Not sure why I needed to write this today. But I did.
Tim and I had a fairy story. We met in our early twenties at a youth prayer group. I had other commitments – a boyfriend called Paul – and Tim sighed gently, tucked the candle he held for me in his back pocket, and we became friends. We stayed friends through thick and thin. Through his troubled times. Through his diagnosis with type 2 diabetes and his hospital stay for a rather scary bout of acute pancreatitis. Through my marriage falling apart and my descent into depression. And finally, through my divorce.
I was separated for two years, though Paul and I continued to live in the same house, and over this time I fell in love with Tim. With his kindness and his humour, his ability to tell stories, his love for films and books and cars, and of course, his adoration of me. I have never been loved so much.
Tim proposed in a motel in France, just as we were going to bed. I think he may have still been in his knickers and socks. I said no, but only because the divorce wasn't yet final. He proposed for the second time as we looked at a beautiful channel-set diamond and white gold ring in the window of a jeweller's shop. It's still on my finger.
We married at the church where he was christened, and where his grandparents are buried. It was a day of sun and joy and light and family and friends, and he was my beautiful boy, his face full of happiness. Our honeymoon in Greece was sweet and quiet, with time just the two of us, and time with Tim's wonderful godfather and namesake Tim, and his lovely wife Aphroula.
We moved to Tideswell, to the house where I still live, and he created his bookshop downstairs. I worked upstairs in my office, and we would talk many times a day. My favourite moments were getting up early to work and then snuggling back in bed with him before we both started our days for real. I also loved heading downstairs with a cup of coffee for him, and on Wednesdays for Fiona too. We would hug the warm mugs and talk about everything and nothing.
Unfortunately, not all fairy stories have a happy ending. Eighteen months before our tenth wedding anniversary, the morning after a wonderful night out, and with no warning at all, Tim breathed for the last time. Despite CPR, and me pumping his chest as I screamed down the line at a wonderful phone handler, and despite work by indefatigable paramedics, he never breathed again.
In a broken parody of our mornings together, I curled up next to his still warm body. I tucked my head into his neck. I inhaled his smell, and kissed the soft skin behind his ear. Fiona held my hand. Simon and Gillian, my dear friends, anointed him and sent him on his journey.
And then I had to do the hardest thing I have ever done. I had to call his parents. I had to call our friends. I had to call my family. So many calls. Telling the same story so many times. Accepting the kind wishes, the love. Managing their grief as well as mine. The rest is numbness. Sleeping alone that first night. Organising a funeral and burial at the church in Somerset where we were married, with the ceremony carried out both times by the same old friend. Organising a memorial service and wake back here in Tideswell. Accepting a life where he was never going to be back, however hard I wished.
It's now two years. I have the same life and a different life. I have my old friends, and I also have the friends I thought I would never have. The friends joined in grief for losing a partner too young. I am at university, studying something new. I am moving forward (I don't say that I move on) and I have travelled, run, written, laughed and learned.
But I still grieve. I think I always will.
I'm starting to sort out again. The lengthening of the days is bringing back a little of the energy and attention that has been missing for half a year, through a summer of lost purpose and a winter of anniversaries. Memories, dusty as ghosts, come rising out of dented cardboard and crumpled carriers.
My first poems and stories, hand-bound into books with board fronts and backs.
Craft projects kept carefully by my parents over many years, and brought home when I cleared out their house for the last time. My parents' wills.
Love letters from my ex from before we were married. Evidence of his love in my hand where it once was in both of our hearts.
Pictures and paperwork from houses I bought with my ex, including the house in Doncaster that was to be the fresh start for a struggling marriage (I thought) and that turned out to be the step closer to its finish.
Divorce paperwork. Condensing 14 years into just a few pages. Startling in black and white.
The contract for the house in Litton Mill that was a river-lined retreat from the chaos and became the start of my life version 2.
Tim's tenancy agreement from the house in Dadford where things began.
Tim's statements and pay slips. Scraps of paper filled with his spidery writing. Notes left on my desk. Cards from him, loaded with so much love it spilled over the sides.
The estate agent's flier for his beloved shop, now empty, and this beautiful house, now holding only half the love it did. The place where things ended after a decade filled with sweetness.
In August, September and October I will be running two half marathons and three 10ks to In a Diabetes UK vest to support and publicise Diabetes UK. I chose this charity because my beloved husband Tim had type 2 diabetes. He was starting to lose his sight from the disease. Then he suddenly and unexpectedly died in February 2018 at the young age of 50 when his heart failed, a complication of his diabetes. The money from selling Tim's record collection has gone to Diabetes UK, and 10% of sales of his model kits on Ebay is going there too.
Diabetes UK is a brilliant charity that provides support and funds research in type 2 diabetes, and I support it so that others might not have to go through what I have.
There are also other reasons why I run. As well as raising money, running helps me live with my depression. It helps me fight grief. It keeps me fit. It shows people that not all runners have perfect runner's bodies. And it reduces my personal risk of type 2 diabetes, a vile disease.
