livinglifeafterdeath.com/blog

Grief I’ve decided is a physical and emotional process, and just when you think you are okay, you’re not.

I’m weary of the treadmill that seems the destination to nowhere, and feel bored but can’t be bothered at the same time.

A close friend in exactly the same situation read me a recipe of all the ingredients of grief from a booklet she has been given from a bereavement support group this morning.We had to smile at each other as both of us could confidently tick off the complete list – so we are just normal it seems.

Like me she thought things would get better with time, like me we agree at this moment that isn’t true.

Doing something healing, think that’s got to be the plan. So looking backward and processing the past rather than trying to invent a new future is my most recent idea. Quite surprisingly I’m finding it a comfort this afternoon and I am grateful to myself that I wrote down our stories in Telling tales.

I’ve decided to try and collate my favourite poems, so for the next few weeks they’ll be appearing again here. I’ve tried to extract them with AI but even James couldn’t make the process work, so it’s down to me and copy and paste, so I hope you will be patient.

Each poem brings back a memory, some happy others less so. If I feel I can get enough worthy of publication, then I might try to put them into a book in future. Perhaps you might like help me judge.

Anyway I’m going to start to wade my way through volume (one of twelve) and see what I find.

And to start with – Ken’s beloved Leeds.

1. Ken’s Footie Poem

I used to know the offside rule

Position in the league, 

The tactics and the transfer deals

Managerial intrigue. 

A mind of useless information 

Used to network and start conversation.

The names of every player,

The grounds for every team,

Points and tables,

Fees and scores,

Now not important as before.

Today’s about the atmosphere, 

The feeling, 

Joining forces,

The hope, the crowds

Anticipation, 

The Choir of raucous voices.

The skill is still appreciated, 

The balance and control, 

Watching set creative pieces

Resulting in a goal.

Young Mavericks, Old Masters

Making poetry with motion,

Elation and then deep despair, 

A graph of raw emotion. 

Being part of something big,

When the world is getting smaller, 

No one cares about dementia, 

Passions all that matters here.

Talking’s getting harder,

But I can still ‘sing’ every song,

Releasing deep frustrations,

In the throng of everyone. 

A Goal!!!!!!

(I’m not sure if it’s ours)

Or even if we’ve won,

But I’ve had the ‘old’ me back again,

For 90 minutes with my son.

2. Ken’s Poem (adjusting to a diagnosis)

Once I was a joiner, a builder, businessman

Anticipating challenges with a well thought backup plan.

First it was the numbers,

Then measuring, then time

Days and months got muddled 

This was the early sign.

The Doctor called it pressure, anxiety and stress

I even got top marks,

When I did the dementia test.

But something wasn’t working

Not functioning as it should, 

The doubts crept in,

The worries,

I wasn’t understood.

Like pieces of a jigsaw,

A small part of a whole

We’re not connected properly 

Resulting in a hole.

More tests,

We kept on fighting, 

To find out what was wrong, 

The CT showed no tumour,

But the diagnosis took so long.

Results were a relief that I hadn’t made it up,

And though there is no cure,

It’s the only comfort that we took.

We applied and tried for lots of trials,

With hope inside our hearts,

Perhaps we could help others

If only in small part.

Then dashed and down and feeling sad,

We mourned the future we might have had.

The tablets started ‘kicking in’

An life was good again,

I knew my limitations and learn to live with them,

But boredom raised it’s ugly head,

Retirement too early,

I need to get another job

For a sense of feeling worthy.

So applications and on line- though difficult to do

We’re mastered by my loving team

And I got an interview!

Six months passed as a porter,

In our local hospital, 

An experience I treasure, 

A privilege 

A joy 

I left before my memory made me make mistakes, 

But I will always feel the pride and warmth

That making a difference makes.

The staff on every level

And patients strong and weak,

A portrait in humanity 

I never thought I’d seek.

And now

It’s sometimes difficult, 

To catch my thoughts with ease,

To say the words I’m thinking, 

As they flutter in the breeze,

And sometimes days are hazy,

And sometimes days are clear,

We have to take them one by one

To banish any fear.

There is so much positive in life

And time is passing by,

Enjoying is essential 

There is no time to cry,

So do the things with those you love,

You really want to do,

And when you don’t know what they are

Just make up a few!

The deeds may be forgotten, 

But the feelings are the same,

Feel warm and safe and happy 

Don’t stand out in the rain.

The little things that matter 

Don’t always cost that much,

It’s more about a friendly smile 

A kind word or a touch.

