The Magazine of The Compassionate Friends Compassion Summer 2025 See page 12 for the article on this stunning stone memory quilt.
2 tcf.org.uk Compassion 3. Letter from the Editor 4. News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library 6. Feature: August is the Month my Life Changed 7. Feature: Losing Dylan 9. Your Poems & Stories 12. Feature: TCF Stone Memory Quilt 15. Feature: 20 Years and a 30th Birthday 18. F eature: Creative Writing from Exeter Support Day March 2025 20. Book Reviews 22. Memory Corner 24. Feature: How Many Children do you Have? 26. Feature: Guilt and Bittersweet Relief 28. Feature: Return to Hospital 30. Sibling Feature: The Horse Chestnut Tree – My Inspiration of Hope 31. Sibling Feature: Losing my Family Contents TCF News 33. News from Around our Charity 34. In Memoriam 35. Supportive Events 41. 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 Dear TCF Friends When this magazine is issued in July, I will have been a member of TCF for 20 years; a timespan that seems quite extraordinary! If you are a recently joined member who is in the early throes of the tumult that accompanies your loss, I can only offer you the hope of my own experience, that it will, and does, get better in time. Although it is 20 years since we lost James, memories of my first interaction with TCF remain clear. It was the early days of online forums, but nonetheless we managed to connect and communicate, and find others who could truly understand what we were experiencing, because our thoughts, feelings, emotions, resonated with one another. A more recent example of connections is the TCF Support Day in Exeter which I attended in March this year. Incredibly, after so many years’ membership, this was the first event at which I wore a ‘Volunteer’ badge, and part of my role was to offer two Creative Writing Workshops during the course of the day. Before we divided up for our chosen creative activities, we were in small groups, getting to know each other and sharing a little information about our children. I must say that the intensity of this caught me by surprise. It is a long time since I have been with a group of bereaved parents, some of whose loss is really recent, and my heart goes out to you all for your individual sorrow. Collectively, we were able to support each other with words, hugs, tissues and shoulders. The experienced volunteers who led the groups truly are compassionate. I was really pleased that the participants of the writing sessions produced some beautiful pieces of poetry and prose. Each of these indicates that incredible, unconditionally loving connection which we have with our children. The connection does not end when we lose our sons and daughters. It continues for as long as we draw breath, because they live on in our hearts. I hope you enjoy reading the Exeter writers’ pieces that are included in this issue. It is a brave step to put yourself ‘out there’ with personal writing and it is much appreciated. Connections assume a greater importance when they have meaning and represent how we relate to one another. As well as wearing this editorial hat, you may know that I am passionate about drowning prevention and water safety, and I collaborate with the relevant organisations, such as the RNLI, in this regard. In March I was honoured to be a keynote speaker at the RoSPA National Water Safety Conference; not only was I able to share James’s story once again, but I also highlighted the importance of connections though my membership of TCF. Loving connections come in many forms. It is more than 20 years since my mum died, and every year in May, I plant colourful annuals in a Letter from the Editor Andrea Corrie
4 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY terracotta pot that belonged to her. She called it her ‘Aztec pot’ because of the pattern round the outside. It wasn’t an expensive purchase, yet this pot has survived being outside through many winters. Would my garden be noticeably different without it? Not really – but the association, the connection, is what makes the Aztec pot special. And I will continue to fill it with lobelia, petunias and, of course, love, for as long as it lasts. I hope that despite your individual and unique grief situations, life over the summer brings you ‘pebbles’ rather than ‘boulders’. This is a new grief analogy to me: Pebbles are thoughts that you can kick away without dwelling on them – pebble-mongering is not permitted! On the other hand, boulders need to be faced, or climbed or tackled, in your own way and in your own time. Enjoy the sunshine when you can. Yours in compassion, Andrea When I think back 21 years to the spring after Claire died, my hay fever didn’t appear until we were much further into the summer even though I’d completely forgotten about both it and the medication. With hindsight it’s obvious to me that my usually overactive immune system wasn’t working at all, a common effect of grief, and what would have seemed like a welcome respite, if I’d given it a thought, was actually quite dangerous. I also remember that I wasn’t eating properly, firstly existing on Shredded Wheat for some reason and losing loads of weight and then comfort eating and putting it all back on again. My sleep pattern was all over the place, sometimes sitting up half the night or sleeping until midday and there were more than a few nights when I barely slept at all. My days were filled with inertia, exhaustion and feelings of anger, guilt and profound sadness while all the time I felt like I had a huge weight sitting somewhere in the centre of my body. I know I’m not the only one who’s felt like this, and I am sure that many of you are feeling like it right now. For months I really didn’t care about myself, or my own health needs. By the middle of the summer I wanted to take back some control in my life, and to feel well enough to be able to get out of the house and walk in the fresh air without feeling worn out after a few minutes. Margaret Reckitt is also interested in the concept of wellness and self-care. She and her husband Jack very generously open their house in Mouret, France every year to provide a safe and peaceful haven for bereaved parents News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library by Mary Hartley I’m writing this in May, and the weather has been warm and settled for the past couple of weeks; the hay fever season is in full swing leaving me with itchy eyes and a tendency towards sneezing fits, despite the medication I take to keep it in check.
