The Magazine of The Compassionate Friends Compassion Winter 2024/2025 NOW INCLUDING TCF NEWS
2 tcf.org.uk Compassion 3. Letter from the Editor 4. Feature: Coping with Christmas 5. Feature: Expressing Grief through Art 6. Feature: Seven things I didn’t know (and wish I had) when my child died 8. News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library 10. Book Reviews 12. Memory Corner 15. Feature: If it was me… 16. Feature: Bereavement Support in the Workplace 18. Your Stories & Poems 20. Siblings Feature: Thoughts on Adult Sibling Grief 22. Siblings Feature: The ties that bind; grieving the loss of a sibling 24. Snippets to Save Contents TCF News 25. News from around our charity 27. Feature: Supper at the Gauntlet Trust 28. Supportive Events 33. In Memoriam 40. Fundraising Round-up 46. Other Ways to Give 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 everyone! When we think about where we are today, we might find this description strikes a chord: we could be wintering. Author Katherine May describes it as ‘those moments when life turns cold through crisis or loss, and we find ourselves living at a different, slower pace to everyone else. As winter is a time of retreat and hibernation for much of the natural world, wintering is the process by which our bodies and souls seek rest and recuperation when the clouds descend and light fades’. I have paraphrased some of what she says as it feels fitting for this season: ‘Wintering is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order. Doing these deeply unfashionable things — slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting — is a radical act now, but it’s essential’. I think this is particularly appropriate once the clocks go back and we have shorter days, greyer weather, and another Christmas and New Year, to be faced without our children. However you choose to spend your Christmas and New Year, remember that it is important to do whatever feels right for you and your family. It’s OK to do things differently – and to ask for help. Aside from that, how can we push ourselves out of wintering when the time is right? It is central for each of us to reaffirm a sense of identity when we feel that our grief has driven us into this hibernating state. I read what may be an apocryphal tale, that goes like this: “There was a story in an Old National Geographic magazine about a photojournalist who was returning, after many years absence, to Papa New Guinea where she’d grown up. She had taken pictures of a remote area of jungle. When she’d lived there as a child, her parents had worked among a nomadic tribal group who moved between different homelands depending on the season. She recalled the language of her youth, a language she had learned from her friends. There was no word for ‘hello’ in this local language in Papua New Guinea. Instead, upon seeing someone, one simply said, ‘You are here’. The answer was equally straightforward. ‘Yes, I am’.” Whether or not this is true, it has a beautiful simplicity that we can hold close. We are here, despite our loss. We are still parents, whether we have living children, or not. We are present in the moment, whether it holds joy or sorrow. It is challenging to motivate ourselves in these darker days but carrying the baton for those who are no longer here is an achievement to aim for, in whatever ways we can manage. Often when we look back at the early stages of loss, particularly if we have kept journals and diaries that express our anguish, we can see how far we have come – changed, forever altered, but still living this new life. In this issue we honour our friend Gina Claye, who gave so much to TCF and indeed, this magazine. The tributes are just a tiny reflection of the love and esteem in which Gina was held by so many. We all send our love to her daughter Rachael, and we hope that she is comforted in some small measure by the heartfelt messages she reads about her very special mum. Go gently, Andrea Letter from the Editor
