grief – Lessons I learned after I turned 30

Mental Health Mondays – 13. Overwhelmed

When it rains it pours, they say.

January is tough enough as it is, life slowing down after the hype of the Christmas holidays, but this January was just… overwhelming.

It started badly, well horribly actually. On the 4th of January, our beloved family friend Doros was beaten to death, brutally murdered. I’ll write about it when I get the chance and I can handle the emotional pain that takes to describe how we this wonderful human being, an angel on earth, had a truly horrific tormented death.

After that, a combination of really cold weather, which caused my knee muscles to hurt when I ran, so I stopped running for a few weeks (I miss the mental clarity and hype I get during and after a run, and the sense of achievement), running low on money and confidence, going through a stressful period at work, leading to tough realisations I need to deal with soon-ish, and an overall feeling of mental exhaustion made January hard to navigate.

Of course there were a few positive highlights. Yoga with Adriene’s January 30 day yoga kept me going, even on days I felt I couldn’t possibly make it, and my Surviving January calendar, with little every day activities to do to cheer me up, as well as precious time with friends, family and loved ones.

I also started a daily journal, in an effort to help myself remember what I do, since anxiety can literally erase memories, I have huge blanks from previous years because of it.

We are now in the middle of February, and there’s a lot going on, I’m working on a few things, building up my confidence, and pushing hard for a better future, whilst also finding my feet again. I continue my yoga, my daily journal, and a few other things I’d like to write about like my lean in circle powerful, inspiring ladies, and the Women Fit 4 Business programme I got in, I just need to make time to sit down and write, and get back to running again, because both of them are vital for my mental wellbeing. I also haven’t played the guitar in months, which saddens me and makes me wonder whether why, since I loved it so much, and I still do, but I never seem to find the energy or the mood.

There’s a lot of issues I need to explore, but my primary aim for this year is to keep raising awareness about the importance of mental health for all aspects of our life and to also help in practice as much as I can. So cheers to that!

Namaste

Eleni

Mental Health Mondays – 12. Grief

I don’t really know how to start this blog. I find it hard even writing about it.

Last Monday, our baby dog of 13 years, Oscar, who would sit next to us and comfort us when we were ill or sad, who was a genius when it came to stealing food (including opening the fridge!) but would let other dogs bite his nose off, the family’s favourite companion, who’d do anything for love and affection, died.

He was old, I knew that, we all did, but as much as we kept reminding ourselves, we didn’t want to believe that he might die soon.

Even in his last couple of days, he didn’t want to overburden or cause any more pain to my parents.

On Monday morning, my mum messaged me, whilst I was at work. Oscar hadn’t been eating that much lately (his teeth were not in the greatest condition due to his age), though he’d still eat anything he could chew, but on that day he ate almost nothing. And that wasn’t the worst symptom. His legs gave up and he couldn’t move at all.

At this point, I felt that it might be the end. My heart kept beating faster and faster, I felt my blood freeze, and I could barely keep it together. I told my mum to let my sister Stella know, and take him to the vet.

Stella took our baby with my dad to the vet. She called me an hour later. ‘Are you on your own’? She asked.

As soon as she said that, I realised what happened.

He died in her arms, just outside the vet’s office. As the vet poignantly noted ‘You brought him to me when he was a puppy 13 years ago for the first time, and today you brought him back for the last time’.

Needless to say, we were and still are devastated about it. We all loved him to bits and we are trying to deal with his death each in our own way. His passing inevitably triggered painful memories of other loved ones’ deaths over the years, which makes it even harder to deal with.

I keep replaying what happened on Monday, in my mind, until my brain accepts the fact that he died. Some days I feel more sad than others, other days I’m just forgetful and irritable.

There’s no right or wrong when it comes to grief. And it makes no difference whether a human or a dog died, or whether you grieve the end of a relationship, friendship or any other end.

Oscar for us was a member of the family, who we love more than a lot of other humans.

We feel grateful and blessed we got to enjoy his unconditional love and affection for 13 years, and his death was as less traumatic as it could have been. My parents were worried he might die at home, my sister Stella worried that he might get gravely ill and she would have had to make the horrific decision whether to euthanise him, and my little sister Anna was worried he might have died as soon as she had left for her studies a year ago. Thankfully none of this happened. He loved and cared about us until the very end.

We love you our lixi (‘greedy’ when it comes to food, in Greek), now and always. Thank you for making our life more fun and colourful, thank you for all your cuddles and all the adventures we’ve been together. You will forever be the 6th member of our family.

Goodbye Oscarello.

Grief never goes away

Thursday, the penultimate day of what felt like the longest January in the history of time.

I woke up in tears. I couldn’t stop thinking of the day my little sister called me to break the devastating news that my grandpa, pappou Costas had died and the day afterwards, the day of the funeral I did not attend, as I was stuck in Cambridge doing my CELTA course.

I remember it vividly, in details, colours and feelings, like it was yesterday. Little moments that I’d normally forget if it was any other day I can recall in excruciatingly painful detail, my little sister and mum messaging me first to say that ‘grandpa was ill’ (he had died but they didn’t know how to tell me), the dreaded phone call afterwards, wandering by the stairs on a quiet corner of the corridor, Shalala asking me if I was OK some time later when I could barely speak at our TP feedback session, crying my eyes out that evening whilst planning a lesson for the following day, the following morning Jonny asking me if I was OK and and his reaction when I burst into tears, sitting outside in the sunshine just before I were about to teach about Mongolian horse racing (the same time as the funeral was taking place in Cyprus) looking up in the sky wishing my grandpa farewell, then remembering that ‘teachers are really actors’ and thankfully making it through my lesson.