5 tcf.org.uk and their families, in memory of her brother. That respite has helped people to find some peace in beautiful, relaxed surroundings and in the company of other families who know what it feels like to grieve for a much-loved child or sibling. Margaret has very generously provided the library with a wonderful selection of books to help us to help ourselves; to be kind to ourselves. I’m not suggesting this is going to make everything ok again, nothing can do that. In a world that’s spinning hopelessly out of our control, sometimes taking control of the things we are able can help quieten the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that are so frightening and can be the triggers of panic attacks. Margaret’s books cover the following: • ‘Why we Sleep: the new science of sleep and dreams’ by Matthew Walker, healthy eating ‘In Defence of Food’ by Michael Pollan • ‘Ultra Processed People’ by Chris van Tulleken • ‘Atomic Habits’ by James Clear • ‘The Good Life’ by Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz Another book, already in the library, is ‘A Happy, Healthy You’ by Caroline Yeats which is written by a young woman with terminal cancer who was also a nutritionist. This book is partly her story and partly the healthy and delicious recipes she designed. Caroline’s parents published this book after her death and it is a wonderful tribute to her, as well as a source of inspiration to others. Of course, it’s not just our physical health that suffers when we’re grieving but we’re also liable to be struggling with symptoms of PTSD, like panic attacks, anger, forgetfulness, flashbacks and so many more. We have books to help with those too, Such as ‘The PTSD Sourcebook’, ‘The Body Keeps the Score’, and ‘The Only Way is Through’ and books which specifically address such issues as panic, anger, depression or loneliness. I hope this has given you food for thought but please remember we all grieve in our own way and in our own time and this may well be a subject you’ll want to shelve for now and maybe think about later. If you feel you’d like to explore what some of these books have to offer, please contact me on library@tcf.org.uk. Thankfully I don’t feel nearly as bad now as I did 21 years ago and, what I see as my gradual re-emergence from those first agonising depths of grief, is captured very well by Sara Rian in a poem from her wonderful book ‘Find Me There’ (pp103) (your) death crushed me crumpled me up like a piece of paper. now as i bravely open. as i slowly unfold and expand. you will find love in every crease. With love from Mary Mary Hartley, TCF’s volunteer librarian, can be contacted at library@tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY
6 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - AUGUST IS THE MONTH MY LIFE CHANGED I’m writing this in mid-August. August is the month my life changed - 13 years ago. I was a happy and fulfilled working mum – juggling a satisfying career with bringing up three boys, which was stressful at times, but I was managing fine. I work on a freelance basis and always took August off to spend time with the children during the summer holidays. That August we had been camping in a very wet and muddy Devon and had returned to the mad rush of getting all the back-to-school stuff sorted before I flew off to cover a conference. Joe (11), my eldest, was starting secondary school, so there was lots of new uniform, sports kit, etc, to purchase. I was running around sorting everything out as was my norm. Then, wham. The day that changed everything. Joe died. He had an out the blue, completely unexpected, asthma attack and literally fell down dead. My life also stopped that day. How do you move forward after something like that? I didn’t know. I was paralysed by grief. I was a complete wreck. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop crying. Making a cup of tea was an enormous challenge. How could I possibly look after my two younger sons who were seven and eight, cope with my grief, and their grief, earn a living. How could I even stay alive in a world without Joe? He was such a kind and sensitive child. He was turning into a wonderfully emotionally intelligent young man. He was my best friend and a fantastic big brother to Jack and Ben. I didn’t want to live without him. The mountain ahead was just too enormous, and I didn’t have the energy or the inclination to try and climb it. It’s now 13 years later. How did that happen? I’m honestly not sure. I can’t remember a lot about the first year or two. I know I was very dysfunctional. I couldn’t work, so I didn’t. I didn’t care that we didn’t have any money, and the bills were piling up. I somehow managed to do the basics for my other two boys, in between long bouts of painful tears. Finding TCF was an absolute Godsend for me. Friends and family didn’t know what to do with me. They couldn’t understand why I was wasn’t “getting better”. I needed to find others who had walked this path – how did they do it? I remember going to my first TCF group meeting. Walking in and seeing all these people who looked normal, they had nice clothes on, and they were LAUGHING with each other. I remember thinking I couldn’t have come to the right place. These couldn’t possibly be bereaved parents. And if they were, they couldn’t have possibly lost a child they loved as much as I loved Joe. But when they started telling their stories I saw their emotion and realized their losses were similar to mine. How on earth were they still here and able to smile? I came away from that first meeting with some hope – if they could do it, so could I. I felt a little less lost. One of the phrases I heard a lot at TCF meetings was “one day at a time” and that became a mantra for me. I got through the next few years one day at a time. Just doing the basics. One small task at a time. I would write a list of things I needed to do each day – have a shower, do the grocery shopping, cook dinner, pay a bill, and congratulate myself of achieving each one. Small steps. Looking back, I believe my life did end on that August day in 2008. But then my new life began. The life I didn’t want and spent the first few years trying not to have. But I had to learn how August is the month my life changed by Sue Hughes, Volunteer and former Vice-Chair and Trustee of TCF. Posted on TCF website August 2021
