All posts tagged: bereavement

Her New Favourite Colour is Yellow – Sibling Grief

Emma was only 4 when Georgie died and, most appropriately for her age, she took everything in her stride. She accepted without questioning that Georgie went to heaven. She played tea parties in the chapel where his little body rested for three days, undisturbed by the reality of his departure. After the funeral, she got back to her only-child life without any qualms, or so it appeared at the time. But as she grows up, her anger with the situation and her questions grow bigger and bigger too. Half-term was hell term for us. Alex worked long hours that week and instead of having a great week off, spending it relaxing and recharging our batteries, Emma and I spent it at each other’s throats. I haven’t been great myself for a number of weeks so having a screaming, unhappy child for whom nothing was quite right drove me to the brink of insanity several times that week. I did start to make sense of what was happening the week after, when I picked on the …

14 months and 20 days later

It has been 14 months and 20 days since my son died but it is only recently that I have realised that grief is going to be part of my life, of me, of who I am until I die. Yes, I did read the books, listened to the stories, talked to other bereaved parents but it has only recently become obvious to me that grief is never going to leave my life and that it is here to stay. For good. That I will have good days always followed, as a rule, by bad, really bad days. That I will get ill much more often than I even did before. That my mind will never be the same; that I have become a head sieve. I forget often and I need constant reminders of appointments and meetings. Loads and loads of patience and understanding too. That I will be sad. Often and deeply and sometimes furiously. That anger will be my closest companion. An existential anger that cannot be directed at any-one, as the …

Dear Sweet Boy…

Dear sweet boy who broke our hearts, with your tiny lifeless frame resting on the sand. I am so very sorry. I am so very sorry you had to die in order for the world to fully understand the cruelty of this war you were trying to escape with your mummy and daddy and big brother. I have been thinking of you all day today. I have been thinking at how meaningless this world and all its cruelties must have seemed to you. I have been thinking at how you should have been playing on a warm beach right now, chasing the waves and splashing in delight. You have made a big difference into this world, you know? Your tragic, oh so tragic death, has shown us that there is no limit to evil and that even the most beautiful little boys can die in the most senseless and cruel of ways. Your tragic death has shown us that, in the 11th hour, and after having had watched so many other mummies and daddies and …

Grief, galvanized

I have been on the road that no parent ever wants to walk for a year and two months now. In the car today, Alex made a random remark that got me thinking and now, writing. “You have come a long way“, he said, not meaning it as a hurtful remark but as encouragement and praise. Have I truly? I suppose it all depends on the way one looks at things that molds one’s perception. Yes, it does seem we have travelled a long way on the grief path. Our life, post Georgie, has taken turns I have never known to have existed, let alone desired or planned to take before I lost my boy. If I were to put it simplistically and squeeze it all in two sentences, I guess I would say that: 1. grief has completely and utterly transformed me on the inside. 2. grief has(paradoxically and illogically to the non-bereaved) liberated me to see the world in a way I wouldn’t have been able to, had I not lost my son and …

Silence

I sat there, in silence, remembering the silence we shared two summers ago. When you were only a grain, in my pregnant belly. I sat there, willing my memory To go back and find you there, A squirming little life, Full of promise and joy. I sat there, in silence and I remembered the times, we shared, just you and me. Those dark nights at home, when your little bones were sore. Those long days on the ICU ward, with only each other and the beeping machines pumping chemo into your tiny frame as company. I sat there, with my precious memories of you, sweet baby boy, feeling you close, so very close to my very bruised heart. I sat there, in silence, and for a split moment in time, our love managed to transcend death and space and time, and we were together, once again.