There’s still time for adventure though 

To see and do and share,

And when it might not seem like it 

Know just how much I care

For I have had a lucky life

In many ways I see

And every day is special now,

Making the most

Of who I can be.

Next I find a poem describing how it felt for me and others dealing with their partners in the same situation

3. Carer Feelings

If I said how it feels

It would only make things really real.

Nothing can be said or done

The changes can’t be overcome.

The leaking sieve 

The grains of sand

We can’t hold in his open hand.

I say the same thing once again 

And watch my tone with care

Pretend it isn’t on repeat 

Enthusiasm share. 

Sometimes it’s difficult explaining 

Simple tasks

Without complaining, 

And what went well just yesterday 

Is no guarantee of what’s today. 

Repetition is no key

Information’s lost so instantly 

One thing at once with no exception

When he struggles with his recollection. 

Distraction makes things harder

And focus waivers badly 

Confusing situations 

It always turns out sadly. 

Mood can change and so does outlook

Such varies day on day

The positives than horrid falls

The brightness turns to grey.

I can not challenge or debate 

The logic isn’t there

So I just go along with it

To show how much I care.

I try to make the feelings good

And hope, that they will stay

Just a little longer

As the memories fade away.

For those who do not know the stealth this illness has

It steals the skills, the hopes, the dreams

The change comes slowly so it seems,

But looking back so much has gone.

We can’t dwell on what used to be

Or what we both thought might be done

But plan to make the best of things

And prepare for what’s to come. 

Alzheimer’s isn’t easy

It touches all the family. 

The world no longer makes good sense

Everything is hard

Protecting with a great big fence

Constantly on guard.

The balance is so difficult 

Independence v carer

Working out the boundaries 

Making choices fairer. 

Respecting the person

Keeping them safe

Giving freedom

Trust and faith.

Picking up the pieces when it doesn’t quite work out

Giving time and patience 

When your instinct is to shout.

Dementia slowly wilts the flower

But keep it blooming on

With love and hope and tender care,

‘Til the final flower is gone.

I did my best to protect Ken until the end, but when I wrote this I’d absolutely not a clue of the journey ahead.

Enough for today

The surgery fills with a certain demographic, over 60’s. Saturday, and today the flu clinic.

We’re checked in by a receptionist sitting in the glass entrance wearing a thick jacket and a blanket on her knees. The door is wide open it’s eight degrees but her smile is warm and welcoming.

Military rows of chairs, I smile to myself as I find a vacant seat the lady next to me looks as if she has just rolled out of bed. She’s wearing sliders and leopard skin fleece pyjamas and obviously not in the mood for any conversation.

Meanwhile the lonely looking man on the red plastic chair next to her has a jacket and tie, dressed to impress, his only appointment for the day perhaps?

I watch the information screen, how to get help without bothering the GP it seems. The number of other providers and services available is even for me a bit confusing. Seems you can self refer yourself to all manner of organisations.

Interestingly mental health is the major theme, youth services, bereavement counselling, the social prescriber, 111. I’ve never really had any interest in any of it until now.

By the time the clock shows 8.30 am it’s standing room only, and there’s a growing restlessness to get things going. On the dot a lady in a high viz gilet and gold wedge sandals (which I think seems an odd fashion choice) calls out the first person’s name, someone gets up, and suddenly the machine that it is a flu clinic rolls into action.

My name is called soon after, and I dutifully follow the lady in fluorescent to my appointed clinic room. I pass three ex practice nurse colleagues on route, they say ‘hello’ but there’s no chance to chat, each appointment is allotted two minutes and there is a long list after me.

‘Date of birth, well today?‘

‘Usual side effects are………‘

It’s a familiar mantra I have practiced hundreds of times in the past.

I just answer the questions and listen politely.

A pro, I’ve chosen my own clothes carefully this morning, vest top and cardigan, for swift deltoid exposure, unpeeling layers and layers of clothing was always guaranteed to clog up the system.

‘A sharp scratch’

There momentarily a little discomfort, and then I’m escorted out through the back entrance; the surgery is operating a one way system this morning.

It’s a funny feeling being on the other side of the fence. I remember well my flu clinics of the past. It was always quite a special sort of atmosphere, production line definitely, but I hope everyone was made to feel individual and important.

I used to love it, my main problem being avoiding been drawn into any other medical issues by patients who felt they had an opportunity.

‘By the way, could you just …….

Or of course

‘While I’m here?’

Two minutes is not enough time to sort out any extras and diplomacy key.