7 tcf.org.uk to live it. And I believe I have learnt how to do that. It still isn’t the life I want but I think I have now accepted that it is the one I have. There are good things in it. I have learnt to enjoy small pleasures, such as a sunny day, a walk in a beautiful place, the company of a good friend. The pain and sadness of losing Joe is still there and always will be, but I seem to have got used to it and have learnt how to live with it and around it. Joe is still an enormous part of my life. He occupies more space in my brain than anybody or anything else. But it is not all pain and sadness. There is also my love for him. Huge massive, wonderful love. That has not died. If anything, it has become stronger. So here I am, 13 years on. It’s that time of the year. Facebook is full of family camping trips, and I’m seeing all the “back to school” clobber in the supermarkets. Those things used to tear me apart. But I seem to have developed a tolerance to them now. My other two have grown up and are leaving home. My new life is moving forward, and Joe is there right in the centre of it. TCF is still a big part of my new life. I run a local group in Marlow, Bucks, and we support each other so well. I still cherish the times I spend with my TCF family, who I think are the only people who really understand me. So, thank you TCF for being there in the beginning when I was completely lost and for being a constant reassuring presence as the years go by. My son Dylan died on a Monday night in 2019. It came out of nowhere, a 'traumatic' death. When I woke up the next morning, I knew Dylan was in the house. He had been for the last 18 years so why would today be different? He was in the next room or downstairs making breakfast. It took a real and painful effort to convince myself that the events of the night before were real and that Dylan would never be anywhere again. The ensuing days were blurred by tears and a sense of dislocation (I can now identify this as the first stage of the grief process: "shock/ denial"). We held Dylan's funeral almost a month later. It was a grand affair in the former home of Neville Chamberlain and it wiped out my savings, but I think Dylan would have approved. We had no idea how many people would attend but despite being a big place it was packed. It was a very special moment, there was an incredible energy and unity in the room. My contribution was to read out two poems I had written about Dylan, 'Past Tense' asked people not to use the past tense to talk about Dylan (it still sounded wrong) and in the other I listed Dylan's bucketlist accomplishments, but berated him for never having got a tattoo. Losing Dylan by Ben Harpwood, Birmingham COMPASSION | FEATURE - LOSING DYLAN For more details of the Marlow support group contact helpline@tcf.org.uk or call 0345 123 2304.
8 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - LOSING DYLAN That night I wrote another poem where I tell Dylan 'enough is enough, it's time to come home'. At the same time a musician friend who knew Dylan since birth picked up his guitar. We combined his musical ideas and my words to create a song. I continued trying to make sense of my feelings over the next months and years, in and out of lockdowns. Sometimes I felt very strange. It emerged that the feelings I was trying to understand matched the various 'stages of grief' that you can read about. This gave me the idea to create a collection of songs representing my experience of grief: a project I could throw myself into and in the process explore and better understand my mental turmoil. I was lucky to have a couple of great musicians who were also invested in the project - my wife Alison and my best man Al. Together we pooled ideas on how each song could sound, and I pulled together scraps of poetry and thoughts that I had noted down here and there into lyrics that fit the music. I lived with some classic symptoms of poor mental health. At the time I thought these were indicators of how poor my mental health was, but looking back now, I'm struck by the fact that I still got out of bed each morning, turned up to work, cooked meals. I called this ‘putting up my steel umbrella’, and that became the theme for one song. Another significant part of my experience of grief was a sense that things were wrong. Dylan shouldn't be gone; it's wrong to feel angry. So, I made another song about getting over losing Dylan. The premise is wrong, you never 'get over' the people you've lost. Bu the feeling of wanting to hold onto my sorrow (because relinquishing it would betray Dylan’s love) also felt wrong. So I made a song about these contradictory feelings of wrongness. Other songs are about how I felt closer to Dylan in the middle of the night, when nothing else was demanding my attention or in the confusing half-reality between dreaming and waking; and about facing up to the fact that I still have a life to lead, and that my daughters still need me to support them through their lives. The last song is my advice to them, a message that I hope they will return to throughout their lives. Although the album is called 'For Dylan, Forever Ago', it isn't really 'for Dylan'. He will never hear it. He had no musical ambitions. He couldn't play an instrument; he didn't like singing and hated being on stage. So who is the album for? Well, it's for me of course, it was therapeutic to throw myself into this project and 'bottom-out' my emotions, but I'd really like to think that it's also for the people who discover it and connect. I’d like to think I’ve created something durable that might be discovered, like a message in a bottle. I’m hoping to continue writing songs with Alison and Al and I have called our band ‘Platitudes’, because I’m not sure a song can offer anything more than that. If you would like to listen to 'For Dylan, Forever Ago' it is available on all music streaming platforms. You can find links at platitudes.co.uk