Naturally, I started thinking of uncle Spyro’s tragic death just two months later. Again I remember every single detail, visiting him at the hospital a week before he died, in excruciating pain not able to say more than a few words at a time but still in good spirits, getting ready to go see him again a week later but receiving the dreaded phone call to inform us that he had passed away, the eulogy I wrote and ended up reading because my sister couldn’t manage through the tears (not that I did much better), the funeral, the burial, the memorial service for both of them a week later.

I wrecked my brain desperately trying to figure out why. Why do I suddenly feel so overwhelmingly sad about it, 4 months later, 6 months later? Perhaps because I wasn’t there when it happened and I never got closure when grandpa died? But I was there when uncle Spyros died…

Am I still grieving?

Then I remembered something a couple whose daughter died of cancer and came to share their story at one of the Touch storytelling events said.

Jon and Chris described grief like a circle, the circle is everything about the loved one you lost. At the beginning, you are in the centre of the circle, you cannot see past the sadness and the chaos. As time goes by, you get out of the circle and it gets smaller, you can see beyond it, but it’s always there. You just learn how to live with it.

And they were right..

They were right. It’s always there and at any given time you are back in the middle of the circle again. It’s always there, like an old scar that sometimes bleeds and hurts as much as the first time. And this one isn’t even that old of a scar.

So, grief never really goes away.

I did not suppress it. I cried throughout the day (exhaustion did not help) and choked every time I tried to hum a farewell song written by one of my favourite Cypriot composers, Costas Kakoyiannis, beautiful lyrics by his partner Pambos Kouzalis, who had just lost his brother to cancer, sang by an incredible 14 year old, Georgia Neokleous, who had sadly lost her mum to cancer too. Life is cruel like that sometimes.

That’s grief. It never goes away, if from time to time the pain comes back and you should never suppress it. There is no specific amount of time that you need or have to ‘overcome grief’. You just learn to manage it, but some days it hurts like hell and that’s OK.

Today is one of those days. I miss grandpa’s laughter and silly little jokes, his smile when all his grandchildren were visiting, running around the house, uncle Spyro’s wit, advice and little remedies he always suggested, his endless kindness and patience. It hurts but it’s OK.

I was lucky enough to have them in my life and that’s worth all the pain of losing them.

This is for you. Mr Kakoyiannis song (I translated the lyrics as they were too beautiful not to share and the composer included them in the description of the video).

You left and I didn’t get even get the chance to bid farewell,

say my last goodbyes.

How could I live without you for so long?

I throw water on your path, so a plane tree can grow.

To protect you from all evil, always keep it away, keep you safe.

Eleni

When life gives you… grief

Monday, 5th of August, 2019

“What if my uncle or grandpa die and I don’t get to see them again? ” I wrote on my latest post about a week ago.

Less than a week later, one my of worst fears was realised. Pappou Costas, everyone’s favourite grandpa, the kindest, sweetest, funniest, loving, genuine man I had the blessing to have as a grandpa to look after me, take me cycling, take me down town on the bus at the big market in the old city on a Saturday, attend every birthday, name day, every single celebration, died a few days after his 83rd birthday.

When I talked to him last Saturday I promised I’d go see him first thing when I’m back in Cyprus in just a few weeks time. After he lost himself in his own thoughts for a moment (dementia is a horrible, horrible disease) he told me ‘I’m not going to be here, I’ll leave this place’. I cried after we hang up. I hoped he meant he’d leave the nursing home he was temporarily at but deep down I feared he meant he’d leave us, for good.

On Wednesday afternoon whilst observing my classmates teach, I got a message from my little sister and my mum saying that grandpa was not feeling that well. As soon as I got out of the classroom, I called the little one. I knew what she’d tell me before she spilled the words out. Pappou Costas died that morning, on his own at a nursing home, after a stroke.

I couldn’t stop crying but I went to the loo, washed my face and went back into the classroom. I can’t even remember how I managed not to cry in front of everyone. As soon as I walked out of the classroom I burst into tears and cried until bedtime.

I thought of quitting the course and flying home for the funeral the following day. But that wouldn’t have helped in anything. Grandpa’s only wish was for his children and grandchildren who adored, to be happy. Quitting the CELTA course and not having the option to teach English after my Cyprus break would have been a terrible decision.

“Please don’t quit, you flying here just for the funeral won’t make anyone happier. Stay, finish the course” my mum, my sisters and my cousin said.

They were right. And if I want to travel in the next few years, I’d have to learn to deal with terrible situations like this. I have been through them before, but it never gets easier.

I had no idea how to manage it. I was to teach the following day and all I could think of is that I’ll never see my grandpa again. I’ll never see his wide smile, with the odd hair from his moustache always falling into his mouth. I’ll never hear his laughter, his jokes, the way he greeted me every time he saw me or spoke to me on the phone.

But I had to find a way. People go through this every day. I can do it. First I emailed the course leaders. They may well notice my puffy, red eyes and they might misinterpret it and worried I’m not happy with the course.

I then sat down for hours preparing my lesson plan. Honestly, I can’t remember much from Wednesday night. It’s all a blur. Only thing I remember is all the messages I got from my friends. I never missed my friends more than last week and I’ve never felt them closer. I never felt so loved but so lonely at the same time.

I hardly remember anything from Thursday.

