The Magazine of The Compassionate Friends Compassion Spring 2025 NOW INCLUDING TCF NEWS
2 tcf.org.uk Compassion 3. Letter from the Editor 4. Feature: Perspective 6. News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library 8. Book Reviews 10. Feature: Grieving Dads 12. Memory Corner 16. Your Poems & Stories 19. Feature: The Jar of Feathers 20. Feature: Manoir Mouret 22. Feature: Ten Years of Grief 24. Feature: The List of Impossible Things 25. Feature: A Wonderful Gift 26. Sibling Feature: When Your Sibling Has Died 27. Feature: Honouring Memories: Why Every Life Matters 28. Sibling Feature: Sibling Grief 29. Snippets to Save Contents TCF News 30. News from Around our Charity 34. Feature: MBE Investiture for Hugh Mcaninch 35. Advert: Supportive Weekend Retreat 36. Fundraising Round-up Opinions expressed in Compassion by individuals are not necessarily those of TCF, the Editor or the Editorial Team. Editorial Team: Andrea Corrie, Carolyn Brice and Mary Hartley. Designed by Sam at Forbes Creative.
3 tcf.org.uk Hello TCF Friends I wonder what this year, a quarter way through the century, will bring for us all? I may be overly optimistic, but my hope is that 2025 will be a less turbulent year for the world, with more gentle acts, kindness and love sprinkled around! The image of the parent and child that I am including on this page is, to me, evocative of love. I have photographed the sculpture several times where it lives in the garden of Mill House, Westleigh, Devon – a retreat house that is in the process of being sold and will soon be reverting to a domestic dwelling. Mill House has offered many people, me included, significant peaceful, nurturing times and I really enjoyed hosting occasional creative writing days there. What strikes me about the statue is the tender closeness; heads touching together, arms encircling and enfolding – what can be better than a close hug with someone you love? I feel that the sculptor must have a great understanding of love. I like the softness of the moss against the hard stone and the fact that it has been allowed to grow unchecked. Sometimes, when grief threatens to overwhelm, it can help to focus on an image or a piece of writing that resonates. Perhaps you may wish to study the image and imagine you are having a conversation with the child. What are you saying to him or her? What is his or her reply? How are you feeling now, in this moment, in this place? Can you take comfort from remembering your special hugs and cuddles with your child? Rain your kisses down upon that precious head! Alternatively, you may enjoy reading this contemplative piece of prose which I find particularly useful. If you are on your own, you can try reading it out loud. ‘Sometimes, sitting down is the most important thing we can do. Sitting down is a very sensible thing to do when you find yourself in a strange place. It is even more essential when life is in turmoil. Sitting still is vital because we need a point to start from. If we are going to get anywhere, we need to start from somewhere. Physically sitting down and being still is the most practical way of becoming present to who and where we are. From this place will emerge the discernment of how and in what ways we may respond to what is going on. But first we must just stop. At such times tears will often flow. They may be part of our arriving, expressing what the journey has demanded of us, or perhaps a grieving over what has been left behind. But here we are. And although, this may be the last place on earth that we want to be, the first thing asked of us is an acceptance of the present’. Taken from David Runcorn’s book ‘The Language of Tears’, the piece makes me think that being in the present and coping with each moment as it happens is a gift, the value of which cannot be underestimated. Our children have gone, but we are still here to live on for them in the best ways that we are able. Letter from the Editor Andrea Corrie
4 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - PERSPECTIVE The timespan of our Spring issue covers two days with added significance for parents: it is Mother’s Day on 30 March and Father’s Day on 15 June. We will also be celebrating Easter in April. The symbolism of Easter is important to many, and I love that it heralds spring, too. While ordinary days may carry the quiet hum of loss, Mother's Day, Father's Day and celebratory holidays of any sort can amplify absence, making the heartache more acute. But these special days, though painful, also provide a space to recognise the enduring love and connection you hold. In these moments, know that you may feel lonely, but as we all know through being connected with the Compassionate Friends, you are not alone. Please keep your contributions coming for our magazine! Yours in compassion, Andrea I don’t feel much like celebrating Mother’s Day this year. My 15-year-old daughter died 51 days ago, after being plagued by a rare, relentless form of cancer for five years. I’m not sure what the celebration is supposed to look like when I failed at my main task as a mother: Seeing my child safely to adulthood. I realize that attributing the death of my child to my own failure is irrational. I understand that guilt and blame won’t bring her back, that we tried valiantly to cure her with treatments that ranged from a liver transplant to chemotherapy to radiation. I know cancer kills children every day. But she wasn’t a statistic. She was my child, and I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her. I know other mothers who’ve lost children, and they’ve tried to prepare me for how unbearable this Hallmark holiday can be, how your very identity as a mother is shaken and upended when your child dies. We’re a dismal, heartbroken club of kindred spirits. We share the pain of empty, quiet rooms that hold the remnants of our children’s lives — keepsakes that remain long after our dear ones have gone. How can I celebrate this day? How can I celebrate myself? Every day I open the door to my daughter’s room, sit on her tidy bed and wonder how any of this is real. How is it possible that all I have left is her collection of albums, stones and crystals, and her closet full of untouched clothes? How long will they serve as proof that she was here on this Earth, that she was real? As the days go by, my daughter’s proximity to me fades, the reality of her absence becomes more concrete. This would be okay if it were because she had graduated high school, gone off to college and started her life, but that’s not what happened. She stopped existing at 15. She stopped. I don’t know how to celebrate Mother’s Day without the consolation prize given all mothers — that our babies are gone, but we have laughing toddlers in exchange, that our toddlers are gone, but we have curious, bright-eyed preschoolers in their place, that the messy, carefree days of preschool meld into the primary years, when interests and personalities emerge and blossom, giving us teenagers who are Perspective by Jacqueline Dooley (Article from the archives of Washington Post about Mother’s Day)