If you would like to make a donation, please go to my Just Giving page. But I know that not everyone can, and I have asked for money a number of times over the past few years. So if you can't donate, or don't want to, can you still spread the word about Diabetes UK?
Support people you know with diabetes. If you are diagnosed with it, or with pre-diabetes, take it seriously. Type 2 diabetes steals your sight. It destroys your heart and your kidneys. It damages feeling in your hands and feet. It leads to amputations. It shortens your life. It takes you away from people you love.
Think of me or wave me on when I run at:
Leigh 10k - 11 August
Wigan 10k - 1 September
Great North Run - 8 September
Stephen Price Memorial 10k, Ashton on Trent - 15 September
Manchester Half - 13 October
BIOPROSP_19, which will be held in Tromsø in Norway 25-27 February 2019 has a program packed with #WomenInScience talking about biorefineries for marine resources, synthetic biology, marine bioactive molecules and new resources and trends in marine biotech.
BIOPROSP is the international biennial scientific conference on marine biotechnology that aims to translate basic research into industrial applications.
Come along and hear some of the key women working in the marine biotech sector.
The polar waters are cold and often rough, but the biology and geology of this region is fascinating. The ice-going research vessel, Kronprins Haakon (KPH), packed with sampling equipment and custom laboratories, is going to open up subsea research in the high north. Researchers from Centre for Arctic Gas Hydrate, Environment, and Climate UiT (CAGE) set sail in the new vessel in October 2018 with two aims: to see what the ship could to, and to transport new, high-tech equipment to an area featuring active methane release systems in the northern Barents Sea.
The wind and the waves
One of the biggest challenges faced by earlier expeditions was that they could be thrown off course by wind and waves, making it hard to collect samples in specific areas or examine certain structures and organisms more closely. Kronprins Haakon has a dynamic positioning system, allowing it to maintain itself in position and collect samples
Another challenge is crew seasickness in rough waters – this not only is very unpleasant, it means that researchers either lose time because of illness, or because the ship has to relocate to calmer waters. Kronprins Haakon has balancing tanks built into the structure of the ship, so that it can handle waves of 4 to 5 meters. This will increase the number of sailings that can be carried out in the autumn and winter months. Inclement weather also means that it's hard to lower equipment over the edge of the ship without damaging the instrument or injuring the researchers. The 'moon pool' allows equipment to be lowered through a hole in the bottom of the ship to the seabed below
Looking more closely
In this voyage, Kronprins Haakon carried a remotely operated vehicle (ROV) named ÆGIR 6000, from the Norwegian Marine Robotics Laboratory at the University of Bergen. ÆGIR 6000 is an uncrewed submersible tethered to the ship through the moon pool by a long cable, and remotely operated from the ship. The ROV explores the bottom of the ocean, carried seven cameras, and can take samples using pincers, a coring device, a gas sampler and a water sampler. ÆGIR 6000 can also map the seabed at a resolution of 5 to 10 centimeters.
The next step
Kronprins Haakon is owned by the Norwegian Polar Institute, and run and maintained by the Institute of Marine Research. In December 2018 it is heading to Antarctica in a voyage led by the Norwegian Polar Institute and the Institute of Marine Research, and will return in May 2019. After this, it has two cruises with CAGE participation scheduled for September 2019 and October 2019.
Head to New research vessel Kronprins Haakon is changing what we know about polar waters to learn more.
The marine environment is a place of amazing diversity. The ocean covers more than 70% of the earth's surface, creating a three-dimensional world populated by microscopic plants, algae, invertebrates and fungi through to fish, birds and mammals.
The habitats, from near shore to deep sea and trenches, and from tropical to polar, are largely untapped resources for biotechnology. Despite many decades of research in the marine environments, there are still opportunities for applications across all the different shades of biotechnology. BIOPROSP, held every two years, has a focus on the exploitation of biotechnology in marine environments.
BIOPROSP_19, held in Tromsø, the capital of the Arctic world, will focus on:
BIOPROSP_19 will take place between 25 and 27 February 2019, at UiT The Arctic University of Norway. Over the past 14 years has grown beyond marine bioprospecting to cover the breadth of marine biodiscovery and biotechnology, and the application of marine bioactive molecules.
Cooking a meal from scratch isn't a big thing. I've been doing it for myself from my teens. But since Tim's sudden and unexpected death in February I haven't been able to face it, and I've been largely living off ready meals, food provided by lovely people, and meal replacement shakes and bars because I know that way I am least getting nutrients. Last week was a milestone week for me. The week I cooked from scratch. A slow-cooker full of chicken in coconut milk, with garlic and ginger. It might not seem much – but for me it was a major deal.
Thanks to personal trainer Callum Sully and his WORK OFF! 30 day online programme for the incentive and to WAY Widowed and Young for the ongoing support.
I've just bought a new shredder, and now my office carpet looks like it's been hit by a cellulose snowstorm. I'm going through a huge box of papers and getting rid of anything older than five years.