9 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 and siblings. 365 days since I sat in that police station hearing them say there’d been a terrible accident, and you’d passed away. 365 days since you left 365 days since a hole was blown through my chest 365 days of experiencing agony I never knew existed It took hold of my heart, and it ripped it and twisted 365 days but a lifetime of tears and yet missing you forever will mean I shed many more lifetimes worth throughout the rest of my years. 365 days of wrapping my head around associating your name with death and died And feeling immense anger that so many of your dreams won’t be realised 365 days and 365 long broken nights of wondering, were you in pain? did you have to fight? and wherever you are now, are you alright? 365 days of questioning why and what for, but the answers won’t come you’re just not here anymore. 365 days since us who love you so deeply Also lost a part of our soul and a life we used to live cheerfully 365 days of using all my strength to hold it together when everyone is around Then closing the door and falling to pieces on the ground 365 days of thinking ‘this can’t be true’ but slowly starting to realise it is. We’ve lost you. 365 days so for others, the shock has passed and subsided But for us, it’s all-encompassing even though we try to hide it But then I remember there could be one thing that’s worse if we’d never had the time with you that we did on this earth 365 days of looking back on our lifetime together And holding on to every memory so tightly because they are the most precious treasure 365 Days Without You by Imogen, on the loss of her sister COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES
10 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES It hurts as I Write these words with my pen Knowing I won’t Ever see you again It hurts as I Try to remember your voice Keep the sound in my head There is no other choice It hurts as I Stare at your photo on the wall Your beautiful face Your posture so tall It hurts as I Miss your wry quirky smile Your funny expressions It’s been too long a while It hurts as I Write yet my words just increase I’ll keep writing to you And my words will not cease It Hurts by Safina Powell Holding it together, at least “on the surface of it,” is very much just that. But come the quiet, or in the early hours of dawn, just before going to sleep, in your dreams, or in fact, at any and every time of the day or night, the nightmare of your loss lives and breathes. It is set to run in perpetuity, until the essence of one’s being disintegrates in Nature’s turn, as atoms discombobulate back to the elements of the universe and mingle with those of yours which fell like snowflakes before. Intertwining wisps of both atoms and memories, released as indefatigable quantum packets of particles and simultaneously existing energy wavelengths. Wafting and weaving through eternity, each obeying the Universal Law that matter can neither be created nor energies be destroyed. Peaceful together again, In the silent, gentle swirl of all the galaxies. Rejoined together again, In perpetuity. In Perpetuity by Rob Chate
11 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | YOUR POEMS & STORIES An envelope made me cry today. It had our daughter's name on it With a kiss under. Nestled innocently amongst a bundle Of random unused envelopes Waiting for a purpose. So many of her possessions Peppered around our home A comfort blanket of connections To her existence. Grounding me to my strength. But this was different Taking me unawares. And back to blindsided. Bewildered. Bereaved. I didn't know it was there. I didn't know why it was there. I don't really know why she's not. Or why it was empty. ‘Emma x’ Casually handwritten Before everything changed. Back when the world felt Right. The stark reality Of the death of our child Death. Of. Our. Child. In my face. And my soul. I cannot bear to do anything Other than tuck it back Put the envelopes away To hit me again Another day. The Envelope Poem for Emma by Christine Beale A Letter Sue, forever Jonathan’s mum and a TCF Volunteer, wrote this for her cousin on the loss of her son, Oliver. “You left so suddenly, unexpectedly and quietly. Such a sweet and gentle soul. When we heard we were half a world away and were struck by the vast and inky majesty of a remote South African night sky. It seemed endless and bursting with billions of twinkling stars and felt as if we could simply reach out and touch them. I heard myself asking out loud where you were, Oliver. I watched those stars sparkle and beam down and wondered whether the pressure from the tears that we cry, and the pain that we feel when we lose those that we love, somehow compresses into diamonds that eternally light up the sky. Just out of reach but ever present. We allowed ourselves the comfort of feeling that you are in good company up there Oliver and remembered all of those other precious children and siblings that we love that are no longer with us, but believe are with you”
12 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - TCF STONE MEMORY QUILT TCF Stone Memory Quilt by Anna Lawson I sat in the garden, wondering how to start writing about the Stone Memory Quilt, how not to hurt you any more than you are already hurting. A turtle dove alighted on the lamppost, about thirty feet away. The wind rustled through the leaves of the trees while the pigeon’s mate cooed for him to return. I said out loud “There is no point in you sitting there, you need to go back to your nest”. As it lingered, two feathers joined together, danced through the air, like angels’ wings and landed between my toes, before the bird eventually took flight. I heard Alex’s firm voice, “Just get on with it mam”. He still tells me what to do, even now! The dove returned briefly, with a twig in its beak, looked straight at me and disappeared back into the whispering leaves. Again I heard Alex, “They are building their nest. Be like the doves”. I guess he meant that TCF is my nest, my safe haven, and yours too – our community. To explain how the Stone Memory Quilt came into being I need to give you the background. I am an artist, writer, poet and was a lecturer in Fine Art and Art history. I was born into a family of artists, and our minds constantly buzz with creative ideas that get lost in the reality of life. Since Alex died, creativity has been pivotal to navigating this new ‘normal’ that we do not want, nor ever expected. My creative practice has been more prolific than at any other time in my life but simultaneously, I felt hugely guilty as it afforded me an escape from the horrific reality. Since then, I have read the book ‘When Words Are Not Enough – Creative Responses to Grief’, by Jane Harris and Jimmy Edmonds. That guilt has now been firmly dispelled. To create a piece of art that is meaningful, the artist has to go on a journey, an exploration of ideas. It does not just occur, finished as the artist intends it. The Stone Memory Quilt is a perfect example. It has been the culmination of personal sketches, a set of circumstances and collaborations I could not have foreseen. I have always doodled in sketchbooks, also containing mundane shopping lists, quotes, to do lists etc. When a doodle becomes a drawing, ideas and great intentions gush. Some develop into a piece of work but most often they are left on a closed page as life had thrown yet another curved ball. When the book is