5 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - PERSPECTIVE whole, unique people. The fact that our kids grow up into actual people distracts us from the pain of their fading childhood. Except, of course, if they don’t grow up. I am two mothers now — the mother you see walking beside my remaining daughter in the all-too-real world of chores and homework and trivial things and the mother you don’t see — the mother bereft, imagining that my daughter is two steps behind me, just out of sight. There are too many mothers like me, rushing here and there, pretending we’re fully in one world when, really, we’re in two. I look whole and normal, but deep inside there’s an emptiness where my heart used to be. I can’t walk with my surviving daughter without imagining the shadow of her sister right beside us, rolling her eyes, glancing at her phone. I wish I could go back to when my kids were 9 and 6, when Mother’s Day was about hand-drawn cards and breakfast in bed. I can almost smell the burned toast, taste the mint tea. Dwelling on the past is the only thing that allows me to feel something other than numbness and despair. The others who walk this path of intense grief tell me it gets better. Eventually, I’ll start feeling what I’m supposed to feel. I’ll move more fully into the world of living children. Until then, I’m as much a part of my dead daughter’s world as I am my living daughter’s. But what if I don’t want that to happen? What if time erases the only thing I have left of my daughter, dulling the edges of her face in my mind’s eye like a faded photograph? Living this quiet pain is how I feel closest to her right now. Two years ago each of my girls bought me a tree for Mother’s Day — a magnolia and a dogwood. It’s the only Mother’s Day gift I remember clearly. The trees are small but thriving. Each year they grow a little bigger, acting as living reminders that I had two daughters, not one. I guess Mother’s Day is just a day, not unlike the day that came before it or the day that follows. Realizing this somehow makes it okay that I can’t celebrate this year. The holidays we cherish are as real as we make them, just like our lives, just like the titles we give ourselves. My daughter isn’t here anymore, but that doesn’t make me any less her mother. Since she’s died, I’ve been afraid of losing that, losing the last little bit of her that I’ve been clinging to. There will be more painful days to come — her birthday, Father’s Day, Christmas, a first day of school she won’t get to attend and on and on. I’ll need to reconcile her absence on these days so I can be present for my remaining child. Somehow, I must figure out how to forge a new connection with my daughter now that she’s no longer here. The mothers that walk with me in grief tell me it’s hard to face all of these milestones in the first year, but it’s even harder in the second. That’s when the reality of my child’s absence will finally feel real. I believe them because I can sense it’s coming. I dread the full weight of time and distance that will inevitably make her absence a solid thing, final and irreversible. Even so, I hope I can find my joy on Mother’s Day again, if not this year, then next.
6 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY For me spring actually lifts my spirits a bit, partly because I hate the long dark evenings and the cold murky days. Also, because my Claire’s birthday is in December, and she died at the end of February, it draws a line under the worst part of my year. Those three winter months starting in the Christmas madness and encompassing the move into yet another New Year she didn’t get to see, are grim. This year will be the 21st since Claire died and, although it’s most definitely a lot easier than it was, it still hurts. One of the things that gets me through the winter is my passion for genealogy and I spend a lot of time diving into my family tree and finding out what my ancestors got up to, some of it pretty scandalous but that’s another story. A big surprise to me, when I started my research, was how many of my family were bereaved parents. The 1911 census is known as ‘the fertility census’ because it asked every woman how many children she’d had, how many were still living and how many had died. It really is quite shocking to look at that census and see how many children had died. Hot on the heels of that census was the first world war, followed by the flu pandemic, and the war records plus the 1921 census show the dreadful toll from those two catastrophes. Even in more recent times there are so many bereaved parents in my family; even an aunt, who I saw at least once a week while I was a child and a young mother myself, had a little daughter who’d died. I never knew that until I found it out for myself quite accidentally while looking at the birth records of the three cousins I did know about. So, this raises the old chestnut, often voiced by people who are not bereaved parents themselves, that, because so many children died, those parents didn’t grieve like we do. There is a strange, to us, custom which can be cited in evidence of this and that’s the way people would give their dead child’s name to another of their children. I found a lot of evidence of this in my family tree and the most surprising thing was that my own father, whose name was William, had had an older brother, also called William but who died when he was a toddler. I have to say I find that weird, but my dad’s dad was William and so was his dad and they obviously felt a need to preserve that name. Again, this older boy, and another little sister who died, were never mentioned but maybe hearing his name spoken often, albeit to a different child, brought some comfort. It’s too late to ask my grandparents now! I still can’t believe those parents didn’t grieve deeply though and that thought ties into the review of ‘Hamnet’ in this magazine. Shakespeare wrote about grief in several of his plays and, in ‘King John’ Lady Constance replies to the French News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library by Mary Hartley I’m writing this in the cold depths of January but, by the time you’re reading it, we’ll be approaching Spring, Mother’s Day and Easter, all of which have their own pitfalls.
