I know more than anyone just how awkward become around those who have just lost a loved one.
I was 32. My daughters Brooke and Texas were six and four and we had gone from being a family of four with a future full of possibilities, to Ross being ripped away from us in the blink of an eye.
Even now, seven years on, I remember, through the haze of my grief, how awkward everyone seemed around me. The averted looks, the silent nods…
It was the last thing I needed. We really have to become better at talking death.
Ross and I met at 22 on a promotional job for Pimm’s. I was a TV actress at the time, starring in Waterloo Road and Casualty, and Ross ran his own teamwear and property .
From the moment we met, we were a pair, fitting together seamlessly. His friends even called us ‘Rolly’ combining our names like we combined our lives.
We were with each other all the time – life just felt more fun that way – and when we were lucky enough to have our daughters, it was the icing on the cake.
Then, in 2014, after experiencing symptoms of depression and severe headaches, Ross was diagnosed with a grade 4 PNET brain tumour, normally found in children.
At 29, we didn’t see it coming. The shock was immense.
But as the news sank in, we dealt with it as we did everything: Head on and together.
We laughed through two brain surgeries; we lived around chemo and radiotherapy appointments, with Ross still continuing to work and going out to play football with his mates.
Even though we knew the odds, we were convinced that we would get him through this, that he was young enough to survive it and that we would come out the other side together.
Then when we were told the treatment hadn’t been successful, that there was no more that could be done, I had to work out who I was without him.
might imagine, given the prolonged illness that Kate’s husband Derek went through, that she must have been prepared for this day, but you’re not.
Ross spent three and a half years living with a brain tumour and I still wasn’t ready for him not to be by my side, no matter how much I tried to imagine how this would look.
A month after Ross’s death, with the rain pouring down around us, I walked my daughters into school, feeling the uncomfortable stares of fellow parents and teachers engulf us as I tried to hold in my pain.
avoided eye contact, they whispered or cocked their heads to one side and gave me the British awkward nod of ‘I’m sad for you but I don’t know what to say’.
It made me feel like I was in a goldfish bowl, distant and alone. I’d have rather had talked, asked questions or acknowledged they knew.
The thing is, at that point, you feel awkward enough as it is. Like you don’t fit in anymore.
You go from being married, a ‘Mrs’, to ticking boxes that say ‘widow’. It’s a word I just don’t identify with – I’m not an old crone or a panto dame.
started describing ‘my late husband’, an odd expression that often has me blurting out, ‘he’s not late though, he’s dead’ to uncomfortable onlookers.
I understand don’t mean to be clumsy when you become a widow, they just don’t know what to say.
There is this mistaken belief that if they mention your person that they will cause you pain, when it’s the fact they’re dead that’s causing you pain. And avoiding talking them just feels weird.
It makes no difference. As Kate, and anyone who has lost a partner, will know, they’re on your mind constantly anyway.
Other would impose their views an afterlife, saying that Ross would be looking down on me from heaven. Yet, as well-meaning as I undoubtedly knew they were being, Ross and I were both atheists, so it landed uncomfortably.
Now, whenever I see someone who has lost someone, I try to be real, even blunt. ‘I’m so sad you’re going through this, it’s really unfair,’ I’ll often say, peppering in swear words. When someone is in such pain, flowery language often doesn’t feel raw enough.
Or it might help to share a nice memory of their lost loved one, and ask them to share one back. We want to talk them. We want to feel that the world won’t forget them. I love it when tell me something hilarious Ross said or did. It reminds me of his impact and makes me smile.
Of course, I don’t claim to speak for all widows and grievers. This is merely my experience, and all grief is deeply personal.
But even if you don’t know what to say to someone, own your discomfort or uncertainty. Be honest the fact that you’re sad for them and that although you don’t have the words, you’ll be there.
That you’re happy to talk their person; to distract and make them laugh; let them cry but that they aren’t alone.
Kate, Derek will come with you in every choice you make, both by how he shaped your journey and how his death did.
You will see him in your children, and you will think him for the rest of your life. He made his mark on this world and that is everlasting.
Be kind to yourself and don’t let anyone tell you how to walk yourself through this.
Some days will be good, some days won’t, but you have an army of that will sit by your side through it all.
Even if they’re not quite sure how to treat you now.
For more info, visit http://www.iamhollymatthews.com or http://www.instagram.com@iamhollymatthews
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