Driving home reflecting it feels like that was someone else’s life. I’m reminded how confident and capable I once was, I had a job I loved and was good at. One of the Nurses I briefly met this morning started the same time as me and is still working. I wondered how my life might have turned out differently.

Coincidentally the counselling stuff still has me confused.

I have so much to be grateful for, kind friends and neighbours who care. I’ve been given advice from all angles, one retired psychologist only advocating peer group therapy. Then another who has taken professional advice for me, and says I have to work past the barriers and defences I’ve set up to protect myself, understand where they have come from and learn not to always choose the same familiar paths.

ie keeping busy all the time to shield to shield my self.

As a result I’m postponing choir and PT for a bit, working on letting me feel what I am really feeling – though it’s not always what I want to feel.

It does feel like a struggle just now, but I have hope, and the sense of inner peace and self worth I’m aspiring to might just take time.

I see myself in this description, there’s no denying that I keep myself busy: the planning project, the garden, two very different charities, writing, grandma duties and family, moving things around in the house, forever trying new things. However I don’t think I’m running away from myself.

There’s a much more nuanced possibility: being busy is one of the ways I’ve coped with enormous change. That’s the purpose of this blog – to tell how it is.

Up until now I have had a very full life and many responsibilities, today I am trying to adjust to a new chapter. I’ve recently been experimenting and exploring sometimes random things because I don’t really know what my future holds .

Maybe I’m trying to build a new version of me, I haven’t the luxury of time and in my mid sixties and I’m trying everything that I can, making up for lost years I suppose. The hard bit is more about working out what I want and what I want my legacy to be.

Three of my major labels have been crossed out.

Wife, Carer and Daughter.

I’m there for the rest of the family of course but it’s not quite the same.

I’ve invented other ‘labels’ to fill that big gap.

Writer, Youth worker, Trustee, choir member, gym member, Park runner, Bike rider, I can’t quiet justify Sky diver but you get the idea – the list goes on…….

Talking to another lady in a similar situation to myself at WI last night we concluded that we both feel the same way. We both feel cheated, though nether of us feel bitter, it’s just a desire to make life matter, make it our turn whilst we still can.

Being busy is proof that you are moving on in others eyes. In our society the person who has a full calendar is to be applauded and praised. As the article suggests this isn’t always a healthy attitude.

With help from counselling I’m in a new learning phase that I’m not finding easy. When life becomes quieter, feelings that have been hidden underneath activities start to rise to the surface. It doesn’t mean activity was deliberately used to avoid things, it just means ‘I’ve spent years looking after everyone and dealing with what needed dealing with. Now I’m having to discover what I want my own life to look like.’

Maybe I’m finding a much kinder interpretation, but I’d recommend everyone read the article above.

I woke up in a cold sweat and with a thumping headache. The dream I’d forced myself awake from, (before my alarm) is still vivid. I was crying in my sleep; deep uncontrollable sobbing and painful tears.

I don’t remember the context but I do know in my dream I was a child. I’ve a hazy recollection of Mum and Dad.

The sheer intensity shocked me, I felt emotionally and physically exhausted.

It’s Thursday, I reached for my phone to check not on breakfast club duty – it was left a little vague for today. There’s a swift reply, I can have the morning off. (I can’t pretend I’m not glad). Hauling my aching body from the damp sheets I get into the shower, maybe I can wash away this lingering anxiety.

I cancel PT. The thought of torturing my body further seems impossible, then I crawl back into bed and sleep deep and dreamless for another two hours.

I could hear Hettie down stairs shaking her collar, she is usually the last up in our household and she’s ready for breakfast. It’s a subtle hint for me to move.

I reach for paracetamol to hopefully ease the aching dullness I’m feeling every where.

The sky is blue after over night rain it’s unseasonably warm- I’ve no idea what to wear but to be honest I don’t really care. It’s the decision making process that is the problem at this moment.

So what the hell is wrong with me? Something tells me that I am not really ill.

Of course be lying if I pretended I didn’t think I know.

I’ve been struggling more than I want to admit to myself recently.

I know to expect six months after a bereavement is going to be a brutal time . Thought I was invincible though, that I’ve done grief as it has ebbed and flowed for the last decade. Suddenly it doesn’t feel fair that I’m experiencing the second wave potentially a tsunami.

I know enough about the brain to know that it will try its best to process what has happened in my lifetime.

Crying in my dream is a sign, a deeply meaningful and necessary reflection of where I am in the healing process.