7 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY King’s observation that she is “as fond of grief as you are of your child”, by saying “Grief fills up the room of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks------------then have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well, had you had such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do”. In those final words there is maybe some explanation for the misconception that our forebears didn’t grieve as we do. It’s widely recognised by experts that one of the best ‘therapies’, for want of a better word, for grief, and the PTSD that often accompanies it, is to make contact with others who are suffering in the same way. For us that connection is provided by TCF, and my goodness it’s helped me so much to be able to meet, either in person or on-line or through their books or emails or letters, people who understand, who need no explanation. Our ancestors had a ready-made TCF because so many of their family, friends and neighbours had walked in their shoes. That must have helped a bit, but the grief was surely still so very painful To come back to books, the biggest help to me during those early months of 2004 was the TCF library, then being run by Catharine Pointer. Catharine sadly died the following year but her husband Michael continued to support the library, both financially and by taking a very keen interest in its progress and welfare. During the ten years that I’ve been the librarian he has been a constant presence, someone to talk to about any concerns or problems I might have and someone to bounce ideas off. Thankfully, during the last few years, the library has become a very integral and valued part of TCF so there have been very few problems and it was all good news I had to report during our lunch time meetings. Michael loved going out to lunch and we went to some very nice places both in the area around West Malling and in Suffolk when we used to drive up to see Gil Roberts who was running the library and housing it in her son Sam’s bedroom. It’s actually in my daughter’s bedroom now and I think both Sam and Claire would approve of that. One of the things I’ll miss about Michael is his presence at our local candle-lighting service where he would often read a poem. I know one of his favourite poems was written by Ben Jonson in the early 1600s. Two of the poet's sons died and his thoughts on the value of their short lives echo both my own and Michael’s thoughts. The Noble Nature by Ben Jonson It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. (This poem is in the public domain). With love from Mary Mary Hartley, TCF’s volunteer librarian, can be contacted at library@tcf.org.uk
8 tcf.org.uk I absolutely loved this book. Like many of you, I have read numerous books about grief, and losing a child. I have read therapy books, and also books written by other bereaved parents, and most of those have been helpful because of the reassurance that I am not alone, that the emotions I am feeling are shared and I'm not losing my mind! Unlike these books, Hamnet is fiction and is not written by a bereaved parent (I had to double check if the author, Maggie O'Farrell, had lost a child herself as her description of the depth of grief from losing a child in this book is so accurate and relatable I thought she must have lost a child herself. Surprisingly she hasn't and so perhaps she had researched the book by talking to bereaved parents). Although this book is fiction it is actually about the true story of William Shakespeare losing his only son Hamnet when the boy was just eleven years old. It is believed that this tragic experience gave Shakespeare the inspiration for writing one of his most famous plays, Hamlet, and this is What Maggie O'Farrell has based her book on. The book begins with a description of life in Elizabethan England, and a description of Shakespeare's family growing up in those times. It then tells the story of him falling in love and eventually marrying his wife, and starting a family, before tragedy hits them both. The second part of the book is where we will all feel resonance, going through the savage emotions of losing a child, from the perspective of the mother, the father, and also the siblings. This very sad second part of the book is written beautifully with deep emotion and sadness, and despite the difficulty in reading about these emotions, that I have sadly felt myself, I couldn't put it down. It is certainly a book that is very relatable to a grieving mum but also to a grieving dad, and it also explores possible changes in the relationship between a mum and dad after losing a child. I love historical books, and I really love historical fiction, so to discover a piece of historical fiction that is focused on the loss of a child was a real find. As soon as I had finished it I wanted to read it again! I have read the Hilary Mantel trilogy of books about Thomas Cromwell: Wolf Hall; Bring up the Bodies; The Mirror and the Light, and I loved those. Hamnet very much reminded me of them, although it is a much easier read, and a much shorter book. If you have read and enjoyed any of these three books then you would definitely like Hamnet. If this sounds like the kind of book you would like to read ,then I urge you to do so. I have never read or watched the play Hamlet but after reading this book I now want to. Like most of us I studied some Shakespeare at school, and haven't looked at any since, but from reading this book I am now intrigued by the story of Hamlet and the emotions Shakespeare may have felt when he wrote it, but maybe watching one of the films would be an easier option. COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS Book Reviews Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell reviewed by Chris Read
9 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS This book is a very interesting, engaging and meaningful read. It’s a bit like an onion, for want of a better comparison, in that it has layer upon layer; one of those books you could read a dozen times and find something you’ve missed with every re-read. At the heart of the book are the stories of two people, a bereaved mother trying to make sense of her drastically altered world, and an amazing young man whose life was rich and fulfilled and meaningful despite his sudden death at the age of twenty-five. Raphaël Coleman (who his mother calls Raph) was a student zoologist who could see how climate change was affecting the natural world and decided to do something about it. He travelled around the world working in wildlife sanctuaries, he created the international wildlife worker’s network, and he campaigned with ‘Extinction Rebellion’. He also used some of the family land for a rewilding project and now there are rabbits, butterflies, wild flowers, bees and other wildlife in a place that was becoming barren and desolate. Raph was in South Africa in February 2020, making a documentary about poaching and black mambas, when he collapsed and died very suddenly from what was eventually shown to be a malfunction of the electrical activity of his heart. As Raphaël’s life ended his mother’s hell began, compounded by the pandemic lockdowns, and she documents the first year of her grief in this book. She asks herself so many of the questions we all ask; what do you say when someone asks how many children you have? How can you go on with your own life when your child's life has ended? Will you ever feel any better? Liz finds comfort from the outpouring of love and grief from Raph’s many friends, from other members of her family and from engaging in the causes that her son had been so passionate about. She feels a real connection with the natural world and takes up wild swimming in sometimes freezing water. She also wonders whether the signs she sees, like birds or butterflies, are her son trying to contact her or the product of her own mind desperately trying to reconnect with him. Liz conducts a continuous conversation with Raph throughout the book, all the time thinking ‘is this really Raph I’m talking to or is it my own brain fooling me into thinking I am?’ At one point she has a session with a medium, because she’s decided to try everything, and finds comfort in that. For me this is another very interesting layer of this book. No matter what we believe, or don’t believe, we all have a continuing relationship with our children until the end of our lives and I’ve not often seen that described so well. Another layer is the story, within the story, of climate change and the problems it's already causing the world, with much worse to come. My only prior knowledge of ‘Extinction Rebellion’ was what I’ve read in the press, with the activists depicted as deranged nuisances. I found it very enlightening to see it from the other point of view; young people, and some older people, who can see what’s coming and are determined to do something about it, whatever the cost to themselves. It has certainly made me think and to want to read more about it. In the end this is a story of great love, overwhelming grief and a struggle for survival by a wounded but determinedly resilient mother. I thoroughly recommend it. Your Wild and Precious Life’ by Liz Jensen reviewed by Mary Hartley Liz Jensen is a novelist and the mother of the wildlife biologist and ecological activist Raphaël Coleman, who died at the age of 25 from an undiagnosed heart condition. She is the author of eight novels and the grief memoir Your Wild and Precious Life: on Grief, Hope and Rebellion, published by Canongate. lizjensen.com
10 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - GRIEVING DADS Grieving Dads Wayne Bandell. Reprinted from NSW Focus and lifted from TCF Otago Chapter What is traditionally a day of celebration (socks and jocks as presents) takes on a whole different meaning for grieving dads. It is truly a day of conflicting emotions. On one hand there is the joy of getting presents from my daughter on behalf of herself, Zac and Sean. On the other hand, there is the sadness that my sons are not where they should be. In my experience, when Zac and Sean died, I entered a state of existing in the moment. I had to handle the here and now as this was all I could cope with. There was no guarantee of the future as this could change in an instant, so there was no point thinking that far ahead. I did the things I was socially expected to do, like plan the funeral. Like many men I focused on what I was expected to do not what I needed to do. Societal convention told me that, as a man, I am the protector of my family. I was not able to protect my sons (as one grieving dad said to me: I fix things, but this is something I cannot fix). However, I needed to protect and support my wife with her grief. I like to call this the stoic husband syndrome: We set aside our own grieving as best we can (suck it up/harden up/drink a cup of concrete) and focus on our wives because this is what social convention says we should do. We kid ourselves by saying that they are the ones that are suffering more and need to be cared for or protected. As many men do, I went back to work, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Grief does not pay the bills. In public I put on the “I’m OK face”. I honestly don’t know why as no one was going to approach me if I broke down or really ask me how I was coping. In a strange way some people treat grief and the death of children as a disease. That in some way they might get infected by speaking to me, or they fall back on “I don’t want to say anything as it might upset you”. I became very good at compartmentalizing my grief. I would put my grief or bad feelings into a box and place it in a well inside me and this allowed me to function each day (or so I thought). Like many, I filled the day or space with things to distract me on how I was truly feeling. Eventually though the boxes in the well will break open and the well needs cleansing. It was sort of like if I pretend for long enough that I’m OK and that every-thing is normal then the grief would go away. I work as a secondary school teacher and in the past we have had staff and students die. So as a school and workplace we have had to deal with significant grief situations. We have had the education department crisis team visit us (to provide counselling) and the focus has always been the same: “Let’s keep the students and staff routine as normal as possible”. So that’s what I did, tried to keep things normal. I now realise that this does not work for those directly affected by the death of a child and it "I focused on what I was expected to do not what I needed to do".
11 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - GRIEVING DADS often causes more harm. I do not expect others to continue to grieve with us. However, it is wrong for others to expect that after a short time our grieving should be over and we should return to the person we once were. This is never going to happen. We will forever be grieving parents. We do not move on, we change. Sometimes these changes are for the better, other times for the worse. There is no complete solution to dealing with grief when your children die. In a strange way grief becomes part of our connectedness to our children that are no longer physically with us. I find this to be significantly true for men who have had a child die before or soon after birth. Put simply, we do not have many memories to fall back on. When I reflect on what has worked for me they fall into two main categories: a) Finding/reading resources where other fathers share their experiences and thoughts (online or in print media). I found Kelly Farley’s book “Grieving Dads- to the Brink and Back” and his website grievingdads.com very helpful. This book/ website includes a lot of stories by real dads and their experience when a child dies. They do not purport to offer a specific solution; however, there is comfort in the fact that the ranges of emotions you are experiencing are shared in common with other dads. I think Kelly’s book and website appealed to me because it gives men their own voice. Many of the very good resources dealing with the death of a child are often written by women. These do not always connect with fathers. Kelly’s book often explores some very dark places. He sums it up well when he says: “this book is not about butterflies and rainbows” or “this isn’t an Oprah book club book” b) Sharing thoughts and experiences with others when the rare opportunity presents itself. This tends to be through articles like this one or in the ‘local’, participating in the PEP (Parent Enrichment Program) weekend offered by SIDS and Kids, speaking with counsellors that have specific knowledge and experience in dealing with bereaved parents, or talking with other bereaved parents. In some ways the talking to other parents gives me a chance to talk about my boys. All parents love to talk about their kids. Unfortunately the majority of society, including family, finds this conversation too confronting, so they remain silent. I should explain that as I live in a remote rural town in Victoria the opportunity to share experiences with other dads occurs very infrequently and the availability of a variety of specific support services are poor. Like other men I have good, bad and very bad days. On these days I am likely to get Kelly’s book out or visit the grieving dads website. Readers will note that I have not used the word lost. Personally I dislike the word. I have not lost Zac and Sean. I know where they are. They have died and I feel this better expresses the true tragedy of what has happened.
