Author: Naomi

54 Things I Miss About Mum

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Today should be Mum’s 54th birthday. It’s not, because you can’t really have a birthday when you’ve died. I’ve spent the day helping out at Fresher’s, because it turns out life does sort of go on after someone has died, but the other night I was up until stupid-o-clock missing Mum, so I decided to try and write 54 things I miss about her, which wasn’t nearly as hard as it might sound.

  1. She always insisted that chocolate was necessary (and could solve anything)
  2. The times when we’d all jump into Mum and Dad’s double bed together and watch TV
  3. Crawling into her bed in the middle of the night when things were rough
  4. She used to make me cornflakes with brazil nuts and skimmed milk, and bring it up to my room on mornings when living felt impossible
  5. Dancing around the kitchen to Caro Emerald
  6. Spinning on the spinny chair in the office, reading her work
  7. Singing along to American Pie and Living on a Prayer (loudly!) in the car
  8. She would pick up odd bits of clothing from Tesco on her way home from work
  9. Learning the saxophone (aka, the foghorn) with me, then continuing to play it for years
  10. She used to do ski squats whilst cleaning her teeth every morning (quite a sight!)
  11. She would make a smoothie every morning (the noise of the machine waking up the most sleepy of brains)
  12. Birthday teas
  13. The Christmas advent calendar – which she would fill every day (even when I was at uni)
  14. Texting her about anything and everything
  15. People watching from coffee shops
  16. Showing me her favourite place in London
  17. Her reasoned, calm approach to advice-giving
  18. Making a cake every Monday
  19. Hugs
  20. Being quietly encouraging in most of the things that I did
  21. Knitting help
  22. Her amazing memory (something I didn’t always appreciate…)
  23. Watching crappy TV/films together
  24. Feeling Safe
  25. Her love of Wimbledon
  26. Bitching about people on TV
  27. Help with anything and everything academic
  28. Table tennis wind-downs during revision periods
  29. Her famous snack drawer at work
  30. Everything on the shopping list magically getting bought
  31. Running the Fairtrade stall at church
  32. Christmas preparation – the cake, nagging Dad to write the Christmas letter etc.
  33. Thoughtfully buying things that we wanted/needed (before we asked for them)
  34. Not being too easily embarrassed
  35. Her friends
  36. Sitting on her knee (yes, even when I was 20)
  37. Her love of the Dales and being outdoors (and ability to get everyone else up and outdoors with her)
  38. Always being up for giving anything a go
  39. Her hatred of sprouts
  40. Appearing to have all the time in the world to listen to a rant/bad day
  41. Not allowing us to be ill, ever, unless we were dying
  42. Putting courgettes into absolutely everything (what else are blenders for?!)
  43. Damson jam
  44. Never-ending patience with my various artistic endeavours (and the inevitable trail of destruction that ensued)
  45. Putting Christmas CDs on long before Dad saw them as acceptable
  46. Letting my cry on her when everything got too much
  47. Helping me to make good decisions
  48. Helping me to learn adulting
  49. Being patient with me when I struggled to be patient with myself
  50. Sharing memories of her childhood with me
  51. Having so much knowledge on so many different topics
  52. Undying enthusiasm for card games
  53. Her optimism and hope about almost everything
  54. Always, always being there for me.

Here is where you can donate to Mum’s ‘one year on’fundraising page online.

If you’d like to donate via your phone, please text ‘FOYO53’ followed by £1, £2, £3, £4, £5 or £10 to 70070.

Remembering Mum, One year On

~ Naomi ~ 3 Comments

Tomorrow, September 24th 2016 marks what would have been Mum’s 54th birthday. October 23rd 2016 will mark one year since Mum died.

We’ve chosen to spend the next month doing what we can to raise money for Martin House Chlidren’s Hospice. Mum worked there for many years, before later becoming a trustee. They share all of Mum’s values, and do some absolutely brilliant work; providing care and respite for families facing harder times than most of us can ever imagine.

Martin House need around £5000 to install  new lighting in the corridor that links the children’s bedrooms which as well improving the general light levels will also enable the superb artwork that decorates the walls and ceilings to be better displayed. We feel that as well as being a very worthy course – it reflects the light that Mum brought to all of our lives.