4 tcf.org.uk Coping with Christmas Shared by Annette Mennen Baldwin, TCF Katy, Texas in memory of her son, Todd Mennen. It has been nearly five years since my only child died, but this will be my sixth Christmas without his unique enthusiasm, anticipation and happiness at the prospect of the holiday season. After two rocky attempts to handle the holiday season, I gave myself permission to do what I wanted to do. I am not accountable to anyone for my ups and downs at the holidays. Last year was easier than the previous year and that year was easier than the one before. But there is a reason for this: in talking with other members of our Compassionate Friends chapter, I realized that I owe no explanations. Therefore, I make it easy on myself and on those who love me. Instead of getting caught up in the commercialism of the holiday, I contemplate the true meaning of the season and initiate activities that have little to do with the season. I intentionally avoid Christmas because it is, simply too painful for me. Others in our Compassionate Friends group have returned to their normal celebrations with children and extended family. Some have modified their traditions; a few have chosen to take a trip and escape the holiday memories entirely. We give ourselves permission to handle this time of year in a way that is most soothing to us. If we do not do this, we suffer setback after setback in our grief. We often make small concessions for others in our family, of course. But are we really in the spirit? Probably not. Does it really matter? Probably not. Each year I now put a wreath on our front door. I buy a gift for an underprivileged child and include a card that is signed with my son’s name. I send gift cards to those who I am morally obliged to remember and buy small gifts for friends and family who truly appreciate the thought and effort I have made. That’s Christmas now. I have given myself permission to handle it in the only way that keeps serenity, peace and hope in my heart. Reprinted with thanks from TCF Winnipeg Chapter Newsletter COMPASSION | FEATURE: COPING WITH CHRISTMAS Christmas by Howard Thurman When the song of the angels is stilled, When the star in the sky is gone, When the kings and princes are home, When the shepherds are back with their flocks, The work of Christmas begins: To find the lost To heal the broken To feed the hungry To release the prisoner To rebuild the nations To bring peace among the people To make music in the heart. More tips for coping There are some useful tips on coping with Christmas on the TCF website at tcf.org.uk/copingwithchristmas
5 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE: EXPRESSING GRIEF THROUGH ART As you can imagine the enormity of the deaths of my beloved children has been overwhelming but I feel I have been able to express my grief through the creativity of art. I moved to Didsbury, Manchester after Stephen died and my neighbour invited me to an art class at the Community Centre. I considered myself totally hopeless at art with no imagination, useless at drawing and nil creativity, but thought, after everything that had happened to me, what had I got to lose? The above creation was a project the art teacher gave us. We had to focus on ‘Me’ and things that had meaning in our lives, plus using other medium apart from just paint/drawing. I chose the ‘Umbrella of Grief’ which covers everything in my life but, within that umbrella are the things that help me to survive and cope with my loss. Pressed flowers associated with volunteer gardening at the local park and my own garden. Initials representing ‘M’ (Michael my surviving child) and ‘A’ (Alan my husband), and around the outside initials of family and friends. Origami dog representing Rosie, my Staffordshire Bull Terrier who is our lifeline (we’ve always had dogs in our family and they’re very important to us). Circle with Bulls head crossed through surrounded by nuts and seeds associated with Vegetarianism. Fob watch which is my 40year nursing career. Origami shoes representing my passion for jiving. Mouth/foil musical notes and sheet music representing two choirs and singing lesson which helps me mentally. Plus origami hearts and foil tears. The umbrella is made from twigs showing my love of nature. Stephen and Helena’s initials are at the top of the umbrella. It was a very cathartic project to tackle as it was so easy for me, in times of utter despair, to focus entirely on my heartbreak and pain, whilst forgetting about positive outlets in my life. I know experiencing the complete joy I felt before my children’s deaths will not happen again, and I accept this, but I am now living my life as I’m sure Helena and Stephen would want me to, with hope, rather than merely surviving. Expressing Grief through Art Shared by Sandra Thurm Helena (L), Stephen (R) My daughter, Helena, died 8 years ago and my son, Stephen, died 4 years ago.