13 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE - TCF STONE MEMORY QUILT full, it gets put on the shelf with the rest of them. One evening in late October 2023, I was lost in my thoughts about Alex, the weight, the burden and the great chasm he had left within me. Grief is exceedingly heavy, and we are forced to drag it with us wherever we go, behind the mask we have to wear. You will all know exactly what I mean. Simultaneously I was doodling in my sketchbook, as usual. Jolted back to reality, by a phone call, I wiped my tears and was astonished to see what I had drawn. This was inspiring, many are not. I realised I could create a large sculpture that would resonate with all parents who grieve. Out came the watercolours and ideas flowed. On the right, the mother is attempting to walk forward carrying a ton of stones in a backpack. Those that she could not fit in, she had sewn onto the bottom. The red threads (refering to the Chinese mythological ‘red thread of fate and connectivity’) stretched and the stones fell, some still attached. She was struggling on, through her own pool of tears, dragging stones and boulders behind her. This influenced the second sketch on the left. It is a patchwork quilt, made of stones. Regardless of the truth, my emotions will always tell me that I failed to protect Alex. With this in mind, I wanted the quilt to be charismatic at the top, signifying his childhood, followed by vibrant patches, representing his amazing knowledge of the world, his love, compassion and bravery. The heavier it gets, it gradually disintegrates in the same way as Alex did. His determination to help others led to his addictions. Eventually, only broken threads remain with stones plummeting to the ground – unrepairable. I could not repair my son. Quilts have always been important in my family with skills handed down through generations. My mother was a Durham Quilter and I have used quilting in my textile art work. I find the history fascinating, with the earliest evidence being from Ancient Egypt, circa 3000BCE. Patchwork quilts are universal, initially made for insulation and protection, which is what we hope to provide for our children. Utilitarian usage quickly developed into highly crafted and intricate quilts, with deep cultural meaning in pattern and colour, conveying identity, politics, story, resistance and memory – to name but a few. Once both sketches were done, I recognised I could attach the right image to the left to create one sculpture. I really don’t have any control of my overactive brain sometimes. In reality, it was impossible to create. I am too old to take on such a large sculpture – had I been younger it would have been hard enough! Besides, I would need a place to display it and was not prepared to go down through the process of approaching galleries. I was still puzzling how it could be made when, at the beginning of November, Mari Lewis posted her beautiful painted stone, in memory of her son Sam, on the TCF Facebook page. It occurred to me that I could make a digital Stone Memory Quilt for all of our beautiful children. I have worked in Photoshop for decades and knew it could be done. On 8th Nov 2023 I proposed the idea on our TCF Facebook page and parents responded positively. I do not think any of us thought that it would be as beautiful and meaningful as it has become. It is far better than the original sketched idea but I do regret not being able to accomplish the sculpture – maybe one day…. On 14th Nov 2023 I posted two of my painted stones for my son Alex. Two weeks later, Mari posted an image from a newspaper article about drug deaths at festivals. For copyright reasons I am not able to add the image. Now, looking back on the post, I am astounded that the field of tents looks so much like the quilt!! Art never happens in a vacuum, and this must have stuck in my subconscious. Without Mari’s post, this quilt, which started as ideas for a sculpture, would never have been in my mind. I was determined to paint the
14 tcf.org.uk alphabet first, so that every TCF parent, partaking or not, would have an initial for their child, in the quilt. It makes it timeless and all embracing. Some parents sent photographs of the stones they had painted for their beautiful child; many wanted me to paint stones for them. I was delighted and humbled by the amount of emotional investment, you, as bereaved parents, gifted to the project. I have run community projects previously and have never experienced this amount of passion. It was an honour to be asked to paint your stones and many of you trusted me with your precious heartbreaking stories and poignant memories. I organised the photographs into files. Each contributor has their own file in order to preserve their copyright. Throughout this time, I was becoming increasingly ill and needed to be admitted to hospital several times, resulting in two serious operations. All I could think of was not letting you down. I asked the TCF groups for volunteers to help me and was joined by Jo Moffat, Kate Roux, Amanda Clark and Johanna Banks. We became a great team. Thank you so much Team Quilt – you are incredible. As the images came in, they needed to be resized and put in the relevant digital sub-folders. Once they were ready, they were put into the Stone Quilt image, which necessitated them to be constantly moved around so I could create a colour and a name balance. I saved each stage as I was adjusting the quilt image and the Stones Folder is 13.94GB – which is huge! The final quilt file is 1.04 GB as the layers have not been flattened so that it can be adjusted if need be. It has been a long journey of organisation, heartache, joy, connection, teamwork and determination. Thank you to all of your for your help. The Stone Memory Quilt was finished by December 2024. Parents are now printing the design onto cushions and blankets. One mum said she likes to think of all of our children being together, looking after each other – and that is exactly what we all do in TCF – look after and care for one another. Our children are the quilt that binds us. COMPASSION | FEATURE - TCF STONE MEMORY QUILT For more information, including how to order printed copies of the Stone Memory Quilt, please contact Anna direct at anannais@ btinternet.com