We’d love it if you could join us on this (ambitious!) mission to raise this money over the next month, and possibly beyond. We don’t mind how people get involved – dontating directly, holding a coffee morning at work, having a swear box in the office… no donation or fundraising effort is too small (and if you need ideas or want to run it by us, feel free to message me!).

Thank you in advance for any help/donations you can give to this cause.

Here is where you can donate online.

If you’d like to donate via your phone, please text ‘FOYO53’ followed by £1, £2, £3, £4, £5 or £10 to 70070.

Children Can Bring Light To The Darkest Of Days

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Cycling home today, I saw a lot of Mums pulling various uniform-clad little ones across traffic lights, book bags trailing behind them. I also saw a couple of late-teens-early-twenties-aged-child-looker-after-ers laughing and giggling with their rabble, jumping and skipping along the road.

I love seeing it, it’s so lovely to see people happy and enjoying life.

It does make me miss the various little people (and slightly bigger people) I’ve been lucky enough to take care of, though. Growing up, I babysat for the vast majority of the village from the age of fourteen (being a Beaver Scout leader and having younger brothers helps with that!). I’ve lost count of how many lounges I’ve sat in, stories I’ve read, and games I’ve played.

Through volunteering, there are even more hours spent looking after children to add up. The hordes that have come through Beavers, Cubs and Scouts (at one point I helped out at all three, spanning two different troops), and those I worked with when volunteering with Shout Out Leeds, with Team v, at a school or two, play groups and church.

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When working in a toy shop for a few years, I met a lot of kids, some very briefly, but there were other more regular shoppers who I got to know quite well. As a student ambassador for a couple of years, I interacted with children and young people of all ages. With many it would be a ten-minute chat, or occasionally a day doing various activities. But residentials were the best bit of the job: whole weeks getting to know some incredible young people, being privileged enough to share their stories, hear their worries, and listen to their hopes and dreams. There are so many young people who I got to know really well, but who I will never see again.

Out of all of the children I’ve looked after, there are a couple who have, perhaps, made the biggest impact on me.

The twins who showed me that even though the world can be ridiculously rubbish, there are still smiles to be had, and Peppa Pig can fix almost anything. They showed me that what my body looks like doesn’t matter, so long as it’s healthy enough to take them swimming. They reminded me that baking can be fun, giggles are infectious, and that mess can be joyful. Their Mum recognised that things could be rough, cancer was rubbish, and hugs from little people were sometimes all that was needed to calm a storm.

The three children belonging to my friend. The youngest, born just a month after Mum’s terminal diagnosis, reminding me that life is cyclical and though people die, and it’s crap that they die, people also live, people are born, and life is precious. The middle one has enough energy to keep a power station active for a week and an imagination to rival that of acclaimed writers, who continues to show me that dreams are important and life isn’t as serious as you think. The eldest, an incredible footballer with a big heart, always outside playing with his friends – a continuous reminder that life is greater than these four walls.

Finally, the two boys who I spent Summer, Easter and Christmas with for three years. The boys who baked with me, swam with me, built dens and Lego models with me, ran down to the river, came to the library and tackled buses with me. The boys who took me to the Great Yorkshire Show, the Royal Armouries and Leeds museum. The two boys who let me kiss things better, let me hug them, let me care about them through a time when the world felt so uncaring. However rubbish my night had been, whatever crap was going through my head, however downright awful I felt, they never failed to lift my mood, show me how to smile and bring light to the darkest of days.

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Kids are incredible (as are many of their parents!). I’m not entirely sure how/why their parents decided I was responsible enough to keep their little people alive, but I’m so glad they did. I don’t know how many of them will remember me when they are my age, but I will remember many of them.