“Remember, teachers are really actors“, my dear auntie Sophie said. That’s what I tried to do. I cried my eyes out on my way to the college but when I walked in I pretended I was someone else. It worked for most of the day. I only broke down a couple of times.

When I walked into the classroom, one of the tutors, Jonny, took me to another room.

–‘Please don’t ask me if I’m OK otherwise I’d start crying’, I said.

-‘I know. I’m just checking…’ he replied.

And that was it. I started crying. He welled up. He gave me a hug and offered me a tissue and a few days off if I wanted to. I didn’t want to though. It would have probably made everything worse, staying at home in a house full of strangers, with no friends around. I will always remember that hug, a human feeling empathy and crying with another human’s pain. So poignantly beautiful.

I did OK in the input sessions but just before 2pm, when the funeral was just about to start in Cyprus, I went outside for some fresh air before the class I were about to teach. I had a moment of silence to myself in honour of my grandpa whilst I felt the sunshine warming up my face. It was cloudy all day but at that very moment the sun came out.

‘My grandpa brought the sunshine out all the way from Cyprus to me, to tell me everything will be OK. I love you grandpa’ I heard the little voice inside my head say. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath and walked back in the classroom.

If anyone told me a week ago that in the next seven days I’d lose my grandpa, cry in front of both of my tutors and somehow manage to pretend I’m OK for days and actually deliver a great class, I’d have never believed them. Who? Me! I cry watching TV adverts and wear my heart on my sleeve, how on earth did I manage this?

Sadly I didn’t make it to Chris’s wedding and I feel terrible for that. For those who know me in person or have been reading my blogs, you know how much I love Chris, he’s one of my favourite people in the world and I’d have loved to be there and celebrate with him the happiest day of his life, but I just couldn’t. I was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Drained. I couldn’t feel any other emotion other than numbness and deep sadness.

5 days later and I’m doing better. I’m still sad and I cried my eyes out writing this, but I can control my grief just enough to get me going for now. It will hit me as soon as I’m done with this insanely intense course. For now, a day at a time.

This post is dedicated to my grandpa and I couldn’t not write a few words.

“A society grows great when old men plant trees the shade of which they know they will never sit in”. Good people do things for other people. That’s it. The end. Anne said to Tony on Ricky Gervais ever so relevant After Life. That’s what our grandpa did all his life. Good things for other people without expecting anything in return.

This is the last time I saw him, last Christmas, watching his grandchildren and grand grandchildren laughing and playing.

I asked the family to share some of their photos. Always surrounded by his loved ones, always laughing. That’s how we’ll all remember him.

I love you pappou mou. Our lives will never be the same without you. I promise I’ll always try to follow your example. Do good things for people. Make this a better world for everyone.

Eleni

Three years ago…

With every passing year, the memory of that day fades away… But somehow, still, there are things I can’t forget.

My cousin screaming SHE IS NOT BREATHING!! The smell, oh my God that smell. The smell of the body giving up, the smell of death… And that image, the image of what could have been my aunt. But she looked so different. I’m still amazed how different she looked a few days later at the funeral. Then she looked like herself, how I knew her.

Death is a natural part of life, we should be familiar with it, deal with it better.

But is it really? Cancer is not natural is it? The way it ruins your body and mind. Pumping your body with so many chemicals to kill it that they end up killing your internal organs is not natural is it? Feeling so exhausted and worrying you may not make it another day is not natural is it?

A couple of weeks before she died, I sent her flowers hoping to make her smile, and they did. That’s the last image I had of her alive, an image still painful to share. Living abroad when your family goes through something so horrible is immensely painful. And as tough as it is to think about it, you never know when it’ll be the last time you see them.

I’ve read somewhere that grief doesn’t really go away. It’s always there, you just learn to live with it. That’s why sometimes all those feelings come back as strong as they were that day.

But this how we will always remember her.

I’m grateful my mum had such a great eldest sister and my cousins such a lovely mother figure. That’s what my mum said to me when I asked her earlier.

Η Μεγαλη μου Αδελφη. Σπανια Ψυχη. Ανθρωπος θυσιας και προσφορας σε ολους μας. Η γιαγια μου η Αννα, η Μαμμα μου και η Αδελφη μου η Αννα τις ειχα κ τις εχω προτυπο στη ζωη μου. Μπορει να πεθαναν αλλα για μενα ειναι ζωντανες στην καρδια μου κ στο μυαλο μου. Εζησα μαζι τους Ευλογημενες κ αξεχαστες στιγμες.

Η αδελφη μου ηταν μαζι μου την ωρα που πονουσα οταν γεννουσα τα παιδια μου κ μου κρατουσε το χερι κ με στηριζε. Οταν πηγαιναμε σπιτι της ηταν πολυ φιλοξενη. Οτι ειχε μας κερνουσε. Το τελος της ζωης της ηταν δυσκολο κ πονεμενο. Δεν μπορουσα να τη βλεπω να υποφερει…

(My eldest sister. A rare, pure soul. Always gave her heart for everyone else. My grandma Anna, my mum and my sister Anna have always been my role models in life. They may have died but for me they are alive in my mind and in my heart. I lived some unforgettable, blessed moments with them.

She (my sister) was with me, holding my hand when I was in pain, giving birth to my children. She was always so hospitable.

The end of her life, tough and painful. I couldn’t watch her suffer so much…)

I’m grateful she brought to live and raised two of my favourite and dearest loved ones, Andrea and Georgia. My cousin, Georgia posted this beautiful poem of a famous modern poet. It’s as if she wrote it herself for her mum…

Να φωνάξω ξανά: Μάνα μου!

