Joy is not made to be a crumb.

TW: death, cardiac arrest, CPR. An edited and expanded repost from my Instagram.

This time of year isn’t easy for me.

Two years ago last week, Mike went into hospital with difficulty breathing.

It had been happening on and off for months – he’d have a bad bout, it would settle down. He’d had some tests. They thought it was a kind of reflux and prescribed some medication which seemed to help. He’d spoken to a doctor (on the phone, because of Covid) half a dozen times – our GP, another GP at the surgery, the out of hours GP. Maybe it was worsening asthma, they said, or a chest infection. Have some antibiotics. Take your inhaler more. Often, one of those things settled it. But not this time. This time it was so bad that at one point he couldn’t make it up the stairs. I called an ambulance – the second time we’d done so that year. Like the first time, they checked him out and said there was nothing that they could see, he seemed okay, the numbers were fine, but if he wanted they would take him in. The first time we had said no, it was okay, but this time we said actually, I think maybe, yeah. So he went.

Covid meant I couldn’t go with him but the paramedics weren’t that worried so I tried not to be either. I got a bit scared when he stopped replying to my messages but figured he had just fallen asleep, so I tried (and failed) to get some sleep myself.

At 4.30am my phone rang. It was a doctor at the hospital. He told me that Mike was very sick and they were going to have to put him into a coma and put him on a ventilator because he could no longer breathe on his own.

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand. How it could have gone from him persuading the paramedics to take him in even though everything looked normal, wandering out to the ambulance with his Kindle and headphones, to this? This phone call with this grave-voiced doctor – who said that he was sorry and they were going to do everything they could to help Mike, but I needed to understand that his condition was very serious, and was there anyone who could come and be with me?

I asked him to put the phone to Mike’s ear so I could talk to him. I don’t really remember what I said – that I loved him, that he would be okay, that I would be there when he woke up. Something like that. To be honest I don’t know now if the doctor even took him the phone – probably he didn’t, probably I was talking to the empty air. And afterwards I begged the doctor not to let him die. I told him what a wonderful person Mike was and said that we needed him and to please, please not let him die. He said nothing, and I thought… oh. Oh.

After he hung up the phone I didn’t know what to do. It was 5am, nobody was awake. Lyla was asleep in the room next to me. And nobody was allowed to go and see Mike for 12 hours until they knew it wasn’t Covid. So there was no point phoning anyone. It wouldn’t do any good and they would know soon enough.

So I didn’t. I sat alone and sobbed and prayed — just saying “please God, please God” over and over again until it was morning.

The rest of the day is essentially completely lost to me. I know at some point somebody took Lyla to nursery. I have no idea if I got her up and dressed – I guess I must have? Or my sister-in-law had already arrived by that point, and she did it? I honestly don’t remember. I remember sitting watching the clock, waiting until we were allowed to go in. Praying for a phone call, but also praying it wouldn’t ring. Steph and I saying over and over again, if he could only wake up, just once, just for a day, just so we can tell him how we feel. Just so we can see him one more time. It was the worst day of my life.

And Mike DID wake up. He did. Despite everything they said, how bleak it all looked, he opened his eyes and this time when they held the phone up I know that he heard me – he couldn’t speak, but the intensive care nurse said “he’s giving you a thumbs up!” and I knew that was my Mikey, a thumbs up and a cheeky wink even in the worst of times.

And he kept getting stronger and better and more himself. Soon I got to talk to him every day – and then to see him, to hold his hand, and we started to believe, despite everything, that he was going to be okay and would come home again.

By that stage it was October. Halloween month. Anyone who knew Mike will remember how much he loved Halloween. Our first Halloween together he had to work in the evening, and he was so disappointed that we couldn’t do anything. While he was at work I went out and bought piles of cheap decorations – fake cobwebs, a cauldron, pumpkin lanterns, bunting, the works – and decorated our lounge and threw a little surprise party for two when he got home later that night. He was absolutely over the moon, grinning like a kid, that big beamy smile that made me first fall in love with him. And so when he was due to come home from hospital in early October I thought… I’ll decorate for him, so that everything will look nice for him coming home, and he’ll be happy.

I don’t remember much from that month he was in hospital, to be honest, but I vividly remember decorating. I remember writing “Halloween with The Warings” on the little chalkboard door sign we have and feeling so thankful that we were still The Warings, against all odds. I had the most profound sense of gratitude – and of hope.

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Mike didn’t make it to Halloween.

He died three days before, at home, and that evening I sat in our living room surrounded by the decorations I’d put up for him and stared at them blankly, wondering how I could ever had had such hope. What a fool.

I couldn’t stand to look at them. As soon as my brother and sister-in-law arrived I begged them to help me get rid of them.