12 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER Memory Corner Remembering and celebrating our children. Did you know you can set up an In-Memory page on our website to remember your child and raise funds. Visit tcf.org.uk/inmemory or contact annabelle@tcf.org.uk for more information. Remembering Caitlin shared by Teresa York The 27th birthday of my darling daughter Caitlin Ann Marie York would have been on 18th March 2025. Caitlin tragically lost her battle with her mental health, while on a section 3 in hospital on Tuesday 5th September 2023. I am absolutely heartbroken as you can imagine and miss her so much. Remembering Kevin shared by Margaret Jenkins In loving memory of my only child, Kevin who died suddenly on 26th March 2011 aged 44 years. He was so witty and intelligent and missed so much. He was too young to die and left a huge void which can never be filled. With all my love Mum xxx Remembering Simon shared by Gerald Knight 20th April will mark the most horrible, hateful anniversary, 29 years without my wee boy. 29 years of missing you Simon, 29 years of hurt, pain, what ifs and if only. Never a day goes by that I don't think of you, and most days still shed a tear. I miss you so much and love you with all my heart. For Simon Knight from your heart broken Dad.
13 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER Remembering Emma shared by Jayne Thomas On the 10th of March this year it will be the 20th anniversary of your passing. 20 years since we last saw your smile, heard your laughter and held your hand. 20 years without you in our lives is far too long but you remain in our hearts forever. Love always from mum, dad, Charlotte, Lucy and Sophie xx Remembering Arthur shared by Jenna and George Swale (@all_for_arthur on Instagram) Wishing our darling son, Arthur Hawkins Swale, a happy second birthday in the stars. Arthur died aged four months and two days in 2023, and his birthday is 15th April. We love you, Arthur sweetheart. Sending you kisses and cuddles on your birthday and always. Mummy and daddy xxx Remembering Josh shared by Emma Leatham Josh, our youngest son, unexpectedly passed away on the 5th June 2024 after an illness he did his very best to conquer. Josh had the biggest smile and loudest laugh and is forever in our thoughts and carried in our hearts. He was loved by everyone. Josh would have been 27 years old on the 5th March 2025. We miss him more than words can say. Remembering Daniel shared by Gail Sullivan My darling Daniel we cannot believe its coming up to 12 years in September that you left us, far too soon. We miss your sparky personality your kind nature you lit up a room my love. You would be 55 on 3rd February. Where have the years gone? You didn't even reach 50. You are always in our hearts sweetheart . Mum, Dad, Jackie, Richard, and Emma, nieces and nephews and Freddie (dog you never met). Sleep tight Dan xxx.
14 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER Remembering Karl shared by Janet Our dear son Karl Robin Sears passed away on 23rd March 2018 from bowel cancer. He was 30 years old and recently married, with many plans for the future. We all miss him so much, and never a day goes by when we don't think of him. Love from Mum, Dad, Linda & Dan xxxx Remembering Holly shared by Sally Dunn My darling Holly, as I have to now live without you I do everything in your name. I've created a beautiful garden for you and the birds visit. The holly theme is everywhere and that brings me some comfort. I'll love you until my end, my girl Holly Dolly. Remembering Jack shared by Jenny Remembering my son Jack Dobson. Both his birthday and anniversary are in March. Jack 31/3/89 - 5/3/21 forever 31
15 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER Remembering Debbie 22.1.1982 - 13.4.2013 shared by Joy Remembering our precious first born taken so tragically after an accident on 11.4.2013 nearly 12 years ago. Debbie was a really wonderful daughter and best friend to many. Her mum, dad and brother will always miss her. Science teacher and special needs teacher, volunteered for St Johns Ambulance, and her church. Love and miss you forever Deb, from Joy, Dave and Simon x Please remember our dear treasured son Charles Reuben Bennington. His birthday is 16.03.2005 and he left us on 28.2.2023. We loved you so and always will xxx Remembering Charles shared by Jayne Bennington Remembering Eleanor Rose Howorth 17/04/1995 - 09/10/2021 shared by Piers and Vivienne Howorth Our only child 'Ellie Rose' whose strong will and determination made her successful in everything that she turned her mind to. She enjoyed many activities including; water sports, skiing, especially apres ski, and very much loved to party and socialise. We desperately miss her with her sparkly personality every single day. Whilst the loss of Eleanor has left such a deep chasm having had her in our life for what was too short a time does give us numerous very happy memories. Sadly taken from us by sepsis October 2021. Her 30th birthday is on 17th April 2025. With love always. Mum and Dad xxx
16 tcf.org.uk Your Poems & Stories Thank you to all those have shared with us your stories and poems honouring and remembering your precious children. COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES Another year! by Emma Gibbons And as the sun sets earlier And the nights get colder And the trees shed their crimson dresses onto the paths It is like an exclamation mark is hanging in the night sky Lit up by the stars ✨ Whispering, another year is about to close Another year of seasons, waiting for the full stop To mark the closure Yet for us with loved ones as Angels in the clouds ☁️ The exclamation mark still hangs, and we never get the full stop Because love & grief are never ending And although the seasons change And although another year passes Our hearts are still suspended between the stars ✨ and the earth we walk on When we get our full stop, like the year gets hers, It will mean our years will have come to an end There is a bridge it Brings your world to me I’m naming that bridge Serendipity A bridge long and wide With junctions and lanes Bursting with music Showered with names People and places Coincidentally Support each other Serendipity A bridge of compassion To walk beside friends Bonded through heartbreak The link never ends There is a bridge Joins your world with me Augmented with love Serendipity Serendipity by Safina Powell