« Μάνα μου…κόρη μου» ήταν οι τελευταίες σου λέξεις σ’ εμένα,

όταν αισθάνθηκες ότι η ζωή σ’ εγκαταλείπει σιγά – σιγά.

Μέσα σ’ αυτές τις λέξεις φώλιασε όλη σου η αγάπη.

Δυο λέξεις – δυο ιδιότητες, εκ διαμέτρου αντίθετες κι όμως,

σε κάποιες στιγμές τόσο όμοιες, σαν τις όψεις του ίδιου νομίσματος.

Τις έχω κρατήσει μέσα μου, κερί αναμμένο στο μανουάλι της θύμησής σου,

μπροστά από τα εικονίσματα τόσων αναμνήσεων.

Ναός η ύπαρξή σου κι η καρδιά σου ένας διάφανος θόλος

που έβλεπε κατευθείαν στον Θεό.

Εκεί σε φαντάζομαι τώρα, ψηλά αλλά όχι απόμακρα.

Πανταχού παρούσα να παρακολουθείς τις πτώσεις και τις ανόδους μου,

τις θλίψεις και τις χαρές μου, τα λάθη και τις ευστοχίες μου.

Σε φαντάζομαι και σου μιλάω τις ώρες που τα πάντα σωπαίνουν.

Σε φωνάζω χωρίς στόμα, σε αγγίζω χωρίς χέρια, σε θρηνώ χωρίς λυγμούς.

Γιατί, μάνα μου, δεν είμαι πια η ίδια χωρίς εσένα.

Μεγάλωσα απότομα από τότε που σ’ έχασα.

Ξεριζώθηκα σαν το δέντρο που το θερίζει ο βοριάς.

Έμεινα άοπλος στρατιώτης στο πεδίο της μάχης,

που τον εγκατέλειψαν οι σύντροφοί του.

Ένας στρατιώτης σακατεμένος και κρυμμένος στα χαρακώματα

να περιμένει την επίθεση του εχθρού.

Τα διδάγματά σου, όμως, οι γαλουχίες σου, η αστείρευτη αγάπη

που με ανέθρεψε με ατσάλωσαν.

Μου έδωσαν τελικά θάρρος να συνεχίσω, να μην λιποψυχώ.

Να βγω έξω και να συνεχίσω να δίνω τις μάχες μου.

Έγινα εγώ η σοφή που συμβουλεύει, η αγκαλιά που παρηγορεί,

η αισιοδοξία που παροτρύνει, το άγρυπνο μάτι που περιφρουρεί.

Κι ας κρύβω μέσα μου το παιδί που ορφάνεψε.

Το παιδί που κλαίει, όταν χτυπάει στην αλάνα της ζωής

κι αποζητά το μητρικό χάδι και την ζεστή αγκαλιά.

Συνεχίζω να ζω κι ας μην έχω πια την ευλογία να φωνάξω:

«Mάνα μου» και να σε δω να εμφανίζεσαι στην πόρτα.

~Σαντίνα Δεναξά~

( To shout again: Mum!

My daughter… your last words to me, when you felt that your life was slowly slipping away. You put your love into those few words.

I kept those words inside me, as a candle lit in your memory. Your existence, a church and your heart a dome looking straight to God. That’s where I imagine you now. Up in the sky, but not far.

Always here, watching my rise and fall, my happy and sad moments, my mistakes and my successes. I think of you and talk to you at the most silent moments. I talk to you with no mouth, I touch you with no arms, I grieve for you with no tears.

Because, mum, I’m not the same without you. I grew up suddenly, the moment you died. I’m like an uprooted tree, battered in the wind. A soldier without their gun, in the battlefield, abandoned by their fellow soldiers. A wounded soldier, hidden, waiting for the enemy to attack.

But your nurture, your advice, your endless love, made me stronger. They gave me strength to keep going, to never give up.

I was now the wise one to advise others, the one to console, the optimistic one, the watchful eye that protects.

Although, inside, I’m still a child without a mother, a child who cries when she gets hurt and is looking for their mum’s embrace.

I keep on living without the blessing of you showing up at the door when I shout ‘Mum’.)

I’m grateful my sister Stella had such a wonderful godmother. I loved the special bond they always had. I asked my sister for some words. I burst into tears when reading her reply. I’ve never heard of this before.

-Δηλαδη να γραψω που διαβαζαμε μαζι και εκαμε υπομονη ωσπου να μαθω την γ*****η την ιστορια; Και που με έπιανε κάθε φορά που ξεκινούσε η χρονιά να μου πει καλή αρχή και να διαβάζω? Και να προσεχω τον εαυτο μου γιατι αν δεν τον προσεχουμε δεν θα μας προσεχει.

Και όταν εγεννήθηκε η Ειρήνη είπε μου να προσέχω τη βαφτιστικιά μου και ειπα της πως όσο καλή νούνα είχα, τόσο καλή νούνα θα’μαι για την Ειρήνη.

Και όταν μιλούσαμε για τα φαγια της είπε μου να μου δείξει και είπα της πως όσες φορές και να μου δείξει δεν θα είναι ίδια με τα δικά της. Και λέει μου, γιατί; Και λέω της έχει ένα συστατικό που βάλει που δεν το έχει κανένας. Και λέει μου μα τι; Και είπα της η αγάπη που βάλει στο φαί της όταν το φτιάχνει.