Taking them down and packing them away was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

I didn’t put them up last year. I didn’t want to think about Halloween beyond what I had to do for Lyla’s sake. I didn’t even want to celebrate autumn, usually my favourite season. I didn’t have a pumpkin spice latte on the first of September like Mike and I always did. I didn’t go into Belfast to see the trees surrounding the Lanyon Building turning red and orange and gold. I didn’t watch You’ve Got Mail, or walk in the woods, or do any of the things Mike and I always would have done. I coped with so many other things throughout that year, and tried so hard to mark other occasions as normal: because of Lyla, and because I knew it’s what Mike would have wanted. But I just couldn’t do Halloween, or autumn. I couldn’t be reminded of that month. I thought that maybe I would never be able to again.

But this year, there’s… something.

A sense, maybe, of the gratitude I felt when I was putting them up two years ago. Even a little hint of the hope.

And so last week I put them up again. I filled our new home with foliage and scented candles and warm lights. I went with my neighbour to get a pumpkin spice latte. And I wrote a new message on the lightbox Mike bought me – taken from a poem by the wonderful Mary Oliver that I have loved for many years:

“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver

This year, I have chosen to suck the marrow of that joy from every single moment that I can. I spent the summer travelling, swimming in the sea, visiting London, laughing and talking with friends, throwing myself into art and books and music and new friendships with abandon. And why should autumn be any different? Why shouldn’t I embrace all those things that have always brought me so much pleasure? The things that Mike and I shared and found so much happiness in?

And so when I had finished decorating, I sat on the sofa and thought about Mike. I pictured his about the way his face lit up when he got home on both of those occasions – that first Halloween we spent together, and the day he came home from hospital – and he realised I’d decorated for him. The sheer little-boy delight. The love. The joy, which for Mike was never, ever a crumb.

Here’s to you, Mikey. Happy autumn. I love you, forever.

Living, not existing.

TW: This entry contains reference to suicide and suicidal ideation

When Mike first died, I wanted to die too. It wasn’t really a question in my mind. It was going to happen. All I needed to do was get through his funeral, say what I wanted to say in his eulogy, and then I could kill myself. I had always said that if anything happened to Mike, I would kill myself, and now that the moment had come, I was pretty well convinced that’s what I was going to do.

I mean, spoiler. I didn’t. But God, I wanted to. My family weren’t stupid, though. They knew how I was thinking and they took all available methods away. They hid all my medications and doled them out individually each evening. I still don’t know where they put them but I’m convinced my mum probably slept with them so I couldn’t sneak down to get them. They didn’t leave me alone for a second. Even if I took a little too long in the bath or shower Becca would be dispatched to come and knock on the door to check I was still there. And when I wailed on the floor, begging them to let me die, they said no. No. What about us, they said. We love you. What about your friends. What about what Mike would want. And what about Lyla?

What about Lyla, indeed. That was the one that got me in the end. This poor little girl had lost her Daddy – the most amazing Daddy that ever lived – and for better or worse, I was all she had. And no matter how much I tried to rationalise it to myself – she would be well looked after, she would be loved, she would be provided for – I couldn’t get away from the fact that she needed her Mummy. And she always would.

So I stayed. I stayed, and gradually it got easier to stay. Slowly, the other things – my family loving me, my friends wanting me to stick around, knowing that Mike would want me to go on – started to be part of the reason I was staying too. And it made sense. Lyla did – does – need me. When I’m not around she’s okay, but she asks – she wants to know where I am, when I’m coming back, whether she can go and see me. I’m her world (poor kid!) and I need to be here for her, forever. That’s non-negotiable. So I stayed.

She didn’t nap today. I knew she was tired and needed a rest, so I brought her into my room and we lay down on the bed together, covered with a blanket, and snuggled up. We spent the next hour cuddled up together, with her stroking my hair, smoothing my eyebrows, touching my cheek, pressing her hot little face against mine. Occasionally rearranging the blanket so it covered me up better, tucking it under my chin like I do for her each night. When I opened my eyes she opened hers too, as if she’d heard them open, and she beamed her Daddy’s big smile right at me, full of love.

This morning my mum and I were talking about all the things I have been blessed with since Mike died. All the friends who have stepped up, taken me in, held me, propped me up. My understanding, compassionate boss and colleagues. My beautiful in-laws. The amazing place I’ve been able to stay in and the house I’m getting to make my own. “Of course, I know you’d give it all up in a heartbeat to have Mike back,” my mum said, and I agreed. But then I thought about Lyla. About how our relationship has deepened, partly as a consequence of her getting older and becoming her own wee self, and partly because we’re all the other has now and we’re getting each other’s love on full beam, so to speak. And I thought to myself – would I give up that new depth of love I share with her to have Mike back?