Summer has come to a close, and I haven’t done a single day of childcare. It feels very odd. I’ve finally emailed my student ambassador job to let them know I’m not coming back, and had a lovely email in response. I miss some of these children a huge amount. I hope that I can see some of them soon (though a couple of them moved to Guernsey which is mildly inconvenient). I’m growing up and moving on and it’s impossible to take everything from my past to my future, I guess it’s just about recognising that these experiences will always be a part of me and my life – they have shaped me and helped me grow into the person I am today; they have got me through some really tough times. Moving forwards is hard, leaving things I enjoyed and loved is hard – but ultimately, it’s right.

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11 Pieces Of Back To School Advice You Probably Didn’t Ask For

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Summer has ended and everyone is heading back to school. Students and teachers alike are both mildly petrified about what tomorrow might bring. Bags are packed with many more pens and pencils than will ever make it past lunch time, uniform is cleaner than it ever will be again, and there is a faint whiff of shoe polish in the air. As the new school year begins, here are 11 pieces of advice you didn’t ask for:

  1. Your health (both mental and physical) always, always comes first. Before any grades, before any coursework, before any exams. Your health is more important than any school work will ever be.
  2. Teachers aren’t the enemy. Sure they might feel it at times, especially if they’re making you do things you don’t want to do. They’re not supposed to have favourites – but we all know that they probably do. Still, whether you’re their favourite student, or you think they probably hate you, you will get much further working with your teachers than against them.
  3. Spelling is important. Everyone who knew me through school and reads this will laugh. I absolutely detested spelling at school. Really, really hated it (partly because I was absolutely hopeless at it until someone taught me to spell by shape. I’m very visual, so used to get same-heighted letters muddled up). I couldn’t work out why the heck I needed to know it when things like spell-checkers exist. They do exist… but they only kick in if you’re moderately close to the word you’re aiming for. Also, even though you think you’ll never use a pen after leaving school, you actually end up hand-writing more then you realise, and it can be really, really embarrassing if you have no idea where to start when trying to write a word!
  4. A lot of talents and skills aren’t recognised by exam boards. For some things in life, you do need certain grades in certain things, and it is good to always try your best at stuff. But not every skill and talent is measured by school. My job now basically involves talking to people, networking, and problem solving. School definitely never encouraged me to talk (except in French), in fact I think a lot of my teachers would have preferred it if I’d have remained a bit quieter.
  5. Your best is good enough. It really, really is. You can’t try harder than your absolute best. Please don’t destroy yourself in the process of trying to be more than you are.
  6. It’s okay to not know who you are. It’s okay to change your hair and make-up. It’s okay to choose a rucksack over a handbag (or vice versa!). It’s okay to change your likes and dislikes. It’s okay to try certain hobbies, not like them, stop doing them and start doing something else. It’s absolutely okay be anyone you want to be (unless you’re a plonker… don’t be a plonker).
  7. Don’t be mean. It might sound really simple, straightforward and basic, but it’s an important one. Don’t be a bitch. Don’t talk about people behind their backs (even when it feels like everyone else is). Don’t trip people or laugh at people. Don’t make fun of people for the way they choose to style their hair or what bag they’ve chosen. It’s not worth it. When finding your way through life, it’s as well to have as many people on your side as possible – be nice to people.
  8. Do your homework/write your notes up. You’ll hate it at the time but love yourself when exam season rolls around.
  9. Life isn’t all academics. Join a sports team, start D of E, play an instrument, go on the occasional jog, join Scouts/Guides, volunteer, socialise, paint, go shopping, go to the cinema, watch TV. Life isn’t all about school work.
  10. Speak out if you’re struggling. Talk to a friend, a teacher, a school nurse, a parent, an aunt, a sibling, your GP. Write it in a diary. Talk to people and let them know if you’re struggling. People can’t help if they don’t know. However you’re feeling – you’re not the first person who has ever felt that way or who has ever had that struggle and things can get better. But you need to let people in.
  11. There is a whole world outside of school. School is all-encompassing and at times, overwhelming. When you’ve sat on a leaky bus for 3 hours of the day, just to wear something you’re not comfortable in, study subjects you’re not interested in and speak to people you don’t really like, it can be a serious drag. But life doesn’t start and end with school. There is a whole world out there waiting for you when you finish. A world with friends you’ve not met yet, places you’ve not visited yet, and more jobs that you can wrap your mind around. However hellish school is, you’re only there for such a small percentage of your life.