(She used to sit with me and help me with my homework. She was so patient, especially when it came to f****ing history. She used to call me at the beginning of every single school year to wish me well and remind me to be a good student.

She used to say to me: Take care of yourself, because if you don’t take care of yourself, it won’t take care of you.

When Irini was born she told me to take care of my goddaughter and I told her I’ll be as good godmother as she’s been to me.

When we used to chat about her cooking, she offered to show me how to make some of her recipes and I told her, she can teach me as many times as she likes but it will never taste the same as her food. And she asked me, Why?

Because you add an ingredient that nobody else has. What’s that? She asked.

The love you put into your cooking…)

I’m grateful I had Anna as my aunt for 29 years, I’ll always cherish the memories of the big parties and relaxed summer evenings on her terrace, her delicious food, her love, her intelligence, her sweetness and kindness.

And although I’d rather she was still alive, I’m grateful of what I learned and how much I’ve changed because of her death. Appreciate the little things, love and care for myself, do what makes me happy. I’ve become a stronger, more resilient human.

Αιωνία σου η μνήμη θεία μου καλή μου.

Ελένη

A foster carer, a former priest and other super humans: A night to remember

Thursday, 14th of June

Hannah picked me up from home. We are heading to BySea cafe in Portswood. The next live storytelling event is about to start in a couple of hours and I’m a tiny bit nervous. But I can’t wait. Exhilarated.

I keep hearing this in my head. Somewhere in the desert there’s a forest…And an acre before us…

Today is going to be a special one, I can feel it. As soon as I’ve read about the speakers.

Hannah and I went early to set up. It was all done in less than half an hour, we even had time for a cup of tea and an enormous slice of cake. The portions at Bysea are huge.

I’m a little nervous because Debs asked me to host tonight’s event, talk at the start, introduce the speakers and bring it all to an end after the last speaker.

I love chatting but I never spoke in front of an audience before. I guess I did if you count the short speech at the last year of primary school, when I was 12 (which my cousin wrote for me, she was 18 at the time and was just about to study pedagogy to become a prime school teacher, she always wrote beautifully) and about 3 years ago the eulogy at my aunt’s funeral which again my cousin wrote, but this time it was for her mum and I was reading it on her behalf. Hardest thing I had to do in my life ever. To the day.

But I never ever spoke in English in front of an audience.

I don’t get too stressed nowadays, not any more but I was still a bit anxious. And also excited.

What’s the worst it could happen?

Just before 8pm.

The place is buzzing. Debs and Hannah were worried not many people will show up, there were a couple of other events on the same night, but the place is full.

Time to go up!

I don’t want to look at my notes much so I look around, at our guests, into their eyes.

God everyone is staring at me! Why?

You are talking to them you silly. You are the centre of the attention. They are supposed to look at and listen to you.

I panicked for a second and I forgot a couple of things I needed to say, it’s OK you can mention them late, so I went ahead and introduced our first speakers.

Jon and Chris.

(I struggled to find the right words that can capture the beauty of their story. I hope I did it justice).

A sweet couple, Jon and Chris came up on stage, and read out loud their story in turns. The story of their beloved daughter Katie. From the little I learned about her through her parents, she must have been an amazing human being. Despite all the tough ‘challenges’ (I hate this word, it cannot capture the pain, the torture, physical, emotional and mental that one can experience) life through at her, disability, cancer, she was determined to live life to the full.

She lived on her own, she drove, she studied at University and although when she was first diagnosed with cancer she was given a few years to live, she lived 17 more years. She proved them wrong!

She was incredibly strong, brave and considerate until the very end. The night before she died she listened to her friend talking about her everyday problems and worries, although she was in terrible pain herself. That’s the kind of person she was.

Jon and Chris went on to talk about how they are dealing with their grief, after Katie passed away 18 months ago and how their faith helped them. A friend once told Jon how grief is like a circle, the circle is all about the loved one you lost and at the start, you are in the centre of the circle, you cannot see past the sadness and the chaos. But as time goes by, you get out of the circle and it gets smaller, you can see beyond it, but it’s always there. You learn how to live with it. (I hope I remember it correctly, I got emotional at this point, it reminded me of my aunt, her death and how each of us are coping with it, in different ways, two and a half years later).

They took up new hobbies, e.g. Jon went on a cooking training class so she can teach others how to cook and they still do things Katie liked, not to reminisce and feel sad, but because they enjoy them too.

By the time they were done, I was already in tears. But it was time to get up and introduce the next speaker. I was so emotional I forgot to thank them publicly, on the mic, after I’ve given them their ‘I shared my story’ badges. What an idiot!

Dominic

Next up it was Dominic. He started off with a poem (he had the smoothest, most beautiful voice, I hope he seriously considers my suggestion of him start doing podcasts)…

Breathing under water

I built my house by the sea.

Not on the sands, mind you;
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.

A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences.
Respectful, keeping our distance,
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always, the fence of sand our barrier,
always, the sand between.

And then one day,
-and I still don’t know how it happened –
the sea came.
Without warning.

Without welcome, even
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but coming.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death.
And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.
And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,
And you give your house for a coral castle,
And you learn to breathe underwater.

Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ
from an unpublished work

Dominic’s life was full of ups and downs, a friend used to call him Forrest Gump. And by the end of his talk I understood why.

The strict, often cruel teachers at the boarding school he went to, put him down, repeatedly told him he ‘won’t amount to much’.

Later in life he discovered he’d like to become a priest. It wasn’t an easy ride, he couldn’t even afford to buy the essentials on the list he was given, and he’d often borrow from the church in Portswood.