15 tcf.org.uk When Rosie died suddenly 20 years ago on 04 December 2004, at nine and a half years old, I could never have imagined that I could have survived the extraordinary pain for 20 days, 20 weeks, or 20 months – let alone 20 years. My mum had experienced the death of her son before I was born. A few weeks after Rosie’s death she said to me “You won’t always feel this way Carolyn; in time you will be able to think of Rosie with a smile instead of through tears”. At the time I thought she was mad and was really angry with her. I felt I would always be crying for my daughter. She couldn’t have loved her son as much as I loved my daughter, and I couldn’t see a way to survive Rosie’s devastating loss. I felt like I would never smile again – the pain was so intense. I didn’t speak to my mum for some time after that as I was so cross that she could think that I would ever be able to find a modicum of joy again. But, now I know she was right…and I do have a happy life, albeit with some sorrowful days – like today – the ‘anniversary’ of Rosie’s death and other days where the longing to see and hold my little girl again rises to the surface. Overall, I have more joy than sorrow in my life and have re-engaged in those parts of my life which make me happy. It’s taken time, but Rosie is now an integral part of me, my work, and the activities in my life which give me enjoyment and contentment. Others have likened the death of a child as a bomb going off in your family – and that’s exactly how it felt. The raw, grinding, all-encompassing pain hit me like a ton of bricks. Questions ran round and round in my head: How would we survive this tragedy, how could I go on living without Rosie, when would the pain end, was Natalie’s life ruined forever, could our relationship survive this? The guilt was crippling – I was Rosie’s mother, I should have seen that she was unwell I felt I had failed to protect her, I had not acted quickly enough. I had gone out to Natalie’s school Christmas fair and left Rosie when she had said she was not feeling well. All these questions and thoughts went round and round in my head. I believed I had failed as a parent, as 20 years and a 30th birthday by Carolyn Brice COMPASSION | FEATURE - 20 YEARS AND A 30TH BIRTHDAY
16 tcf.org.uk a mother, and should have been able to protect my child. I absolutely blamed myself for years. I don’t really remember too much of those first weeks and months. Christmas 2004 came and went in a haze. I was just existing for many months and years. In the first four years I kept myself as busy as possible…throwing myself into doing two degree courses at once – an Open University degree and a PGCE, following by 18 months teaching in a primary school. For a while I had a burning need to be around nine year old children; I suppose I felt that if I could be with other nine year olds it would keep me close to Rosie – literally I did anything to keep myself busy. I did sudoku puzzles constantly and only read books written by bereaved parents or about child loss. I was an avid reader of fiction before Rosie died, and it’s a sadness that even now I read less. The only time I really read a whole novel through quickly now is on holiday. It can take me as much as four to six 6 months to read a book now. Around the four year mark, I felt I could….stop. And that’s what I did. I stopped all the busyness and stayed at home with my thoughts – it was only at that point that I felt I could. A mum at the school gates had told me about the peer support charity, The Compassionate Friends (TCF) just a few weeks after Rosie died. I joined the wonderful SW London support group – it made such a difference to be able to talk with other bereaved parents and know that my feelings were normal in such an abnormal situation. It didn’t take the pain of Rosie’s loss away, but as I sat and listened to others, I knew I wasn’t alone. In the early months and first couple of years, I could see others in the group – further along – who were somehow surviving. It gave me hope that I too could survive this and that the grief would not always be this raw. It was around the four to four and a half year mark that I decided to offer to volunteer for TCF, joining the Helpline volunteer team, answering calls usually from more newly bereaved parents. I think this really helped me as I could see by being there for others that I was no longer in that very raw grief (although could nosedive back into it at times) and that my experience could help me be alongside others as they shared their child and their pain with me. I am not really sure how we have got through this last 20 years…it’s been a bumpy ride at times. I think for me it was about the four or five year mark – when I felt that I could start to volunteer for TCF - that I started to feel a little lighter at times. The pain was still there - but I started to think more about Rosie’s life and what she had brought me and our family, than her death. Rosie was my first-born child, and I started to feel that she had come into my life for a purpose - she taught me how to be a mum. Until then I was a fairly selfish young woman mainly thinking of myself. When Rosie came into my life, here was somebody for whom I would literally lay down my life. I started to feel, and still do now, that she made me a better mum to Natalie and gave me a true understanding of the important things in life. It sounds like a cliché when I write it, but I truly had a kind of ‘epiphany’ where I really felt that Rosie was in my heart and thus the physical yearning to be with her, hold her physically close, was not so acute. I started to see hope that I might be able to have a meaningful life again, carrying Rosie with me. And now we are here on 21 May 2025, at Rosie’s 30th birthday. We gathered together with a few close friends who came to mark her birthday with us. It is a sad day of course, and we would do anything to have her back in our lives and COMPASSION | FEATURE - 20 YEARS AND A 30TH BIRTHDAY I started to see hope that I might be able to have a meaningful life again, carrying Rosie with me.