Good luck, look after yourself, and try to have fun while you’re at it Xxx

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However awkward you are when you start school… you probably won’t end it much better.

There Was A Life Before Cancer

~ Naomi ~ 1 Comment

It feels as though cancer has been part of my life forever. It’s only been 4 years. Two elevenths of my life. Or 18%. So not all that much when you calculate the percentage, but I suppose cancer will always be part of my life, now. Having a Mum die of cancer does that to a person. The word cancer will always hit me in a way it never did before August 2012, and I’m more alert than I ever used to be for signs and symptoms of cancer in both myself and those around me.

So over time that percentage will grow. But however much it does grow, whatever number it hits, it will always be under 100%; I had a life before cancer, and there will be parts of my life to come that won’t be defined by this disease, either.

I’ve just cleared out my childhood bedroom at Dad’s house. It used to be called home, or my parents’ house, but none of those seem to fit any more. So it’s now Dad’s house. It’s been a few weeks since I was last there. It’s all a bit odd… When I first went to uni, I didn’t go home for weeks on end. But as Mum became more ill, I went home more often, so it never really felt like I was moving out… or moved out. I haven’t slept in that room since Mum’s coma in February 2014, I’ve always stayed in the spare room, but that’s another story for another day.

Going through my room was like travelling through time. With every cupboard, every drawer, and every bag, another set of memories was uncovered.

It’s amazing how many details of childhood get lost in the fog of memory and time. I had a house in a village and a small primary school and some friends. I had reading achievements, book cover design achievements, a poem in a published book. I had a church, a Sunday school, the Fairtrade stall, a few Christian camps. I had swimming badges, Brownies badges, Guides badges, Explorer Scout badges, and Duke of Edinburgh awards. I had music certificate after music certificate after music certificate. I had multiple art books, a jar of wool-ends from the granny square blanket Mum helped me put together, another jar of little paper stars I used to fold. I had tennis trophies, a table tennis bat, a few medals from charity runs. I had enough charity and volunteering t-shirts to clothe a small army.

I uncovered the life of a person with hopes, dreams, aspirations and confidence. Someone who looked to the future, knew what she wanted, and had long-term goals. Someone who got involved in anything and everything, and aimed to be the best at everything she tried. I uncovered the life of a person who feels so far removed from myself that I’m not sure I recognise them.

Some of losing these things is just growing up. It’s a natural part of life. But it’s almost as though cancer came into my life and slowly took my interests, and what made me ‘me’, erasing them from my life one by one.

I had a life before cancer, but I don’t want to go back to that life, because it doesn’t feel like ‘my life’ anymore. I don’t want to try and go back to the person I was before because it would be like trying to fit a jigsaw piece into a hole that it doesn’t belong in. I would say I feel broken, and irreversibly changed, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I have changed. My perspective has changed, and to some extent my life values have, too. Cancer has ripped a hole in my life, and caused me to forget to live for a couple of years. It makes living hard at times, even now, because it feels like I’ve ‘checked out’ for the last few years, and in that time things have changed and people have moved on – it’s impossible to jump straight back in feet first.

I had a life before cancer, and I’m not going to get that back. I don’t want to get it back. But if I had a life before cancer, I can have a life after cancer, too. I’ve just got to keep taking steps forward, no matter how hard it gets. I’ve just got to keep on keeping on

Also posted on Huffington Post.

I’ve Lost My Anchor

~ Naomi ~ 1 Comment

Losing my anchor is hard to explain. It feels like I’m floating around in life with nothing to tie me down or ground me.

As Hope Edelman writes in Motherless Daughters:

But if you’re twenty-five and you’ve lost your mother, how do you know where you are? It’s really, really difficult to not know where you are at that age. You need to be in relation to something. Dad may be really important and helpful, but he’s not a woman.

I’m a bit younger than 25… but it still resonates with me. My emotions can run wild and there is nobody to keep them in check. Sometimes I get upset (like anyone else), but where there used to be that person to give me a hug or receive a ‘brain dump’ text, there is now a blank space. Other times I’m really happy, good things have happened and I want to share them. But it’s hard sometimes to find that person to share it with. So it peters out.