Five years after he became a priest, he suddenly, fell in love. He gave up priesthood to marry the love of his life.

After that he dealt with redundancy ‘One day I was a chief operative for a charity, the next day I was down at the job centre’ and other hurdles that came his way over the years.

His message: Life is unpredictable, you never know what the next day will bring you, but life is also beautiful, and when you learn to breath underwater, to face everything without drowning or giving up, you build a deepest, most meaningful appreciation for life.

Sam

The third speaker, Sam lost his dad to cancer about two years ago.

He found it hard to process his grief, until he discovered open water swimming. ‘Those fifteen minutes when swimming becomes automatic and you don’t have to think about moving your arms or your legs, those fifteen minutes of clarity of mind’.

When I heard this my mind went straight to meditation and how I feel when I do my yoga.

And just after I thought of that, surprisingly, Sam said ‘my friends told me when I described it to them, that’s similar to meditation’.

I kept thinking what was the one thing that helped me the most to overcome my grief three years ago. Writing. That’s what helped me. This blog.

Sam started a website since, Sporting Heads, where he shares stories, similar to his of mental health benefits of sports and exercise.

Jenny (ft Annie)

The last speaker Jenny (with the help of her dear friend Annie who interviewed her) is a foster carer. She fostered 52 children in 13 years!!

Jen shared incredible anecdotes of her life as a foster carer. What came across strongly was Jen’s unconditional love and care for the children, despite everything that comes with fostering a child.

A little girl she fostered used to defecate every time someone compliment her. Every time someone said ‘Isn’t she lovely?’. She is now doing much better, thanks to Jen.

This is just one of the many stories she shared with us.

Jen wouldn’t be able to do what she does without her support network, her friends, her family, her husband and ten children, and the community.

It’s not always easy, actually it’s not easy full stop. Most children come from troubled families, some they’ve been neglected others have been abused, they often struggle emotionally and physically, but with Jen’s love, care and patience, they grow stronger.

Annie read as a letter from one of Jenny’s foster children. It was impossible not to tear up.

I could sit and listen to these two ladies all night.

What a great way to end this wonderful evening.

At the end I got the chance to chat to some of these wonderful humans.

I asked Dominic about the poem he recited and told me how he came across it. He read it in a friend’s book, an American priest and was actually written by a nun. He gave me a copy to take home. What a sweet man.

I had a great chat with Annie, who I found out earlier amongst a million other things she does, she runs Communicare, a Southampton mental health charity tackling loneliness and isolation, which I recently signed up as a volunteer. Superwoman!

I went home feeling inspired, touched, blessed, happy, honoured I got to introduce and hear the stories of these amazing people.

If you have a story to share, get in touch. Everyone has a story. We all have a story. And that’s what Touch is all about, share our stories, learn from each other, touch each other’s lives.

And if you get the chance, come along to one of the events. Intimate, inspirational, so beautifully simple, humanity at it’s best.

Namaste

Eleni

Lovely Ray

‘In my experience, Kevin, there’s no such thing as ‘a long time ago.’ There are only memories that mean something and memories that don’t.’

On a late summer Wednesday eve in 2015, this tall, charming gentleman walked in the SingNow rehearsal room. I remember sitting next to him, chatting before we even started the session. He made me laugh from the first moment we met with his frankness.

His name was Ray.

As per Jack’s tradition, whenever someone new joins the group they introduce themselves and tell us something we wouldn’t know about them. He was 80 years old. We were all in shock, we would have never guessed.

His wife of sixty years, the love of his life, Bet had died recently and he missed her terribly. He hated being on his own and thought he’d give our choir a go.

Little did he know then how much he would love it, how much we would love him.

About a year and a half later I left SingNow and I’d only see Ray at SingNow gigs I now occasionally went as a fan or One Sound, our ever so growing choir collaboration show.

But for that year and a half we had a chat and a laugh every week. He’d always make me feel good about myself, compliment me, remind me to live my life and not dwell on things. He was a reminder himself. In his 80s he was more active than most of us. He played tennis, had tea parties with his neighbours, he got out and about.

He didn’t miss a single performance. Always smartly dressed, he sang in the rain at Music in the City, Fareham, Guildhall Square.

Ray was one of a kind. Funny, witty, shockingly honest, charming, sweet and always a gentleman. I used to refer to him as lovely Ray. Because he really was.

He’d chat to everyone, he’d be friends with everyone, he’d help anyone.

I’ll never forget a warm Sunday afternoon after a SingNow gig was cancelled at the last minute and Claire, Les, Alison and I went to Ray’s for a cuppa and cake. He lived in a beautiful bungalow, bursting with vintage furniture, floral wallpapers, character. It was so pretty Claire and I joked we’d move in with him. After giving us a little tour of the house, we went through the double doors out to the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen in real life.

‘My wife used to take care of it. But now she’s gone I can’t keep up with it…’

He were to move to a retirement flat soon.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BGjmEiMFmJq/?taken-by=elenis_world

The last time I sang with Ray and SingNow was on an autumn Saturday afternoon, at Mountbatten Hospice. It was a special one for many of us. It brought up memories of my aunt I lost a year earlier to cancer, she was moved into hospice for a while before she did, others had relatives who spent their last days there. What an unsettling… serene place it is.

I last saw Ray at One Sound, two months ago.

We had just finished the show and on my way home, there he was, smiling. We had a quick chat, gave me a kiss and a hug and said goodnight.

