiancée, partner and best friend, Julie-Rae King died suddenly at age 30 from complications from a pulmonary embolism.

To put it mildly, this threw every facet of my life into complete and utter chaos.

Happier times with our dog, Daisy

The past year and a half has been filled with an unimaginable barrage of challenges, unexpected hurdles, exceptionally dark humour, and the long and arduous journey of trying to process everything. A journey that is made even more challenging because it is impossible to prepare for. It’s unplanned and unpredictable. There’s no guidebook, no rules, no training. It is a rollercoaster that constantly gives you whiplash, is filled with twists and turns, and dips when you least expect it.

No one really talks about it or prepares you for it which, honestly, kind of makes sense. It’s sad, it’s scary, it’s depressing, why would we want to talk about this before we have to? However, a flip side of this is that grief and all the baggage that goes along with it is shrouded in stigma and mystery. People can’t relate (and it’s a good thing they can’t!) but I’ve found that they also struggle to empathise. Not because they lack empathy or are bereft of emotion, but because there isn’t a strong societal understanding of it all. I hope that this space pulls back a bit of the curtain and shines a light on some of the nuances of at least what I’m going through.

I learnt early on that getting my thoughts and feelings down on paper, or said out in the open is an incredibly powerful tool in this processing journey. Putting words to my feelings and taking time to talk it out helped pieces begin to fall into place. Having a sounding board where I can ramble incoherently until I eventually figure out what I am trying to say allowed me to come to my own conclusions and understandings of what I am/was feeling.

I also learned (re-learned maybe?) that you actually only think you know something but, until you actually experience it, you truly have no idea. The things I have learned about grief and the journey that comes after are all things that seem totally obvious in hindsight but completely unforeseeable in the lead-up.

Lastly, I developed a firm belief and understanding that everyone’s experience of grief is unique and personal to them, but that no experience is invalid or ‘wrong’. Hearing from others who had been through similar experiences was some of the greatest medicine I could have asked for. To have the weird insecurities of my experience (“I’ve noticed I’ve started clenching my jaw more”) validated by others, (“Oh me too! I’ve been grinding my teeth in my sleep since he died”) felt like a whole body wave of relief.

That’s what this space will hopefully be. A place to ramble, to share my experiences, and maybe even help others understand their own processes and journeys after a loss. A place that may feel validating for some and informative to others (or maybe both to some!).

I hope to be able to update this site with relative regularity and I want to try and shine a light onto some of the less-talked about parts of grief. I’m not sure how successful I’ll be but creating a space for me to write (and therefore process) about my experiences helps me stay accountable to engaging with my journey and the progress I’m told I seem to be making.

It’ll be ugly, I’ll probably share a lot more than is considered socially acceptable, and I’ll definitely make jokes that my mum will give me into trouble for, but I’ll be honest and frank. Hopefully that’s good enough for everyone :)