17 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES I see you Standing by the tree With the ivy growing around its trunk Like veins I hear you Laughing by the wood den Built from large twigs Propped up against each other I smell you in the wind that blows Through the almost-bare branches And I feel your energy In the dried leaves that Stir around my feet Or fall like rain I taste you In traces of soil in the air And the fresh snow The cemetery lies At the entrance to the forest But I know you’ve escaped it And made your way into the wild Along the path I’m forced to walk by Lisa Vercelli in memory of Jamie. "A hundred and twenty months. Ten years. An outrageous survival. Each night angry, uncharitable. Sleep. No sleep. Dreams. No dreams. The death of so many. Dreams. In my dreams, I plead with you. Please stay, Be’ta. We’ll find a way. Don’t give up yet. Don’t go away. Come here. Sit with me. Tell me what I need to know. Tell me what hurts you so. Tell me how I can make it go. I could guess when you were hungry, thirsty. To your amused annoyance, even when you wanted to pee. I just knew. I don’t know how. But this one I did not see coming. I couldn’t. I don’t know how. I am sorry. I had no map. I was lost in the fast lane. In my dreams, our dark sides are friends. Together they figure it out, Have a laugh, make it all okay. In my dreams, we breathe together nice and slow, As if singing a joyful melody. We hold hands and dance in our kitchen Crying on each other’s shoulders, secretly. From the fridge, I pull out a white china bowl Filled with pomegranate seeds, Rubies, I harvested earlier in the day. Please stay, my Jaan. I would say. In my dreams, through my furious longing I can momentarily understand. Your pain, your silence. I can understand why you had to go. Like a boat sailing into a pink new morn, I must release you. I must stay. I must let you be on your way. In my dreams." Nights-3654 by Sangeeta Mahajan
18 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES Chloe shared by Michelle Navarra, who is navigating grief from the perspective of losing her precious daughter Chloe, August 2023. The pain searing through my body feels all consuming, suffocating me, my heart bleeding, it won’t stop. I know it never will. How can it? There is a gaping Chloe shaped hole that will never heal… Regardless of time passing. My Tears flow non stop, stinging my cheeks, my eyes can’t see. I don’t want to see. I want to close my eyes and wish this nightmare away forever. But my reality tells me this is not going away. Knowing I will never see you physically again fills me with overwhelming sadness. There are no words to adequately describe this type of pain. Feels like I can’t breathe, a panic attack that’s never leaving me. Why did you go? I would have given my life to save you… I count the days until we meet again. My big brother, my angel in the sky My big brother, the one who can really fly I know you can’t see me here But I hope you will always sense that I’m near I’m watching down on you I’m very proud of you too I see you when you’re smiling And even when you’re frowning I see you at the park And watch over you in the dark Heaven is a beautiful place So please keep your happy face And don’t you worry because Your tears got rid of all my fears The robin on the ground I sent that to be around The feather I sent to land at your feet I sent that because I know you’re sweet You have a heart of gold Keep that until you are old You’re always in my heart Even though we are apart I’ll always be by your side I’ll forever be your guide Always look for signs That I am always around I send you all my kisses So turn them into wishes I love you so much I’ll always be in touch Your big brother Your angel in the sky Dedicated to McKenzie Elliott - Forever 12 shared by Beth Commons Loved always, love mummy
19 tcf.org.uk I feel it when I wake – sometimes immediately, other days it can take some time. It can be a ball of anxiety in the stomach – this doesn’t make sense – I no longer fear anything – the worst has already happened. It is also a pressure, a tension in the chest. I sometimes feel panic that I need to release it before it takes control. Can I suppress it for a while? – no. I get ready quickly and get outside – no matter the weather. The feeling is rising – becoming more intense but also physically moving upward - a lump in the throat. Then into my eyes- the tears start to push through, but no, there are people around, cars passing- I don’t want to cause a fuss. Walk faster until I reach the safety of the forest- quick check that I am alone then let it go. A quiet sob at first then harder- the tears are coming fast now, soaking my face . I don’t try to wipe them, not yet…I know there are many more to come. What is the main emotion today? ‘Name it to tame it’ I was told. Anger? Guilt? Or the default emotion -sadness – extreme sadness like I have never felt. It overwhelms me – How will I survive this? But I know I will. I know I have to. I have no choice. I need to let it out. I say his name over and over. Ask ‘why?’ I let in the awful flashbacks that take me back to ‘that moment’. They bring with them disbelief. It has been 4 months, but each time I feel the horror afresh like it is happening all over again. He can’t be dead. I can’t accept that. There must be some mistake. Then back to the sadness. Will I feel like this forever? At the start, the thought of this panicked me- how could I live like this every day? Now I worry about a day when I don’t feel like this. What would that mean? – that I have ‘moved on’ or ‘grown around my grief’? My breathing gets faster, and I am sobbing inconsolably until it catches my breath. I see someone in the distance coming towards me and I am forced to pull myself together. I focus on the rhythm of my steps, the birdsong. I try some slow deep breaths and begin to feel calmer. I muster a smile as I pass. I see a small white feather on the path and bend to pick it up. I am not a believer in messages from the spirit world, but for some reason I have started this habit and it brings me brief moments of comfort as I walk. When I return home, I place my feather in a jar – it is half full already . My grief walk is over for another day. The Jar of Feathers by Marie Innes COMPASSION | FEATURE - THE JAR OF FEATHERS