17 tcf.org.uk to be celebrating this milestone birthday with us and her friends. I spent much of the day wondering what she would have been doing aged 30 – who knows? – and thinking back to when Rosie was born and her far too short life with us. But it is also conversely a joyful day too – as we remember back to the day she came into our lives and started our family for us. We were incredibly happy, and we thought, as all parents do, that she was the most beautiful little girl imaginable (until Natalie came along!). I was constantly astounded that between us we had made such an amazing little girl. With her dark eyes, dark skin and blond hair I always thought she was quite striking looking – and added to that was her crooked smile and love of life and of nature. Rosie loved flowers and the natural world; at a very young age she knew a lot of plant names. My mum had taught her all about plants – so she would often amaze me and say things like ‘that’s a mallow mummy’ when she was only three or four years old. Since her loss many parents of children she knew have sought me out and told me that Rosie was a kind child who would look out for the underdog or their child who was being bullied. I don’t know how much of this is true – as she could be very mean to her little sister at times – but these comments are always so lovely to hear. When I go now and volunteer at TCF retreats, supporting and being alongside other bereaved parents, I sometimes facilitate a session called a ‘memory café’ where we use prompts as questions to share memories of our children. It is emotional and sometimes sad of course as we can’t really make any new memories, but it is also a way that we can continue the bond with our children. We often end up laughing and smiling at our amazing children. As I am facilitating parents sharing memories of their own children, it can prompt me to remember times with Rosie that I thought I had forgotten. Now I find these memories of my daughter comforting. Although the memories can still be painful, they really do sustain me. Most of the time (the sadness sometimes creeps in too) I feel truly glad that Rosie was in our lives even if the time was far too short. The words of this poem (among many others) have helped me over the years: The Gift Maybe some people aren’t destined to be with us for long on this earth. Maybe some are only travelling through, or maybe they live their lives faster than the rest of us do. They don’t need to stay a hundred years down here in order to get everything done. They manage to get it done in no time at all. Some people come into our lives in order to deliver something to us; a gift, a lesson, help and assistance, something we need at that time, and that is the reason they come – just on a flying visit, so to speak. Your child has taught you something about love, about giving, about the importance of another human being. That was their gift to you. They came to teach you these things and then they went again. Maybe they didn’t have to stay any longer, because they delivered the gift and then they were free to travel on, because they were an extra ordinary soul. But the gift will remain with you forever. Carolyn’s nine year old daughter, Rosie, died from an aneurysm on 4 December 2004. She and her partner Gary, have a surviving daughter, Natalie, who was aged 6 at the time of her sister’s death. Carolyn started writing this article on the 20 year anniversary of Rosie’s death – on 4 December 2024 – and finished it on 21 May 2025 on Rosie’s 30th birthday. COMPASSION | FEATURE - 20 YEARS AND A 30TH BIRTHDAY
18 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | CREATIVE WRITING FROM EXETER SUPPORT DAY MARCH 2025 Look into the distance Over the fields The sun, shining warm turning everything golden The sparkling sea Stretching out, as far as I can see Where are you? Can you see too? The view from my window? Are you watching? Can you feel the warm sun and the gentle breeze? You ARE still here! You live on in my heart You are my View Creative Writing from Exeter Support Day March 2025 We didn’t get to go through much together I was your whole life; you were half of mine Only memories and small moments remain How am I supposed to live on without you? I search for you in the sky every evening Looking in the clouds for the shine of your eyes I step into this New Year without you And count the minutes of sleepless nights I can’t share with anyone about us Can’t tell anyone how much it hurts The time we were given passed so fast Our years together now feel like a moment Busy, busy Children running Children squealing We’ve arrived! A day at the beach Children splashing Wet clothes Cold wind Towel to dry little legs Sun hats on Sandy snacks Sticky fingers Ice creams! Time to go home Shake the rug Pack up the bags Fast asleep Happy dreams Rosemary Moffat also writes: Andrea gave us a prompt to think about a time when we were happy. This is difficult because happy times ‘before’ are now tainted with sadness and longing. But a happy time for me was when my children were young and I was a busy mum. This piece is about a day out at the beach. The View From The Window by Rosemary Moffat Poem by Inna Yevko for her daughter Albina
19 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | CREATIVE WRITING FROM EXETER SUPPORT DAY MARCH 2025 The colours of the rainbow In the mourning sunlight Dance & reflect on the faces of my accompanying travellers. They blend and separate like the emotions of my soul Sometimes clear & bright other times dull & murky Like the tears that fall when sadness comes to call. Who knew our tomorrows would be ‘coloured’ thus so Who knew our hearts would fracture and break Like cracks on the icy snow. Time is a great healer Some they like to say But we could not foresee this Somehow onward we will go! It is only now with hindsight we see how far we’ve come In the comfort of knowing You; my precious child, travel with me all the while. God has you in His keeping ‘til we reunite once more and then within God’s glory We will share more than just a smile. The view from my window is a riot of colour. A stunning sunrise in streaks of orange, yellow and blue spread across the morning sky. My life used to be full of colour. My daughter Bex was a bright imaginative child who grew into a caring loving adult with a gift for bringing joy into other peoples’ lives. Now that she has left my world I search for colour in everything I do. She loved to wear