27 tcf.org.uk children saw their father as often as possible. Jamie had met up with friends in the grounds of the local private school and got onto an older boy's motorbike. He'd never ridden one before; he lost control and smashed through a glass door, severing a carotid artery in his neck. All those years of loving and caring for him were over in an instant. There was no chance to say a proper good-bye or tell him how much I loved him. At first the grief of Jamie's death destroyed me. Pain cut through the shock of what had happened — of him being here one minute, gone the next. The sense of loss was profound. Thankfully, I was mentally quite a strong person and still am. That doesn't mean my mental health wasn't affected — it was. I just have a level of bloody-mindedness and resilience that kept me going; that gave me the strength to limp through the early years, hollow, but living. But that's only because I had to. I still had my daughter, who needed me, because she'd lost the brother she deeply loved, too. I felt grateful that through it all I still had her warm body to hold. In the end, I discovered that time passes, and you learn to live with the grief of losing your child — that's it, that's the bottom line, your child has gone and somehow you just have to carry on. That's not to say it stops hurting, it's just that the pain changes and becomes more manageable. As the years passed, I found it eased a little, but I seemed to carry it with me all the time. Now, though, it's hardly ever painful at all. But it still can be: I could conjure up that agony of loss at any moment if I wanted to. But I don't want to, if it's going to damage the present — because, as forgetting Jamie's anniversary surely showed, that's where I've learnt to live. Years ago, I made a conscious decision that I didn't want to be pitied, seen forever as the woman whose son died and who never got over it. I can't say when that happened - I just know that I didn't want to feel broken my whole life. Writing — being creative, making something from the intangible ideas in my head — was the answer for me. At first, I used it as a form of therapy, spewing out my feelings onto the page. Then, nearly 15 years ago, I took control and began writing fiction. Discovering the joy of creativity, losing myself in the process, I realised that was what I was meant to do. The experience of losing Jamie has inspired my writing ever since. Before he died, I wasn't as compassionate; I had none of the sensitivity or awareness of human suffering that I do now. His death turned me into a better person. My first novel, The Separation, was published in 2014, which gave me confidence in myself again. After all, my child had died — I was supposed to look after him and make sure he survived, and yet I didn't manage to do that so, in my eyes, I was a failure. My latest novel, ‘The Hidden Palace’, an historical novel set in Malta during the Second World War, is my ninth. (nb: ‘Night Train to Marrakech’ and ‘The Greek House’ have since been published). Writing my books, connecting with my readers, has become something else to live for outside of my precious family — a final gift from Jamie. That doesn't mean my journey through grief has ended. I expect I'll continue walking that path for the rest of my life. But right now, I have reached a place of peace, which is the best place any grieving parent can ever hope to be. COMPASSION | FEATURE - GUILT AND BITTERSWEET RELIEF
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTM0NTEz