20 tcf.org.uk One of the most difficult things for us to do after the death of a son or daughter is to go away on holiday...having to see all those 'complete' families can be just unbearable. Two years ago, The Compassionate Friends were very pleased to form a relationship with Jack and Margaret Reckitt who have a holiday and retreats business, Manoir Mouret, in South West France. Margaret is a bereaved sibling - she sadly lost her brother when she was in her 20s. For the past few years, Jack and Margaret have offered bereaved parents the opportunity to stay at Manoir Mouret at no charge. Over the last few years, several groups of TCF members have spent a week at Manoir Mouret and experienced not only the peaceful rural environment and stunning property themselves but also the reassurance of being in a safe supportive space with other bereaved parents. If you would like more details go to: manoirmouretretreats.com/tcf2025 COMPASSION | FEATURE - MANOIR MOURET Manoir Mouret My husband and I are in France, Manoir Mouret, a beautiful place offered to bereaved parents for a holiday. We have our own apartment; other bereaved parents are here too. It’s Monday: we’ve been here a couple of days. We go out to a little medieval town, the steepest hill I’ve walked in many a year with a cobbled street, French bistros, gorgeous little shops, a chocolate shop at the top: a treat for all that climbing! I sit and I start to cry. How dare things be so beautiful? Peter is missing out - he loved these towns. We’d been to this part of France before, he loved it. I have the trinkets he bought me and I’m sure his sister still has hers, too. I’m suddenly overcome with sadness. I’m not interested right now in the things this place has to offer and I want to go back to the chateau, so we have a long walk back to the car. I feel terrible for breaking our day. My husband decides to go for a walk, again I’m grateful he Vera writes from Manoir Mouret
21 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - MANOIR MOURET doesn’t make a fuss, also glad for the time to be alone. So … not the best start to the week but things can only get better. We’re halfway through the week. Today we are out in a beautiful little market town, but my mood is low. We are sitting in a tea/book shop with gifts on sale, chandeliers on the tables, all looking very French. It reminds me of a book shop in Carlisle which is very similar, where we handed in Peter's Warhammer books, they’re a bit niche, but it’s that kind of shop. I’m trying to use my French with the lovely French man running the café, but it is no use at all. I feel flat, the way my mood has been for the past couple of days, when I know I should be doing better. I know I’m lucky to be able to be here. Then I remember about what somebody once said to me, “When you feel down think of having a dial, to lift your mood turn up the dial just a little bit … 5% or 10%”. So, I say to myself, “I’m going to be a little bit better”. My husband returns from the counter with tea and a croissant. I thank him and smile, we’ve both been through the worst years and I’m grateful yet again for what I have. I’m feeling more relaxed and comfortable, there’s some beautiful music playing in the background, there’s nobody here but us, we can hear the light rain outside and it’s peaceful. A family arrive: four adults and I think a son to one of the couples, they’re chatty and the peace is broken. They’re English and friendly which is ok, they’re entitled to be here, it’s time for us to go anyway. But I feel envious of their ease and the obvious care they have, a carefree time without the heaviness I feel. So we buy a soldier for Peter and some other gifts for the family. I look at the shelves, the things I think Peter might have bought me, along with things for himself, I know he would have done that. Tonight we have a social evening at the chateau, lovely beautiful people with whom we had an instant bond when we met each other on the Sunday evening when Margaret the owner of this lovely place made us some food in the communal area. We tell our stories to each other and I don’t feel so alone here. I look forward to pizza night on Friday. Friday is here and we are in the main part of the chateau for the pizza night. The group is impressed with my husband’s pizza making skills, though in fairness Margaret’s husband has done most of the work. He made the dough and provided all the ingredients. We have drinks and everything we need for a good evening, including the best company. It was 6 years today that Peter died. When I arrive I’m given a crystal by one of the mums and they acknowledge the day with me. We make pizzas; we talk and eat and it’s a good night. We leave the next day (Saturday). I know I’ll feel sad, but glad that I came. I appreciate the warmth I feel for the newly met people whom, should we meet again, will be there for us again. I’m also looking forward to getting home. So I leave France with a hope for all of us that we can get comfort from others who walk this path, in its various forms, at our various stages and in ways that matter to us. by Vera Griffiths Peter in France
