"My first year as a young widow."

“I still hurt everyday with an emptiness that will never go away. I am learning to live with it. And that’s ok.”

I lay awake, tears streaming down my eyes, wondering if, as I’d told my children when I had put them in the helicopter back to Honiara, their Daddy had washed up on a little island nearby. Was he sipping a coconut? Waiting for us to find him? Had he caught a fish, made a fire, and settled in for the night, ready to be found in the morning? He was certainly capable of these Bear Grylls feats and, indeed, my young children relaxed at the very image that this is what Daddy must be doing. The other was unimaginable.

As the sound of waves lapped up outside my leaf hut hours later, my heart ached with a sense of dread. But no, I must remain optimistic, like my ever-enthusiastic husband, I could not give in to the reality that he might have drowned. I had to hold onto this hope as my tired body gave way to sleep and the tears dried for the moment, my body briefly rested before my life changed forever.

A few hours later, I don’t know how, but somehow I had slept. I woke just before sunrise and went to pace the beach. I tried to meditate and talk to my husband through the ocean. I sat on the jetty looking over the water and as I begged for the sun to rise in order to resume the search, I spoke to the water and pleaded: “Please be ok my darling – I need you! I want you! I do not want to live this life without you! Your children need a Dad. Please, please, please, be ok.”

What is it like to end up a widow at 34 with three kids under six? To go from having the perfect life, living your dreams, to having it all come crashing down in a single moment when your fit and healthy husband tragically dies? Let me tell you…

My husband and I were living our tropical dreams. We were raising our three young children – Meg 6, Henry 4 and Abi 1 – while living and working in Solomon Islands. Every weekend we would head to the beach or jet out in our boat over to our favourite island for a weekend of diving, snorkelling, fishing, swimming, bonfires and cultural dances with the beautiful locals.

This weekend we headed out to the islands with my parents, my brother-in-law and his family, who were all visiting and some local friends. After a particularly rough boat ride (my sister-in-law and nephew vomited over the side of the boat), I hugged my gorgeous husband and thanked him for getting us there safely. As we stood in the shallows of the water, I remember holding him tightly, both of us drenched with salty seawater, burying my face in his chest thinking I am so lucky to have him. This would be our last embrace.

My husband was so excited to have his brother visiting and couldn’t wait to get out on the water and show him the phenomenal marine life in our island paradise. As I played with the kids around on another beach we realised that my husband had started the boat and was preparing to head out. I waited for him to come and say his farewell, as he always did, but this time it was just a wave from the boat, he was bursting with excitement to get out on the water.

A lot of people often joked he must be part-fish, or born with gills, as his lung capacity and passion for all things water was so great. Just the night before I had boasted to his brother that Ed could hold his breath for four minutes as he was free diving. It was at this moment Ed divulged that he had in fact blacked out once or twice, which he had never told me before.

Although surfing was his number one passion, he had embraced diving in all its forms while we lived in Solomon Islands. He scuba dived but his real love had become spear fishing. It was not unusual for friends to be out scuba diving and suddenly see the presence of Ed far below them, grinning up and waving as he swam past looking for an illusive coral trout to spear.

On this day, Ed parked the boat in one of his favourite spots and everyone jumped out and started snorkelling. Ed, spear gun in hand, swam to the side of the island he loved. Slowly the others followed. Ed’s brother was hot on his heals until a problem with his mask made him go back to the boat. Ed grinned at him and waved him off, took a deep breath and dived down. And drowned. How it happened is a mystery. But here’s what I think happened.

Ed dived down and saw a fish to spear. He let the trigger of the spear gun go but it missed the fish and lodged into some coral/rock deep down. I think he thought “I can’t leave it there” and dived further to retrieve it. Ever the optimist, I think he thought he had enough air in his lungs to last. Sadly this time he was too optimistic and grabbed the spear but blacked out on the way back up. He was found that next morning on the bottom of the ocean looking serene and peaceful, with the beginnings of one of his cheeky grins on his face.