I don’t know. It’s a hypothetical question that has no answer and in a way, there’s no point even thinking about it because it’s not possible. But the fact that I even hesitated made me realise that for the first time in the almost 5 months since he died, I’m not just carrying on because I have to any more. I’m not living for my family, or my friends, or in Mike’s honour. I’m not even living for Lyla. I’m living for me. Because if I had given up five months ago when I wanted to, I wouldn’t have got to spend that hour today cuddling my little girl, hearing her breathe next to me, feeling her little hand holding mine. And no matter how much I long for Mike, no matter how much I miss him and want him back and know I’ll never find the same kind of happiness as I had with him again, I’m glad I didn’t miss out on today.

And I guess that marks the moment I stopped existing and started living again.

A thank you.

I have been wanting for a while to write about the day Mike died, but every time I’ve sat down to do it it’s been too much for me. The main reason I wanted to write was because the experience was made so much – well, not easier, but more bearable – because the paramedics who attended were beyond wonderful and I wanted to pay tribute to them somewhere publicly and share their incredible kindness and compassion with the world.

Unfortunately it turns out I’m just not ready to write about it in detail yet but I thought instead I would share the email I wrote directly to the paramedics as it sums up what a difference they made to me.

At a time where our healthcare workers are under more pressure than ever, I hope in some small way this pays tribute to them, especially the paramedics working at the Northern Ireland Ambulance Service.

So here it is.

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Dear Chris, Lisa, Adam and Josh,

I have wanted to write this email for a long time and am so glad I managed to track down contact details for you. Nothing I say or do can ever truly thank you for how much you helped me but I wanted to at least try and show you how much it meant to me.

Mike dying was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. He was a truly special person, loving, caring, kind, generous, funny – a wonderful husband, father and friend. I know you had met him before, Chris, and so will have seen a glimpse of how wonderful he was. Nothing could have stopped his passing from being the worst day of my life – but your actions and kindness made it bearable and, I genuinely believe, have saved my life.

It was so clear to me that you made an absolutely herculean effort to save Mike and did everything within your power to help him. That alone has brought me such comfort, accepting that despite the best efforts of four amazing professionals, it was his time to go. But quite apart from that, the kindness and empathy you showed was astonishing. From Chris holding my hands while I cried and screamed, to Lisa sitting with me and Mike as I waited for his family, to Adam and Josh continuing CPR even when it was clear it wasn’t going to work to allow me to say my goodbyes, you all went so far above and beyond what could ever have been expected and made sure I never felt alone in my loss. I felt you grieving with me and I cannot explain what comfort that brought me. The care and dignity with which you put Mike into bed to allow me to spend time with him was so, so comforting and I will never forget how precious those hours were thanks to you.

Since Mike’s death I have experienced bad visual flashbacks of finding him and trying to do CPR. One of the techniques my counsellor recommended was to try and replace the images in my mind with something else, a memory just as strong but a nice one. I have found myself unable to replace them with memories of Mike when he was alive – it’s too stark a contrast, I think. But what I am able to replace it with is memories of that time after he passed away – of how peaceful he looked, of the time I was able to spend with him, and of you and your compassion. By giving me that you have helped me turn the memory of the worst day of my life into something I can remember with a sense of peace and even of hope – a world where four strangers did so much to help me can’t be a bad one, and at some points on this journey that thought alone has kept me going.

I know you may brush this off by saying you were just doing your job but firstly, your job is something that requires very special people in the first place. And secondly, it was so clear to me that this wasn’t just a job for you. I knew you wanted Mike to live as desperately as I did and were devastated when nothing could be done. Chris mentioned that you think of us still and I hope that when you do, you don’t feel any regret. I know that if anyone could have changed the outcome of that day, it would have been the four of you. And while I will grieve Mike’s loss forever, I am profoundly grateful that you were the people with me during his last moments and that you cared for me as you did.

I can’t imagine what your lives have been like for the past year, working through the pandemic. I imagine you must be exhausted and demoralised. But please, please know that what you do and, more importantly, the way that you do it, makes an enormous difference. And I don’t just mean the lives that you save, the patients you work on. I want you to know that even though nobody could have saved Mike’s life that day, your compassion saved mine, and so even though I know you must have left counting it as a bad shift because a patient didn’t make it, please know that it wasn’t – your actions that day mean that our little girl still has a Mummy. I am grateful to you beyond words and I know wherever he is, Mike is too.

I hope you and your families are keeping well during this awful time and that you and your wonderful colleagues are coping with what I know must be desperately difficult working conditions. I think of you all so often and send whatever prayers and good wishes I can towards you and will do so for the rest of my life.

Thank you doesn’t seem enough but it’s all I can really say – so thank you.

With love and gratitude,

Emma Waring