Compassion Summer 2023

16 tcf.org.uk think and partly because I’m learning that you actually can be happy and sad at the same time.. Grief is confusing – it’s unpredictable, complicated and messy. And to add insult to injury – it changes from day to day. Even as I’m writing – one paragraph might sound upbeat – the next full of despair. There are days I cope and others I don’t. All these things help – but sadness follows. It’s simply part of us. Ben is there – we talk about him… think about him… and cry because we miss him. We have four children – always four NOT three. Each one as special as the other. The reality that one isn’t physically here still feels very, very wrong. There is no escaping the pain – nor would we want to. Right now I’m sitting in Ben’s bedroom. It’s still his – will always be his. His invisible fingerprints remain and I feel him. The clothes he was wearing the day he left are rolled up in a ball on the dresser – just as the hospital gave them to us. I bury my face in them, breathe in his smell and sob….. I try not to feel jealous of families who are wonderfully complete – but sometimes I can’t help it. It’s like a knife piercing my heart. I find myself shutting down as I try to block out the pain. I want to tell them never to take the ordinary for granted; to savour every beautiful moment – but usually I can’t speak as I try desperately to hold it together. Flashbacks still have the power to immobilise… to take me right back to the worst day of my life. I don’t want to… but I relive it over and over again. Never underestimate the enormous effort it takes for grieving families to simply keep living! No one sees the deep anguish on the inside – but I can assure you it’s there. The Ben shaped hole in my heart is a permanent fixture that can’t be filled by wonderful things. Joy that once was easy and pure and lovely is so often overshadowed by sadness. Ben’s absence always as powerful as his presence is sometimes just a gentle whisper but other times screams hysterically… ‘I’m not here!!’ The death of a child is just wrong wrong wrong…. The other day, someone asked me how I was doing, and if it was getting easier. I knew she was caring but as I tried to explain, my paranoid self kept telling me she was probably saying – ‘aren’t you over it yet?’ I didn’t realise that “getting over it” and “moving on” weren’t even a part of the grief process. I didn’t know that a person could bring their loved one with them as they move forward in life. I didn’t know that my grief would eventually become a part of my okay-ness. In my almost five years of living as a bereaved mum, I’ve discovered there comes a time when we’re expected to stop talking about it!! Too often I mention something about a difficult date and there is a horrible awkward uncomfortable silence. I’ve been told that I’m not the only person carrying pain (which of course I know); that I need to learn to leave mine at home; that I think everything is about me; that I’m selfish; that I should just remember the happy memories and be thankful for the years we had (which I am); that at least I have children… Maybe they’re right – maybe not!! But it hurts because I know I’m doing the best I can. So I question myself…Is it getting easier? Should I be getting over it? What does that even mean? Whether I like it or not I am defined by the fact that my child has died. It makes me the person I am today. And though a beautiful light went out when Ben left – his light is actually burning brighter than ever because light and love go hand in hand! Love keeps our children alive. I hold on to hope – it keeps me going. I believe we will all be together again one day. I miss him. As plain as that sounds, sometimes the simplest words carry the heaviest burdens. K. Piper COMPASSION | FEATURE - GETTING GOOD (BETTER) AT FEELING BAD