I have lots of blurry memories from this period, where it really feels as though I was having an out-of-body experience; watching my body experience things too painful to imagine.

As dawn rose that morning, I scoured the coastline of the two islands near where Ed went missing. Was I looking for his body washed up? Was I waiting to find him sitting on the beach somewhere, injured and laughing as he said: “There you bloody are, took you long enough!” At this point I desperately hoped it was the latter, but in my mind my mantra was: “Please let me find him, Please let me find him”. That was all I could focus on.

No one should have to know what it feels like to search for their husband. To scour and trudge along beaches and mangroves in a desperate panic, their eyes trying to take in everything for fear that you miss a clue or a sign of where he is.

After what seemed like hours of searching the islands, we jumped back in our boat and saw that the nearby dive boat, full of our Honiara friends and on its maiden voyage, had docked over the spot where Ed went missing. The search and rescue boats were still on their way but the divers on this boat had offered to go down and look for Ed, before the police arrived.

It was at about this point that we got a call on the radio from the dive boat. They asked us to approach then they quickly followed up with a question: “Who was on our boat?” At this point I gripped my friends hand and mentally my heart sank. We pulled our boat up close to theirs and I saw loads of people standing on the boat staring. As I carefully stepped onto their boat I scoured people for a friendly face, I locked onto a very good friend and she grabbed me as I stepped on board and burst into tears saying: “I’m so sorry Kate.” My heart sank further and my mind deepened into a calm haze with gentle tears streaming down my face as friends gathered around me in shock.

At some point someone said “Henry” and I realised that Ed’s poor brother was with us. I hugged him. But my body felt instantly drained and devoid of anything. My mind turned into itself and would stay there for days, weeks, in some ways, a lot longer. Others around me started making plans for what was needed. I have never felt so grateful to have so many friends take charge. After a while we got back on our boat and headed to where we were staying. My mind kicked into Mummy mode: “What am I going to tell the children?”

At this point my friend yelled, “Kate, look over there!” I looked back to the spot where we found Ed, which is now a well-established dive spot called “Eds Wall” and there was a rainbow that appeared from the water all the way up to the sky. It was then that I knew what to tell my children. I would give their little minds an image they would never forget of Daddy’s spirit climbing the rainbow to heaven. Every time we see a rainbow my children still yell: “There is daddy!”

I had a final tribute swim to Eddy in the ocean that day surrounded by a multitude of friends who had turned up to help with the search. Preparations were made around me and eventually a helicopter took Henry and I back to Honiara.

I will never forget the feeling of dread, and I cry now as I write this, upon hearing my children’s excited cries racing to the door as I came home “Daddy, Daddy!” they yelled. They then stopped in their tracks “Where is Daddy?” Their young faces pleaded, looking behind me and all around. “You said you would find Daddy?”

I sat the three of them down on the couch and told them that we did find Daddy but that he had died. My son burst into loud tears, my 6-year-old daughter cried silent, angry tears and buried her face in the couch and my 1 year old baby looked distressed, and knew something was wrong, but had no idea of the magnitude. I spent the next few hours locked away in my bedroom cuddling my three babies and talking to them, never wanting to let them go. Feeling both desperate and fiercely protective at the same time.

This all feels like yesterday, but was nearly 12 months ago. 9 August 2014 is the day my life changed forever. It’s the day I started to grieve and be a single mother of three children. It’s the day I became a widow.

It has been a year of firsts:

On Father’s Day the kids and I buried cards in the sand and threw flowers in the ocean.

Abi’s 2nd birthday was celebrated with a picnic at the pool. It was possibly the hardest as it felt like I was so alone and ached that poor Abi had only shared one birthday with her Dad. I had to take the photos and present the cake at the same time! I was surrounded by friends and family but I still felt so alone.