Friday, 8th of June 2018.

I’m at Test Valley Crematorium. The chapel is packed. Of course it is. Ray was loved by everyone he met.

I wonder if I’d have so many people at my funeral. I doubt it…I’m no Ray. Nowhere near Ray.

Ray died peacefully… and unexpectedly three weeks ago. When I told Donna and Matt about it, they remembered lovely Ray, although they’ve never met him. That’s how wonderful he was. People liked him just from hearing about him.

Is it worse than he died unexpectedly? We were not prepared. As much as one can prepare for this. We didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. To tell him how much we loved him. To have a last giggle, to see his smile again.

This very thought terrifies me and I break out in a cold sweat. You’ll never know when is the last time… What if I die? What if a friend dies? Or family? Some of my friends I haven’t seen for months. There is so much I want to say to everyone… Oh my lord…

Is it better? He didn’t suffer for months, or years. He was not stuck in a hospital bed, depending on others to take care of him, slowly and painfully falling apart…

I don’t know what to expect. I’ve never been to a funeral in this country before so on our way there I ask Fraser to give me an idea of how it’d be like.

I feel a bit underdressed. The family requested no black (except the choir peeps who dressed in the SingNow black and orange colours) and I wore the only clean clothes I had that were no black.

I stand at the back with my old SingNow friends. I’m desperately trying not to cry.

Ray wouldn’t have liked that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something that shocks me. The date of his death on the funeral program. 21st of May, 2018.

But he died on a Saturday, He didn’t die on my birthday did he? Did he? What does that mean?

I see Pat welling up and tears are streaming down my face. I can somehow manage to control them. I sing along to the Hymn although I have no idea how the melody goes.

It was a beautiful service, a celebration of his amazing life. His family gave wonderful tributes to Ray. I cried and laughed with my old SingNow pals.

The ceremony ended with the Lord’s Prayer.

I didn’t realise until half way through that’s ‘Πάτερ Ημών’. I pray along, but in ancient Greek. I haven’t said it out loud in years. I can’t even remember the last time.

Since I’ve never been to a funeral in the UK, I didn’t know that I wouldn’t get to see Ray again.

The last and most painful but cathartic part of a Greek Orthodox funeral is saying goodbye to the deceased one last time. (None of the words used to describe death ever feels right).

It didn’t happen but attending his funeral still helped with closure.

I wish my parents let me go at my giagia Stella’s funeral 23 years ago. It’s already excruciatingly painful when a loved one dies, the brain struggles to cope, to understand that you’ll never see, hear, touch that person ever again and being there, at the funeral, saying goodbye, seeing them with your own eyes lie there, in the coffin, which weirdly seems comfortable, looking so peaceful, almost grinning, that’s what you need to help you make sense of it (as much as possible). Of death. Of mortality. The surrealism of it all.

Chris gives me a lift back to Southampton. We talked about loved ones we lost, we get emotional, we laugh. She is amazing. I hope she knows that. I wish I told her.

Ray was buried in his favourite black and orange SingNow clothes. That’s how he’d have wanted to. That’s how much he loved it.

I still can’t believe I’ll never see him again. I’m sad but so happy I had the great pleasure of knowing the lovely Ray Dyball.

I bet he is having a glass of gin and giggles with Bet right now.

You may rest in peace Mr Dyball.

Amen

Eleni

Two years later…

Two years on this day…

I wasn’t sure whether to post today or not. I’ve been feeling emotional already the last couple of days but today was harder than normal.

But today is not about what happened that day. You can see my previous posts here. Today is about reflecting on what I learned and how I changed over the last two years.

For the last few days I’ve been contemplating about my life so far and what it’ll be better to do next. I’m craving change and I know for sure I want a new job, but should I move to another city? Another country? Another continent?

Change is scary, even when you desperately want it. I’m scared I might make the wrong choices. And I’m even more scared but also relieved it’s just me I need to think about.

I sometimes fall into this hole, comparing myself to others at my age who achieved much more, they travelled more, they’ve done more, they have a better job, more money and so on.

I loved my Uni years and I wouldn’t change those for anything, but I feel I wasted the rest of my 20s paralysed by insecurities and fears, stuck in an unhealthy relationship that left me with confidence issues. I can’t change my past, so there is no point thinking like that whatsoever, but sometimes I can’t help it.

What shook me to the core was my aunt’s death. That was my wake-up call. That reminded me how short life is and how unhappy I was with my then life.

Two years later, I sometimes I feel I haven’t achieved much (the annoying inner voice taking over) but then I take a second and think of what I have achieved so far, how I managed to finally travel more, Edinburgh, Berlin, Rome, Florence, how I now go home at least twice a year, which is essential for my mental wellbeing, how I became a godmother to my gorgeous Prince, how I learned to live on my own, the first time I almost burnt the whole place down because I forgot the pot on the hob for too long and the water evaporated, the first time I forgot to lock the doors, the first time I had to fix the car on my own, the first time I sold a car (God I miss my Indigo), the first time I had so little money left I could only afford food…, the first time I could afford a proper holiday, the first time I posted a blog, the first time I posted a video of me singing badly to Kodaline, the first time I went to the cinema on my own to watch a Louis Theroux documentary, the first time I finally opened up about my struggles and depression and many many more firsts…

Although I go through a confidence crisis every now and then, sometimes triggered by the smallest thing (I know is silly but that’s how the brain f***s you up, cognitive distortions), I’m very proud of how far I’ve come and if anyone thinks less of me then that’s their problem. Rejection is not easy to digest but as with everything, you learn how to cope and overcome it.