22 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - TEN YEARS OF GRIEF Ten Years of Grief by Paul Wilenius (Former BBC and Fleet Street newspaper journalist) Paul and Alison Wilenius’s son Daniel died a decade ago and they have been coping with the terrible grief of that loss ever since. But the Compassionate Friends group in Swindon has been the one organisation which has helped them to come to terms with that grief. "We lost our boy Daniel 10 years ago on November 28th. He was only 4 days short of his 35th birthday, and it was the most devastating event in the lives of my wife Alison, daughter Laura and me. Out of a clear blue sky, we were hit with a devastating emotional hurricane. In an instant our lives changed forever, and we have never really returned to the life we had before he died of a cardiac arrest. We were once a family of four who laughed, travelled and grew together. Then suddenly we were only three, left with only memories of our funny, beautiful, sport loving and kind son and brother. In some ways it seems like only yesterday, but at other times it seems it was a lifetime ago. For someone who has never lost a child, they may think that after ten years we would be over it. Many would assume that over that length of time, grief fades, that the pain has eased and you can just go back to living in the same way you had before. Nothing could be further from the truth. As everyone who has lost a child will know, you never get over it. At any time, any day, any week, any month it can hit you, and sometimes like a sledgehammer. You can listen to a piece of music, look at a photograph, or a video, wander into their old room, see someone who looks like them, or for no reason whatsoever you get a sudden feeling of deep sadness or longing, and then the tears flow. Indeed, I have been walking down the road and for no reason started to well up and cry, or I can feel breathless, or have a dull twisted knot in my stomach. It is like you are overtaken by a nameless darkness or anxiety. There is no amount of support or counselling which can change that. It’s just part of grief. So no, you can never get over it. But you can learn to live with this terrible grief. You can learn slowly but surely to cope with it. You can let the grief and the pain become part of your life. Of course, the intensity of the pain does ease. It’s the soothing waves of time which help. But every single day I think about him, sometimes many times. I don’t cry every day, as I did in the beginning. Now I realise that I don’t want to get over the death of my son, as I want him here with me. I want to be able to embrace the hurt and the pain, to remember how much I love him and miss him. It gives me comfort. But I have to admit that it’s hard to come to terms with grief on your own, and this where Compassionate Friends comes in.
23 tcf.org.uk In the immediate shock after Dan’s death, I went for counselling with a nice young girl at my local GP surgery. She had obviously just done a course of bereavement and showed me the circles of grief which are meant to help. It didn’t really. We both ended up in floods of tears. By the second session I was almost having to console the counsellor. My wife also found the counselling didn’t help. We felt lost and increasingly isolated. But then one day my wife came across a mention of Compassionate Friends in Swindon on the internet, and she persuaded me that it might help. I was very sceptical at first, but after Alison had seen the wonderful leader who ran the local group, I agreed to go to a meeting. I didn’t really want to go, as it was so soon after Dan’s death (about 6 months), but I have never regretted it. The strength of the group is that you are with people who know exactly how you are feeling. You don’t have to explain it to them. They have all lost a child. They get it. You are are able to talk freely and in confidence about your deepest sorrow and feelings, and they understand. You can just talk or listen; contribute, or not. There is no religion, no pressure, no expectations. And it gives you comfort to know there are others who are in the same boat. They are suffering or have suffered the same as you. We became members of the club we never wanted to join, and indeed nobody wants to join. In this safe space, you can cry one minute and laugh the next, and not feel guilty. In fact, it is more than that for my wife and me, as we feel that we have met people who are now lifelong friends. You can go or not to the monthly meetings, or the social events like walks, meals out, summer BBQs, skittles nights or just a coffee with people in the group. There’s no pressure. Yet an important time of the year is the candlelight ceremony before Christmas, which brings most of the members of the local group together to remember our lost loved ones and console each other. It’s especially important at this time of year, as Christmas and New Year can be a terrible and painful time. It is particularly difficult for us, as our lovely son died on |November 28th, only four days before his birthday on December 2nd. We dread it. But Compassionate Friends has helped ease the pain. It has helped us to assimilate our grief around the loss of our son. It has also helped our wonderful daughter Laura cope with her grief. In fact, she has met and made friends through Compassionate Friends with another young woman who lost her sister. Sometimes siblings get forgotten, as people often ask how the parents of their lost child are doing, but forget that it can be devastating for their sisters and brothers. So, what has happened to our grief over the last 10 years? It isn’t as raw and totally debilitating as it was. It is something we have learned to live with, although Dan is still a part of our lives every day. We can function and live our lives, up to a point. But it does change you. It has certainly changed us. I hope it has changed me for the better. It has made me more considerate of other people’s feelings and made me more aware of the fragility of the lives we lead and how quickly it can be wiped out. So I feel you have to grab what life you can and get the most out of it. It isn’t the extravagant things, but the simple things such as family and friends. A smile, a hug, a gesture of kindness. It’s what will help keep our son Dan close to us and alive in our memories and hearts for many more years. We will miss him, always. COMPASSION | FEATURE - TEN YEARS OF GRIEF
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