Compassion, Spring 2021

Spring 2021 - Compassion | www.tcf.org.uk 24 One of the Hardest Questions “How many children do you have?” This is invariably awkward to answer when you are a bereaved parent. If I am in a social situation and a stranger asks me this question, I usually make a quick assessment. Should I deflect it? Or answer it honestly and wait for the silence that will follow, as I am well aware that the enquirer will have no idea what to say. Over the years, I have perfected a stock response, one that I feel comfortable with … most of the time. I avoid a direct answer because if I say I have two children, but one is ‘no longer with us/died/passed away’, I know that the lightness of the mood will be lost. So I say something like, “Well, we’re a bit of a blended family and the children and stepchildren are grown up with their own families now. How about you?” I then get to hear all about this other person’s children. It may be a bit of a cop out, but sometimes it is easier to deal with the opening gambit inviting you to tell them about your family, being turned around to hearing about theirs. Yet, part of me feels guilty about betraying James by denying his existence in this way. I justify it with a silent apology to him in my mind. Bereaved parents constantly find themselves in this situation when they meet new people, whether at work or socially. Perhaps an unexpected bonus of Covid restrictions is the limitation of social interaction and an avoidance of such circumstances. If you do answer the question honestly, people are invariably shocked and upset. Several people, intending to be kind, have applied the scenario to themselves. “Oh, you poor thing, how dreadful!,” they say. Then, “I couldn’t bear it if I lost one of my children … I would just die.” In these cases, my internal voice asks, “How on earth do I respond to that? Does it mean that because I am still here and I didn’t die from my grief, that I don’t love my child as much as you love yours?” I have in the past said quietly, “No, you wouldn’t actually die, you would just carry on … because you have no choice”. Of course, I want to keep the memory of James alive and I do so in a multitude of significant ways: by writing about grief; by campaigning for water safety, by public speaking and by saying his name and talking about him with friends and family. But it saddens me that we have not yet evolved a way of talking about the children we have lost, in casual everyday situations. I think I usually get it right these days, assessing whether it is a good time to share what happened to James, with a group of people whom I don’t know well. After the initial stunned silence, I find that people take their lead from me, and if I can bring myself to talk easily and naturally about James, and other members of my family, then that makes it easier for them. In the early days of loss, I would not have had nearly as much consideration as to how my bombshell of news would affect others, but the passage of time helps to put a more generous coating on the bitter pill of my personal tragedy. Often, someone will share a confidence with me about their own loss, once they know about James, and that is encouraging.