I go through my older posts from time to time and I can see how my writing and I as a person matured since I started this blog.

I’d probably be stuck in a horribly boring and miserable life if it wasn’t for my loving, selfless, brave, sweet, incredibly intelligent, kind aunt and her horrible but noble fight until the very end.

Reading her eulogy at her funeral in front of a church full of people who knew and loved her is the hardest thing I ever had to do in my entire life but also one of the most proud moments of my life so far.

One of the many gems I kept from the incredible Derren Brown’s book Happy was that a person really dies when the last person who remembers them dies too. What a sweet, beautiful notion.

We all love her and she will always live through us. Through her children, her grandchildren, her brother and sisters, her dad, my dearest pappou and all of us.

I’m overwhelmingly proud of my cousin Georgia, my aunt’s daughter, and her seven children and all of the family on how amazingly they did the last two years. We’ve been through a lot as a family but we are closer than ever. I love you all to the moon and back.

I’m always amazed by how we humans cope and bounce back from whatever life throws at us.

I’ve learned from my past and thanks to my aunt I’ve made my present and hopefully my future much better.

So here’s to the present and the future. May be better and brighter, full of laughter and incredible moments.

Rest in peace dear aunt Anna.

Eleni

4 months ago…part 2… dedicated to my aunt Anna…

LESSON 6 and the most important one: ENJOY EVERY MOMENT, YOU NEVER KNOW IF IT WILL BE YOUR LAST ONE. IF YOU DIE TOMORROW, AT LEAST YOU’LL DIE HAPPY!

17th of October, 2015… A day I will never forget…

My ex drove me to the airport on that Saturday morning. We were both lost in our own thoughts and worries… It was one of the longest drives ever but I tried to follow my own advice… take a day at a time and focus on the present (which is easier said than done, I know).

Throughout the 4.5 hour flight I tried to mentally prepare myself of what was I about to face. The plan was to drive straight from the airport to the hospital at 9pm as my beloved aunt’s life was hanging by a thread…She smiled when they told her I was going…I really wanted to see her before she died…

My cousin warned me that what I was going to see wasn’t pretty, my aunt wasn’t breathing on her own, she couldn’t talk, only blink and sigh, her body started to melt, she was full of jaundice… But for me she was still my aunt and I wanted to see her and tell her that I’m there and that I love her…

I kept thinking how difficult life she had. Back in 1974, during the Turkish invasion in Cyprus she was captured by the Turks, when she was only 15 years old, and luckily a kind-hearted officer dressed her up as an old lady so she doesn’t get raped and helped her escape.

She was intelligent, loved reading, she was one the best students in her class and she got a place at a Greek university to study French. But just before she was about to go, she met the man she loved until her last breath, (even after all that he’s done to her) and decided to get married and have a family instead.

After her husband abandoned her, she was left on her own, with no money, no food. At some point a snake sneaked in the house and no one could do anything about it, she spent sleepless nights worrying..

She suffered a lot, I won’t get into more details but she didn’t feel true happiness for years…

She was a loving person who adored everyone and always wanted to make everyone else happy…putting her self last.

LESSON 7- Love yourself and do whatever makes you happy. It’s not selfish to think about yourself first, it’s essential.

And after all she’s been through, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. And she suffered immense pain for a whole year. But through all of this she never complained and until the end she only thought about others. She didn’t deserve this horrible end. No one does. CANCER SUCKS!

She loved to cook and take care of everyone. She made the best pastitsio and keftedes!

She always started the beautiful text messages she used to sent to me with ‘To my beloved Eleni… ‘ and ended with ‘Love, your aunt Anna’…

Back to that night.. we drove straight to the hospital…My heart was pounding so loudly I could actually hear it…

I walked into the room… I couldn’t believe that person was my aunt, she looked like someone else, what was left of her after cancer and chemotherapies, hormone therapies, radiotherapies, liver failure, kidney failure… I don’t want and can’t describe in great detail what I’ve seen, I will only say she looked like a person dying… that image and that smell will always be in my memory. My voice was trembling, my mouth was dry… I managed to say ‘Hi, I’m here’ …

My cousin (who was pregnant at the time) started shouting ‘ She is not breathing, she is not breathing’. My aunt’s ex-husband and daughter in law were next door waiting for the nurses to finish changing her clothes and bedsheets.. they didn’t know …

She died just 10 minutes before we got there… She died on her own.

LESSON 8- Tell the people you love and care about how you feel about them often, you never know when it’s the last time you see them.

I feel in my heart that’s what she wanted… she didn’t want to die in front of her loved ones, she knew it would be more difficult for them to get over it… so she waited and died whilst the nurses were changing her clothes… The doctor had to run to an emergency call and she didn’t have time to inform the relatives before we arrived… We were the first who saw her dead.

I couldn’t believe she was gone, I couldn’t believe I was 10 minutes late… I kissed her on the forehead and mumbled ‘rest in peace’ I tried hard to hold my tears and comfort my cousin…I kept staring at her… she was finally free from the pain but no longer with us… We sat around for hours until her son arrived (who I hadn’t seen for years), we didn’t want to tell him on the phone that she died…he had a special bond with his mum and he struggled to handle all of this…

That was the worst night of my life… followed by the worst week of my life… Since then with everything else that happened later on(posts to follow) I haven’t been myself..I still sometimes struggle to believe she is gone and I will never see her again…

continues at part 3…

2016-02-07 15.47.52