I don’t really want anyone to fix anything. I’m not really expecting any answers. I just want someone to say ‘actually, yeah, that’s crap’, and then have a chat, give me a hug, and move on with life.

It’s a weird sensation losing your life anchor. Sometimes it’s a very lonely place to be. It can feel like you’re out at sea and you can shout, scream, sing, dance, whatever… but nobody can see or hear you.

When you have an anchor, it can be easier to try new things, meet new people, and go to new places, because you know that there is someone to come back to if it goes wrong (or if it goes right!). You know that after a long day, when you’re tired, there’s someone to welcome you home. You know that if you get ill, there’s someone to look after you (even if it is by text). You know that if you have questions to ask, there is someone to go to.

My Dad is very good for a lot of these things. He’s still there to go to and is pretty much always there when I need him. My two brothers are also lifesavers at times (even if communication is sometimes a struggle for a 16-year-old boy). I have some amazing friends, too, who listen to my brain outpourings and answer my questions. I’m lucky to have some fantastic women in my life who mentor me, listen to me, answer questions and give me hugs. Some I view as almost adopted ‘big sisters’. But nobody will ever replace Mum. Nobody has the seemingly unlimited amounts of time, love, and patience that Mum possessed, and there is nothing on this planet that is as safe, warm, and grounding as a Mum hug.

Missing Mum is to be expected. Nine and a bit months on and I’m almost more frustrated that she’s missing out on stuff, than I am upset that she’s gone. I get angry. Cancer sucks, in a big way. I want to shout and scream at it for destroying her body and taking away her life, but there is no point in that because cancer wouldn’t hear or care. I’m frustrated that she’s not here when I need her. Sometimes I get mad at her for leaving life, even though I know it wasn’t her fault or her choice. I often want to throw a tantrum at the injustice of it all. Or to run and run until my body burns and I can focus on external pain, rather than the internal pain I feel. I want my chest to burn from being alive, not from the pain of someone being dead. I want Mum back.

I’m floating around. Bouncing backwards and forwards like a ball stuck in a pinball machine. I feel like I’m flying away and losing control and there is nobody to catch me and bring me back. I try to communicate things, but my words get stuck and lost and float away, unheard. Mum used to practically be able to read my mind (which I definitely was not a fan of at times!), but that seems to be a power that only Mums possess. It’s nobody’s fault but my own. It’s not that people aren’t listening or don’t care, it’s that I don’t have the words. I just miss her. I want my anchor back.

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Cancer Takes Another Life

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

I’ve just heard that Dr Kate Granger died yesterday, at the age of 34.

I first ‘spoke’ to Kate over twitter a couple of months before Mum died. I’d seen her floating about on Twitter a while before then. I knew she was being treated in Leeds, and had asked Mum if she knew her (a high probability given that there were just 3 consultants in Mum’s palliative medicine team). Mum said that she’d seen her around, fundraising and things… or something along those lines.

Kate contacted me last April, after I started blogging about Mum’s illness, saying:

Im so sorry to hear about your Mum. She helped me through some very tough times…

In fact Im really missing her support now & I almost feel disloyal for seeing another pall care cons.

I had no idea Mum had treated her and when I mentioned it to Mum, Mum brought up the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing which I’d forgotten… I later read Kate’s books and, though Mum wasn’t mentioned by name, with the knowledge that Mum was her consultant at times, I could sometimes see the Mum I knew coming through.

She then contacted me again a week before Mum died:

Dear Naomi, reading your latest blog was heartbreaking… Just wanted to let you know Im thinking of you and your mum. K xxx

We had a short conversation. She asked me to pass on to Mum that she was still defying the odds and was in their thoughts. Mum wasn’t particularly responsive at the time, but I told her and she smiled.