Now that I have started counselling I am hopefully safely opening the boxes of suppressed emotions, but also am promoting my subconscious mind to do exactly the same thing while I sleep.

No wonder it is difficult and hard to do.

For 10 years, I had to stay strong and put my own feelings aside to care for Ken and the kids. Maybe my mind finally feels safe enough to drop its guard and release those years of survival stress?

Dream tears, it is said, act as a literal and emotional release valve. It is the brain’s way of clearing out the years of sadness, frustration, and helplessness I obviously couldn’t fully express at the time (though I tried to share in my blog).

With my sensible head back in gear this afternoon, I understand waking up after an intense emotional dream in a cold sweat and with headache a very real physical reaction to deep psychological stress and grief.

Indeed when you begin opening up years of suppressed emotions in counselling, your nervous system can go into a ‘fight and flight’ response during sleep. This surge of stress hormones (like cortisol and adrenaline) causes your heart rate to spike, triggers sweating, and tightens blood vessels, which often results in a waking headache.

This is often a common physical response to severe stress, trauma, and grief processing.

But does anyone ever tell you you might feel like that?

No, so that’s the reason I am sharing with you.

I’ve got a counselling session this evening so it’ll be interesting to find a if my theory is actually therapy.

One step at a time.

But I feel much better with a little understanding.

Just where has September gone?

Today the 28th and Mum’s heavenly birthday, for her as soon as it was over it would have been the count down to Christmas. Mum always wanted presents bought and wrapped by the end of October.

Today is typically autumnal, or ‘back endish’ as one of my cycling pals would say. I watched as the gentle mist rose from the dew drenched grass in the park this morning, greeting the pale sun as it rose in the cloudless sky. A definite chill early doors, and the wellies are back out of hibernation.

Some things resolutely hanging on to summer while others committed to change. I’ve roses still in bud in the garden but the mighty copper beech is already in autumnal mode, the fruits of her labour a constant challenge. Prolifically she drops her prickly four lobed woody burrs, each containing one or two hard triangular nuts. I’ve already filled next doors and my brown bin and there’s still millions more to fall, and that’s even before she undresses for the winter.

Looking up at her magnificent might it’s hard to believe she was once a single nut no bigger than a bean, at 150 years old I often wonder at the stories she could tell, I truly believe given the opportunity she would create a forest in her likeness. The arborist said she was reaching her peak, middle aged she is unfazed and determined in her mission of procreation.

Pulling my jacket a bit tighter I recognise fashion is ‘At an in between stage’ for all of us. The choice of dress first thing often feels inappropriate by lunch time, but then the temperature drops quickly again as the sun sets. It’s a case of layers and preparing for all eventualities.

September is the start of change, January may be the start of the New Year but I believe that the ninth month is another beginning. As the evening draws in there’s new series on tv, school terms and after school activities begin again and a new routine starts.

I have filled my time since Ken died, mostly with the grandchildren, but September means preparing myself for the darker days ahead I dread.

And so there’s Youth club, the familiar faces and the new ones, the monthly women’s institute. I’m yet to get back to choir, but have fortnightly counselling sessions and local charity work to keep me busy. Still there is a hole that I’m not quite able to fill no matter how much I try. My concentration is improving a bit but I find it very difficult to feel absorbed by anything, reading a book, watching tv, my mind is constantly preoccupied it feels, with something I can’t quite comprehend.

‘So is this it?’

‘Is this how it is going to be?’

Despite the outward appearance I’m careful to share, there’s a dull numbness inside which I can’t seem to shake with action or positivity. I’m letting you in because I know I am not in anyway unique in this. Faking all is fine may just convince me it is okay.

My own research and experience of grief tells me six months is a notoriously exhausting and brutal stretch in the process. At the moment the wall in front of me is very high and I can’t quite see over it to the future, the one that should have been our retirement is a barren wasteland.

In the immediate weeks after loosing Ken shock and survival adrenaline have carried me through. Then the initial feeling turns into realisation. Quite naturally people get on with their lives, and expect you to too. Not in a bad way, just life goes on but it’s now that the permanent reality of absence sinks in deeply. Weirdly the dementia is fading, I’m now much more acutely aware this isn’t the life we planned with travel and experience like the other couples I know.

I’ve known it for ten years but for some reason it is now a permanent thing.

This is going to be a tough season, I’ve already preempted it with a long overdue visit to family in Scotland with my sister, then a solo city break to Iceland. (Somewhere else we wanted to go to).