colourful clothes, and I have kept her rainbow hat in a prominent place to prompt me to continue looking for colour in my life. My aim is to live in such a way that Bex would be proud of me. It is challenging but immensely rewarding when I feel I have achieved a little success. I write to her in my journal whenever I long to share my life with her. This brings solace to my new life – a life of loss I never anticipated. Grief moves in waves, often dark waves, but everywhere in our beautiful world there is colour to be found. On a warm spring day, we skipped hand in hand down the farm lane close to our home. Birds were singing in the hedgerows and the familiar rich farm smells filled our nostrils. We stepped onto a bridge over the stream and listened to the gurgling glistening water as it tumbled over stones and eddied in bubbly swirls on its impatient journey. We gathered sticks from the bank and stood on the bridge anticipating the next step. Together we called out “Ready, Steady, Go,” and we threw our sticks into the fast-flowing torrent. We rushed to the other side of the bridge to watch our sticks emerge. “Mine’s first!” Bex shouted and clapped her hands in delight. “Let’s do it again Mumsie,” and we did, many times throughout her childhood. Sometimes we took friends and family to the little bridge to share our fun. One day soon I will take my four-year-old granddaughter Willow to that magical place to recapture our memories of Pooh Sticks. Oh, what joy that will bring! Memories by Sally McDonnell The Journey by Corrine McMylor Mother of Kerry Dear Diary by Sally McDonnell
20 tcf.org.uk This is the sometimesharrowing story of a clever, kind, enterprising young man and his mother’s helplessness as she watches his struggles with declining mental health and his ultimate choice to end his life. It is not an easy or encouraging read, but those who have followed this path will understand Jenny Espino’s need to try to make sense of her bewilderment and guilt and to explain to those who knew her son Laury, and to those who didn’t, the circumstances leading up to his death. She painfully analyses her past reactions as a mother to what had been difficult circumstances within the family. For example, she describes the physical and psychological abuse of her first husband and controlling behaviour in a later relationship and tries to convince herself that Laury’s death was not the result of poor parenting. In fact, she seems to have been an involved and caring mother in difficult circumstances. The very readable story of the author’s life with her son and his sister account for the major part of the book, and Laury’s death, his funeral and the aftermath are described in detail very movingly. Jenny Espino is active within a spiritual organization called Subud, and she received a great deal of support from fellow members, and comfort from the rituals and meditations practiced by them. After Laury’s death Jenny Espino set up a bursary fund named Blue Spirit to enable young people aged 14-25 to experience sailing to aid their mental wellbeing. During his lifetime sailing was a passion for Laury and his “happy place”. Towards the end of the book is a very articulate and insightful account of the historical lack of knowledge of mental health problems and in particular schizophrenia, which is surprisingly common. However, there is now increasing coverage in the media and in schools. This, although welcome, may magnify the feelings of guilt of parents who feel they should have recognised and acted upon symptoms of poor mental health in their child. This is the experience of the author, who admits to sometimes suffering self-blame and recrimination. She relates how she has dealt with her grief and what she would do better if given a second chance. Those of us who have lost our children to suicide will identify with those feelings. I would recommend this book for parents bereaved by suicide who may welcome the reminder that they are not alone, and their anxieties and possible grief about their parenting are emotions commonly felt by others in their situation. COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS Book Reviews In the Wake of a Star by Jenny Espino Reviewed by Val Holden
21 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS This 260-page book is an illustration of the desire of countless bereaved parents to preserve and honour the memories of their dead child. Richard Sutcliffe, with a chapter from his wife Swee, tells the story of how they came to adopt 8-year-old Mac. He lived with them for 8 years until his untimely death. He was killed on his motorcycle in an accident in which he was completely blameless. Finding Mac is a book almost entirely about his adoption and his life from small boy at that time to towering teenager at the end. It was not a straightforward journey for him or his parents who had already experienced the “bereavement” of being unable to have a child of their own. They are honest about Mac’s struggles such as his need to change school because of problems that arose. That is only one side of the coin; the other is the story of how Mac grew into a fine young man. There is a lot in the way of small details here. For example, more than a tenth of the book is taken up with what happened where and when on family holidays and on Mac’s trip to Uganda. It is such detail that brings Mac’s story to life. Again and again, they show us the huge and growing love Richard and Swee felt and showed for their son. It is a heartwarming and compelling read. When this reviewer sat down intending to read through the first chapter he found that he went on to read the whole book in less than 24 hours! There are no doubt countless books on adoption but far fewer about adopted children dying too young. Although Mac’s death and what followed are not really mentioned until near the end of the book they are somehow present throughout, as a dark cloud getting ever nearer. The words of the subtitle “A Journey of adoption, love and loss” sum it all up very well and part of its message that love is never wasted will help and comfort many. Do bereaved parents who adopt grieve as much for their children as much as biological parents? Of course they do. Finding Mac: A Journey of adoption, love and loss by The Reverend Richard Sutcliffe reviewed by Henry Whyte Mary Hartley, TCF’s volunteer librarian, can be contacted at library@tcf.org.uk
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