After Mum died, she messaged me again:

Oh I’m so sorry to hear that Naomi. Thank you so much for letting me know. She was a fab woman your Mum. Never forget that. Huge hugs & love to you & your family xxx

And then, later on:

Have been with my girlfriends today – not something we manage as often as we should. We were planning our Christmas get together – an unexpected event for me – but found myself stopping & thinking about you & your Mum. How tough Christmas will be… Your blog is absolutely beautiful. Thank you for speaking out about dying & grieving so eloquently. Thoughts are with you xxx

I know that Kate caused waves in some of the work she did. I know that some medics weren’t always happy with the way she tweeted things, or what she wrote. I also know she raised a huge amount of money for charity, got people talking about death and end of life care, and highlighted the importance of clinicians introducing themselves (#hellomynameis).

Hearing of her death is upsetting. For me, it is another link to Mum which has been lost. But from a wider perspective – it’s another life lost to cancer. Another person who’s life has been cut short due to this horrible illness. Another grieving family who are left to make sense of the nonsensical. I hope that they can take comfort in the fact that Kate was loved by many, and that she made a difference.

9 Months Too Long

~ Naomi ~ 2 Comments

Dear Mum,

It’s been 9 months since you left and to be honest, it’s about time you came back. I’ve definitely learned the lesson of how fab you are and how much I need you in my life; I promise to never forget that ever again. I just need you to come back.

Sometimes I think it’s all maybe getting a little easier, but then I’m hit with another huge whallop of grief – determined to knock me down and keep me there. I have to do whatever I can to find some air again and claw my way out of the grief vacuum. It would be far too easy to drown in it.

It’s sunny now. Summer is here (in true British form of ‘is it going to rain today? 1186773_429236453855696_2130074871_nI better take a coat just in case’). Last summer you hardly left the house – it was too painful and tiring. The summer before I barely remember, I think you must have been working, and I was too. The summer before that we all went away as a family, climbing up mountains in France and mountain biking down them. It was boiling hot but there was snow at the top of the mountains. There are photos of us standing in snow in t-shirts.

You loved summer. You would come home on time to watch Wimbledon (unlike the rest of the year when you would often work late), then would finish your work later that evening, after ‘Today at Wimbledon’ had finished. We’d play table tennis in the garden, or actual tennis down at the local tennis club. We’d go to places on weekends sometimes; Yorkshire Sculpture Park or Harewood House, or even just have a potter around Wetherby. 166 (2016_04_23 16_52_32 UTC)You would normally take a couple of weeks annual leave and we would go somewhere – France for many years, but Spain once or twice, or different places in the UK.

I remember one day last summer really clearly. It must have been summer because I was wearing the dress I’m wearing today (I hadn’t realised that until I thought about it just now!). Dad was at the cottage so I offered to come home and be with you. You woke up mid-morning. I helped you to the bathroom and found your medication that Dad had left out for me. You thanked me for looking after you – you had kept insisting that friends could come over or carers could come round – but that morning you told me you appreciated it being a family member. In that moment I wished more than anything that I had my life more ‘together’. I wished I’d passed my driving test so I could have come over more and done more. I wished I was more sorted, more settled, more able to help. I wished I could have spent more time with you.

I miss you.

My driving test is coming up – I’ve finally almost reached that point (let’s hope I pass…). I’m settling down. I’ve got a better work-life balance. I might have been more able to help this year. But it’s a year too late.

Nine months is no time at all, yet in my head it stretches on forever. It’s not even a year. In the grand scheme of things it’s nothing, but it’s a nine months which have perhaps been harder than any previous nine months that I’ve ever lived through.

So, it’s about time you came back now, you’ve been gone long enough. We’ve learned to do a few things without you – we’ve learned to make a decent Christmas cake, we’ve learned which suncream to buy, we’re learning how to have fun again. E managed to get off on a school trip with all documentation intact, J has finished a year of work without killing or maiming any children, Dad’s kept the house going and the boys alive. We miss you, though.

I miss you, Mum, it’s been nine months too long and the sun is screaming out for you to bustle through the house and throw us all outside.