I’m pushing myself with other projects too, with a mixture of positivity and doubts. Something Ken would have had all the experience and skills to make happen. Not having him makes it harder and makes us miss him all the more. His loss is felt deeply, I’d love to just be able to talk to him and share the vision.

I’ve seriously wondered if the bereavement counselling is helping or making things worse it has certainly made me feel more vulnerable, maybe that’s a good thing, I’ll talk about it with my counsellor next time.

Never ending circles, thoughts going round and around. I absolutely know that this is normal and I will see over that fence when I’m ready, I just have to be honest with myself and take the time it takes.

Life without Ken was never going to be easy.

My iPad is playing up and I can’t quite get to grips with the new laptop, it’s been a busy few days, my excuses for the absence anyway.

With Mum and Dad both away in different countries, ( not great planning we all agree) I’m on intensive grandma duty for a whole week.

Tomorrow is the last day, and even now, I know I’ll miss my charges, they have both been good fun.

Logistics I’ll admit have been a challenge at times, getting both of them to different schools in ‘rush’ hour traffic has been a military operation, but so far no one has been late and we’ve remembered everything we need.

It doesn’t stop there though, there is football training, jazz and tap, acro, swimming and more after school football, and of course Hettie needs walking and we all need to eat!

Inside the school hours I’ve spent more in the supermarket than I can remember in a long time, and the pile of washing never seems to go down.

But every second is worth it. They kids are confident and happy. After a week now I think thoughts are turning to their own home, but there have been no tears or drama.

I admit feeling very anxious at the start. Last week’s counselling session left me very confused and I felt a real dip in my confidence levels. Anxiety isn’t an emotion that often overwhelms me, but I did feel strangely unsure of my capabilities. A nasty tension, and a churning tummy which made me wonder if raking over the coals of the past was a good idea.

Thankfully a couple of old friends have helped me to put things in perspective.

1. It’s not even six months since Ken died yet.
2. Opening the Pandora’s box of deeply buried emotions and feelings is bound to have consequences.
3. Recognising what I am experiencing is a positive thing – and something to discuss at the next session.

A couple of things have gone a bit wrong this week, the main one being I didn’t get into the Leeds game when my ticket didn’t scan – long story, but the sheer disappointment and fear of letting down my grandson was enough to almost overwhelmed me. I had psyched myself up so much in preparation.

I wanted to cry, not just about that, about life, the dam holding back much more than I thought was suddenly in fear of being released. Thankfully I kept myself together, but as we sat on a wall watching hundreds of fans pass us by, I felt terrible.

Thankfully after a forty five minute diversion James once again came to the rescue – the boys did get to see the most dismal of nil nil draws.

Moving on, I’ve learnt of another dementia death today, and my heart goes out to another wife now widow from our era. The range of emotions is unquantifiable, grief and relief a powerful cocktail all of us face. Young onset dementia certainly knows how to mess with heads.

The kids are just in bed, my grandson has realised he thinks he left his school shoes at school after football training, they’re not in his bag anyway, he walked to the car in his footie boots.

Kids are worry and pleasure in equal measure- there’s always something.

No panic . It’ll wait until the morning. I’ll write a note to explain the rather conspicuous white trainers he’ll have to wear to school.

Then Dad can take over.

Learning new things in your 60’s gets harder. The brain automatically sets itself to default.

It may seem completely ridiculous to some of you tech savvy younger people, but navigating from a very faithful but increasingly tired and frequently needs charging iPad to a lap top has proved more difficult than I expected. I couldn’t even scroll the screen up and down without googling how – who knew you need two fingers?

Today we are increasingly dependent upon technology, I rather wonder how my generation coped without it. I have to say that I am pleased my grandson’s new secondary school hasn’t dished out tablets to everyone, handwriting is a dying art but it is still given merit in his classes.

Our language is changing, I’ve only recently heard about Chat GPT, Co-Pilot and AI. Apparently this artificial intelligence is becoming so clever new legislation is coming to try and regulate it.

Protecting the future generations will be tough.

But I do understand how used the right way AI can be incredibly useful as long as it doesn’t stop people thinking for themselves or living in a virtual world.

It can provide precision with skilled application and can do mundane tasks incredibly quickly, but its doesn’t have the experience of life we as humans have.

Getting the balance right is the challenge we all face.

‘It a secret, no-one must know my daughter tells me – but it’s a nice story for your blog.’

My granddaughter is back at school, year four, and there’s a realisation that she has more responsibilities now she is in an upper class.

