The Cleaver

Kate Cleaver

A bit of writing about being neurodivergent, disabled, ethnic and a widow in Wales.

‘Strange Cove’, it is an odd name but one that Roland came up with. I found it again after forgetting and getting wrapped up in my grief. Scribbled onto the corner of his white board with a square drawn around it. It was the name of the business that Roland wanted to use for all my crafts.

I think he was secretly scared that we might disappear under a huge number of finished projects, scarves, hats and cross stitch, and that didn’t consider any of my artworks in t-shirts. He also hated beanie hats, which I always made him, and he would always wear because he loved me so much, and he could see just how much it would please me to have him wear something that I had made.

So, I have decided to follow his wishes and am currently starting to try out designs for knitting and crochet. There is something soothing to my soul to sit and repeat the same movements time and again and end up with an item that is beautiful and could give someone else pleasure.

I have even gone as far as getting little leather tags made for them. Maybe one day it might even take off, although if it does, I may need more than just me making. The idea though is to sell whatever I am working on be it gloves, a blanket or a scarf.

I think I have found a house as well. It isn’t pretty or well looked after but as my parents would say – it has good bones. With a bit of hard work and some money I think I will be able to make it my slightly odd home. There will be a room to write, another to create art and yet another filled with wool and fabrics.

It is who I am so why try to fight it. If what makes me happy is to be a writer, an artist and a crafter then so be it. Of course, that probably means that I will never truly be rich in either. My energy will be spread over all the different skills. Does that really matter though?

I want to tell a good yarn, maybe illustrate it but in the evening, as I relax, I need to craft. That constant quiet movement calms me, it grounds me and, in those moments, I feel Roland most. I see him sitting across from me, glancing over from reading and smiling because he knew I was happy simply being me. I am odd and I do have quirks, but I am allowed to be.

As for my grief, well, that is still there. I don’t think there is going to be any point I will get over Roland, but I can learn to live with what has happened. I can learn to live with the grief.

I’m not sure that the big things, like holidays or birthdays, will ever hold the same excitement and wonder that they did while he held my hand, but the smaller stuff… That is where I smile and laugh.

Antics my dog plays in the garden and watching a caterpillar slowly munch through a leaf. Baking a cake or cookies and listening to an audio book. Those things give me pleasure.

Will I ever be the Kate that was with Roland?

No, I don’t think so. But then this Kate, the one writing this article, never knew that she could run a house. You see I have always been in some sort of sheltered living, mostly sheltered by family. My learning difficulties were seen as too bad for me to excel.

So, everyone decided that I ought to stay within the carefully constructed walls. I was safe in that tower. Roland busted me out to an extent, but he too built walls to protect me. He was my filter to the outside world. He stood between me and any hurt I might experience. It was good and it was safe and I don’t think I would have ever changed it if he had not died.

But he did.

Living alone

On that day I became responsible for my own life, completely, for the first time ever. I am nearing fifty years old, and I am living alone for the first time. I am paying the bills for the first time. I am budgeting a house for the first time. I am feeding myself every day for the first time.

I’m organising the car and the tax and opening a business whilst running another. And I am admitting when I need help. But mostly I am deciding for me. I take advice but it is me making the decisions, rightly or wrongly. Most of the time I do expect them to be wrong, so I am always surprised when they all work and everything run, perhaps not smoothly, but it runs.

Roland is dead and I so wish he were alive, but in his death, I have found that he was right. I can do it. I can do everything that he said I could. And he did say I could. He never made me take on more responsibility that I was capable of, but he was right.

There are somethings I can’t do, like going to the supermarket alone. They are too big and way too loud. I hate them and they cause me to panic, so I get my food delivered. I don’t go anywhere that there are large crowds anymore because, again, they can cause a panic.

Basically, anything that I would need Roland to be with me to stop a panic I no longer do. That does mean I am not exactly socialising as others would see it. I do go life drawing, and I am looking into more ceramic and creative classes, but the pubs and live music I have stopped. I enjoyed it when Roland was there to lean on, but now he isn’t I want to slip into the shadows a little. I am more comfortable there.

Home in the country

As for my living in the country or the city… I have decided to make my home in the country, where life is slower and there are more people who are happy to watch butterflies instead to rushing everywhere. Oddly though I have looked at a lot of houses and I have decided to buy a place that needs work rather than one that is complete.

It isn’t a big cottage, but it can be converted into what I need. And the garden is big enough for my pup, who has had a growth spurt and is starting to look more and more like a large dog rather than a medium sized one. Not that I mind, apart from how much of the bed he takes up at night.

Mobility scooter

I guess what I am trying to say is that I can see a future. I can see me living a life that is the best I can do and enjoying it. I can see me having a raised vegetable garden and fruit trees. I can even see me hopping onto a mobility scooter and shooting around town, dog trotting next to me.

The fact that I will probably need one next year doesn’t scare me. I am getting older and with that the chronic conditions I have will become worse. I can’t put my life on hold to try to wait to get better. There is no ‘cure’ for what I have.

But I can manage it if I accept that I am a widow and disabled and still I am capable of being happy. I just must be selfish enough to allow myself to get there. Because this is a selfish thing to do. I must put myself first. I am terrible at doing that.

But now, with everything I have learnt and with everything I can do, really the only thing holding me back is myself. I don’t want a fanfare or an exciting life.

I want simple contentedness of my own odd existence with all my creative quirks. I am odd and I am allowed to be odd. I know I am because my husband told me I could be whatever I wanted to be if I did it to my fullest.

So that is what I will do.