On Christmas Day we drew a tree and asked all who shared Christmas with the kids and I to write one word to symbolise what Ed gave us and put it on the tree – Ed’s Tree, which we will bring out every year. Ed adored Christmas.

There were special trips on the train and ferry to the zoo for Henry’s birthday, a quiet New Year’s Eve spent eager to embrace a new year.

And my birthday, with no one to spoil me, just presents the kids picked out with thoughtful grandparents.

On Ed’s birthday we held the inaugural Ed Smith memorial beach day with friends and family and we raised money for the Solomon Islands youth @work program, which was close to Ed’s heart.

The kids and I also made a special poster and drew presents we had given him and covered it with words of all the things we had given him over the years.

On our wedding anniversary, I asked friends and family to embrace their other half, hold them tight, and tell them they loved them. To appreciate the present and live for today.

For Mother’s Day I organised lunch with family and showed my children where we got married. Meg decided to celebrate her birthday with the same theme as last year as a tribute to her Dad.

All through this year I have had to answer my children’s questions: “Can Daddy read my thoughts?” “Can I tell people my Daddy died?” “Where exactly is Daddy?” And deal with their disappointments: “I know, I will ask Santa to bring Daddy back!!”

We have named an Australian Government Scholarship after him, written a children’s book on dying (which we hope to publish) and coined a new phrase based on the way he lived life: “Edthusiasm” for when you are just that bit more excited than usual!

We have moved countries, states, sold a house, changed schools/child care twice, returned to work, and along the way, learnt to live just the four of us.

I won’t lie, it’s incredibly tough. I haven’t had much time to grieve through all of this. I have been too busy. I am learning to be a single mother, learning to make decisions on my own, learning to balance my time between working to support my family and, most importantly, having enough time to be there for them when my children need me the most.

Life is tough, when there are weird noises in the night; I now have to get up. When the kids fall asleep in the car; I have to carry them all inside. I have to get up in the night when they are sick or have bad dreams. Then get up again every morning with them and put them to bed again every night. There is no rest. No one to help clean, cook, pay bills but most of all, talk and plan for the future. And all the while, I grieve for my partner of 17 years.

What has helped me through? What continues to help me through and has stopped me from falling into a heap? Spiralling into depression? A friend asked if I was taking any medication. No I am not. I have had counselling and I went on an amazing ‘Quest for Life’ retreat. I have discovered the benefits of meditation, yoga and exercise. I have learnt to love and be proud of myself. I have been blessed with phenomenal friends all over this amazing world. I am surrounded by an ever-supportive family. Friends tell me I have a passion for life and am inherently happy, I guess that’s true. I had a wonderful teacher for 17 years and even in the greatest test of my life, I have still found a smile and joy in the things that matter.

But I still hurt everyday with an emptiness that will never go away. I am learning to live with it. And that’s ok.

So many people have reached out and said that they are sorry and don’t know what to say. I want to tell you that that’s ok. There are no words to say. The fact that you have reached out is all that matters. In my experience, the only thing I need to know and that gave me comfort in my hardest moments this past year, was that people cared. It didn’t matter how they expressed it or what words they even said. Please if anyone you love is ever in distress, just show them you care: a hug, a card telling them that you love them, whatever it is can’t take the pain away, but it helps lift the burden, knowing there are people who want to help you. 

Although the world looks different to me now, it is still a wonderful place. It is still full of adventure. I am making plans to travel. I have bought a new house near the beach. I have moved closer to family and to where both Ed and I grew up. I feel like I have returned home with my three gorgeous little chicks and we are making our nest.

Although I am desperately sad that they will grow up without their amazing father, I am learning how to care for them and keep his spirit alive within them. This is not the life I chose or ever expected but I am, and will continue to, make it the best life for my three kids and I. I plan to live with Edthusiasm. I plan to thrive!

For more on grief, try these posts 

MIA: There is no closure when you are grieving.

‘Why I don’t want to ‘get over’ my grief.’

The honest truth: What it’s like to be a 29-year-old widow.