Apparently she felt a bit sick yesterday, Mummy got a call almost at the end of school, but it wasn’t a physical sickness more a deep disappointment, and bubbling anger she’s isn’t accustomed to feeling. Obviously the new teacher hasn’t worked her out yet.

She wanted to stand for the school council again but her teacher adamantly refused her request.

She was a school councillor in year one, so was denied the opportunity to have the role again despite her understanding you can apply again after two consecutive years have passed.

She had her canvassing speech already worked out, (to be honest I was rather surprised that she even put herself forward), only to be crushed without even having a chance to represent herself.

But that wasn’t the only blow.

The class were ask what charity they wanted to support this year.

There were lots of suggestions pertaining to dogs and cats, and that is probably what the teacher might expect. However this young lady has lived all her life with the shadows of Grandpa’s dementia and she wanted to help dementia charities.

When it came to the class vote she didn’t get a single one.

Apparently the teacher didn’t give her the opportunity to help the her classmates understand what dementia is. Her friend said later (with an air of guilt at not being supportive), that the teacher skipped over the suggestion. She knew exactly why her friend felt sick.

Perhaps the teacher thought it was too tough a topic for the class to discuss?

Anyway the dogs trust was the winner, puppies are a much softer option after all.

My granddaughter is eight, with more knowledge than most of the devastating disease her Grandpa lived with. She saw an opportunity to do good. It was that that upset her, nobody else cared.

Mummy gently explained that most of the class wouldn’t even know what dementia was.

Perhaps she could think of a way to raise funds by herself to help people like Grandpa in his memory instead?

I’m not supposed to know, but had tears in my eyes when my daughter relayed this story this morning.

I felt so proud but so sad.

I think a coffee morning may be on the cards.

Tomorrow our daughter is forty.

Forty.

Where did those years go?

There will be cake, celebration, laughter and lots of love. A milestone birthday deserves nothing less.

But for me, tomorrow has extra meaning

It was our wedding anniversary.

Forty years ago, our daughter was born,

On our third wedding anniversary,

And not just on the same date.

Our first born arrived at the exact time we had said I do.

1.30pm.

It has always felt like one of those extraordinary little coincidences that life gives you — two of the most significant moments of my life forever joined together by a date and a time.

For years, her birthday simply trumped our anniversary.

Of course it did.

There were presents to buy, parties to organise, candles to blow out and a little girl — and later a young woman — to celebrate.

Our anniversary was never forgotten. It just quietly sat in the background.

Tomorrow will be her fortieth.

And it will be her first without Dad.

That is the part brings tears to my eyes.

But I won’t put a shadow over her special day.

Tomorrow belongs to her.

I also know that, somewhere amongst the celebrations, I will be thinking about Ken.

I will remember us both, the young couple who had no idea what life would bring them.

And I will look at the woman our daughter has become.

Strong. Kind. Loving.

I’ll remember that although one of the people who gave me those two extraordinary moments is no longer here, something of him remains.

In her.

Perhaps that is what makes tomorrow a mixture of emotions.

I have lost my husband.

But I still have one of the greatest gift our marriage gave me.

A daughter.

Tomorrow I will celebrate her.

I will laugh. I will raise a glass. I will watch her turn forty and wonder, as every mother does, how on earth the years passed so quickly.

And somewhere quietly inside me, I will think of Ken.

Two beginnings.

One date.

Two of the most important moments of my life.

Happy 40th birthday, my beautiful girl.

A family break to celebrate a milestone birthday.

Impeccable timing as all seven of us arrive at exactly the same time.

Recent heavy rain has magically turned the scorched forest green again, and the faint smell of pine and damp earth brings back memories of our happy times here in the past.

The kids are chattering excitedly, the two cars are loaded with food, clothes for every season, and everything will need – all to be moved into our villa as soon as the clock strikes two.

About ten minutes to wait were all stood together waiting.

Suddenly James spots something and says, in a hushed voice.

‘Look up there!’

We all divert our eyes to a low lying branch literally inches above my daughter’s head.

My heart leaps and my eyes prickle.

A Robin cocks his head and watches us down on us all.

It’s as though he’s counting and checking all are present and correct.

No fear, he watches us, watching him.

We all feel the presence of someone loved,

Ken definitely sending us a sign, ‘Have a good time’.

Some might call it coincidence, I truly don’t believe that, our first trip to Central Parcs a favourite family place. Our first trip back without Dad.

Ken wanted to give us his blessing, and with that he is gone.

We’ve a lot of memories to make this week, but that was a moment non of us will forget, Ken is still with us.