Lots of love,
Xxx

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Here’s to Those of Us Who Aren’t Graduating This Week

~ Naomi ~ 5 Comments

It’s graduation season. Facebook knows it, Instagram knows it; it feels like everyone in the world is graduating. If you can count yourself among that number, then all I have to say is this: congratulations. I have so much respect and admiration for anyone who completes uni, whatever their degree class. It’s really not an easy thing to do, and it’s so lovely to see people smiling next to their proud family members and friends. I know people that have completed uni despite really difficult life circumstances, and I think that it’s phenomenal to have achieved so much, and they should be incredibly proud.

I also know quite a few people who should have finished university this year, but they’re not, because life didn’t go to plan. Some have horrible illnesses to deal with, some have chronically or terminally ill family members, for others life has just dealt them a rough hand and they’ve been blown off course a bit.

Currently, I’m sat in my jimjams watching Come Dine With Me repeats and hoping that tonight might be the night that I actually get a decent amount of sleep. Looking at all of these celebratory photographs while feeling so far removed from them can be pretty difficult, because there’s a nagging voice in the back of my brain saying “that could’ve been you”. It can be so easy to look at other people’s lives and see all that you’ve lost. Had life gone to plan, I would have been stood there alongside my peers in a cap and gown, smiling next to two proud parents. That’s what I always thought would happen when I signed up to university three years ago.

But for me, and some others I know, even if we’d have stayed at uni and graduated with our class, we wouldn’t have had two parents stood smiling next to us, because we don’t have two parents any more.

The other morning, I was cycling around this beautiful city I now call home, as part of my job. I later went into the office, talked to my lovely colleagues, and spent a couple of hours listening to the radio whilst doing some work. I left the office and went to The Hut where I volunteer, and spent a while sat on a bench, chatting in the sunshine with a friend I met there. I came home and after a driving lesson, I spent some time with my flatmate, doing her hair for a dinner she was going to. I’m so lucky. I’m much more content than I have been in a long, long, time. I feel like I’m finally beginning to get a little ‘me’ back.
I wouldn’t have ever found The Hut, or my job, if I hadn’t left uni when I did. I wouldn’t have made that friend; I probably wouldn’t be living where I am now. I don’t know what I would have done or where I would be, but I wouldn’t be here; and I’m happy here.

I know a few others who have left uni, too, or are simply graduating at a later date. One or two have jobs, some are still living in this city and others have moved elsewhere. All of them are doing something with their life, and that’s amazing to see.

So here’s to those of us whose lives got blown off course. Those who are continuing to get up and face the world every single day, despite seeing how far life will go to try and make sure we can’t. Who are in new jobs, making new friends, creating a different life from the one we had always planned. Who might not have got a cap and gown on today, but who got dressed in something resembling an acceptable outfit, despite the crippling depression/stress/pain that can be in our lives, those of us for whom getting dressed and leaving the house is a real achievement. Here’s to those of us who don’t have that certificate, but who deserve a medal for simply participating in life when sometimes all we want to do is hide.

To everyone who is continuing to live their life, despite horrendous circumstances, I’m proud of you. To my friends who are watching Facebook this week with a pang of disappointment or sense of failure, I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you for continuing to smile, for continuing to check if others around you are okay, for holding others together when you feel like falling apart, I’m really, really proud of you. I hope that you can look at all you have achieved, and all that you are, even if it’s not something you can get a certificate for, and feel a little proud of yourself, too.

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Chilling on Friday morning, reflecting on the lack of graduation, but the amazingness that is my job 🙂

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/graduation_b_11030956.html

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The Dinner Party

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Around the time of Mum’s death, I came across The Dinner Party. It originates in America, and there is currently only one Dinner Party in the UK (based in London). It’s been at the back of my mind for a while, but has come to the forefront of my mind recently, for a couple of reasons.

The idea of the The Dinner Party, is that people who’ve experienced loss come together over some food, and chat openly and honesty about loss, and life after loss.

I’ve been thinking about hosting one in York… I’ve spoken to TDP about how I would go about that and they’ve been super helpful. But before I go any further, I wanted to know if there would be any interest from people in attending a Dinner Party based in York? If you would be interested in joining us, please could you drop a comment below with your email, or email me, and I can put a list together and get back to you all 🙂 Thank you!

TDP_Manifesto