There's a satisfaction of pushing sheets of paper into its tooth-lined maw, and filling paper sacks with shreddings for recycling. It is making me think of things that are no more. Cars, houses, cats, jobs. And marriages.
There's a lot of Tim's paperwork in here. Payslips, bank statements, bills, receipts, car documentation. And always the challenge of seeing his writing. I can't keep it all but there is part of me that feels guilty getting rid of it, as if I am erasing him.
There are some things I'm keeping, though. An old driving license. His invitation to his cousin's 21st birthday party. The receipt from a wonderful; holiday in the Loire Valley. Notes that he left on my desk. It's a balance between preservation and decluttering, and the most valuable things there are I still have. My memories of him.
I've lived with depression for many years – since my teens at the very least. And it's not as a result of anything. No childhood trauma, no lack of love. It's worsened by stress, but not caused by it, and no amount of tree hugging or walking barefoot in the grass, or eating clean will cure it. It just is. I have had counselling and CBT, I take medication, and I run. And together they help me manage it.
Depression comes in waves. I can feel when it's coming on, the slide down. It's sometimes triggered by something small like a squabble on social media, or not being able to do something I should be able to do perfectly well, or actually nothing specific at all. And I know it's on its way, and I know I need just to ride it out, keep doing what I'm doing, until I feel the start of the climb up.
When I'm low, all the colour seeps out and it feels like the world has become black and white. Sounds are muffled and my brain fogs. I'm very good at putting a mask on, and I can work and function perfectly well. Before I was first formally diagnosed I assumed that I couldn't be clinically depressed, because I got out of bed, kept myself clean and tidy, and went to work every day where I met my deadlines perfectly adequately. After all, everyone knows that people with depression can't get out of bed.
The day that the gym being closed unexpectedly left me sobbing, curled up in a ball on the floor in the corner behind my bed, should have told me something was wrong. It took a wonderful and kind friend who made me go to the doctor, and a gentle GP and patient counsellor, to make me realise that not only was there something wrong but that it could be faced up to, and it could even be fixed. Or at least managed.
I am now in a slightly more complicated world, seven months on after losing my beloved Tim. Tim understood depression. He understood that it couldn't be fixed, but that it could be contained with care and the wave surfed. He would hold me while I cried, hug me when I just felt melancholy, and then make me laugh at the ridiculousness of it all at just the right moment. And now he's gone. And so I live with depression and grief.
Whereas depression is a world without colour, and smells and tastes of mud, grief is a different thing. It is greeny-yellow, and tastes bitter. It is sharper-edged than depression. And while both come in waves, grief waves I can't see coming. They crash in out of nowhere, sweep me off my feet, and leave me breathless and gasping. They are triggered by the smallest things – while I can put my big girl pants on and be 'brave' for a birthday or an anniversary, I can't prepare myself for opening a box and finding the piece of paper that he left on my desk with yellow roses, celebrating the anniversary of our first kiss. Or the realisation that now a load of washing contains only my clothes, not both of ours. Or seeing the half-made Airfix model or the half-read book.
Some days they are both there, and I can visualise the colours, intertwining but separate. I know the difference between the two. Those days are hard.
I feel that I should be able to wrap this up with a neat conclusion. An answer. A solution. Something bright and hopeful. But really, like so many things in this year of firsts, it is what it is. I'm not brave. I'm not wonderful or amazing. I am just me, dealing with each day as I can. One foot in front of the other and one breath at a time.
As I make my way through my first year of being a widow, there are a lot of 'today I should have'. Tim and I were my life version 2.1 and we spent a lot of time going to motor races together, particularly classic motor races. There were to be four major race meetings this year, and sadly we didn't get to any of them.
Tim was buried on the first day of the Goodwood Members Meeting, wearing his Bentley Drivers' Club tie, and with his entrance badge in his lapel and his programme voucher in his pocket. I couldn't face Le Mans 24 or Le Mans Classic, and yesterday should have been our first day at Goodwood Revival.
Instead, in life version 3, I had planned to run the Great North Run, and today I should have been heading up to Newcastle with my friends Sue and Pete. However, a bout of viral gastroenteritis, and perhaps my body telling me to have a break, put paid to that.
So, because of all this it's been a tough week. And on top of it all the dreams have been difficult. One where I was wandering through a house full of people and I couldn't stop crying. And another where Tim came back and told me it was a mistake, and when I woke up I turned to see if he was there.
This morning, when I went to the doorstep to pick up the milk that Sue had dropped off before she left, I found a bunch of glorious yellow roses. Yellow roses are important to me. The day my dad asked my mum to marry him, he picked a yellow rose off a bush and gave it to her, and somewhere I have that rose. Dad would buy mum yellow roses on their anniversary, and Tim would buy me yellow roses to make me smile. Mum, Dad and Tim were all remembered by yellow roses.
So, though I am sad, and my heart is definitely elsewhere today, I do have yellow roses by my side.