6 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE: SEVEN THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW (AND WISH I HAD) WHEN MY CHILD DIED Seven things I didn’t know (and wish I had) when my child died by Geves Lafosse At the age of three, my daughter, Juliette, was diagnosed with leukaemia – she died just nineteen months later. That was twenty-two years ago. Through the devastation I started writing down my thoughts, and in time, these notes became the book that I’ve called When Petals Fall. Those of us who have lost children are fully aware that it is rare occurrence, and I for one felt very alone in the experience. These are some of the things I wish I had known back then. 1. The guilt is huge Despite being told there was nothing I could have done, my inner voice repeated on a loop that I should have done more to keep her safe. I didn’t know that this guilt was normal. To deal with it, I turned it inwards, punishing my body for continuing to exist when my child’s body no longer did. I started long distance running and raising money for charity. This may have looked healthy, but my behaviour became a covert instrument with which to hurt myself. Because I’d survived my child, I deliberately ran despite injuries and in the worst of weather conditions. Training plans and physical pain created noise with which I attempted to block out emotional pain, and in the end it didn’t work. My grief at losing Juliette demanded to be felt. I know now that it wasn’t my fault that she died and that blaming yourself is just part of being a parent, but I wish I’d known sooner to be gentler with myself. I wish I’d understood that extreme emotion is not failure. It’s a natural, unavoidable process, and letting it happen instead of fighting it is the easier, kinder path. 2. Grief is tiring Like, physically, bone-crushingly tiring. I’ve since read studies that have shown that bereavement of this magnitude doesn’t just happen in the brain. I don’t know why I found this so shocking, but it makes sense now that every cell in your body should experience grief too. I did not expect to sleep so heavily and wake up exhausted, aching, craving sleep again, not only for the ceasing of my daytime thoughts, but for the physical rest. The process aged me. At the time, I was glad to see proof of this in the mirror. I don’t feel like this anymore but back then, I welcomed this evidence that I was closer to my own death. 3. Losing a child is not like other losses I had a man say that he knew how I felt because he’d recently lost his dog. Someone else compared Juliette’s death to their divorce. Juliette
7 tcf.org.uk These are extremes, but we all know that it’s against natural law to outlive your child, and no one except other parents who have lost children should come close to comparing their grief with yours. And even these griefs have differences. On the subject of other bereaved parents, with them you’re part of a fellowship no one wants to join. For me, these conversations and friendships have been invaluable. 4. The most well-meaning people may still say the wrong thing For instance, when your beloved child has died, it is not comforting to be reminded that you have others. This was said to me, and of course the person intended it to be comforting. It was better (I guess) than being avoided entirely, but the most powerful words I ever heard were, ‘I’m so sorry she died. I have no idea how you must feel, and I don’t know what to say, but if you ever want to talk about her, I’m here.’ Also, I wish I’d known that you don’t always have to tell people truthfully how you’re doing. Sometimes, especially when I was having ‘a good day’ or could not predict someone’s reaction, I regretted opening up. Sometimes a simple, ‘I’m okay - thank you,’ would have done. You don’t owe people a total excavation of your emotions, just because they’ve asked. Sometimes, you just need to protect the open wound of your child’s loss. 5. All relationships shift I was not the same person after losing Juliette. I think people expected me to go back to being the person I was – I know there was a time that I expected that too – but it didn’t happen. Things that used to matter, just didn’t anymore and when my values changed, a lot of friends drifted away. But in their place, I gained important others who I’d trust with my life. And it’s not only friends. For me, family relationships changed too. This was unsettling, but I understand it better now. I realise I’d been a person fulfilling a certain role for which my life until then had shaped me. When Juliette died, these old moulds shattered. I’ve noticed that grief prompts a desperation to hold onto familiar ways of being - there certainly was for me – but change happens, and I’ve found freedom and peace in embracing it. 6. It won’t always feel this bad At first, I didn’t want this to be true. Grieving Juliette’s absence was the mirror of my love, so to wish that pain away felt utterly wrong. I needed the sorrow to manifest my outrage that she had died. In other moments, I knew I had to manage better so that I could give my other children the lives they needed and deserved. Now I know those feelings of loss don’t ever go. What’s happened is I’ve grown around them, so they don’t fill so much of me. 7. Happiness will have a different quality Feeling happy, or even wishing for it, made me feel like a heartless monster when my daughter had died. It’s different now. Twenty-two years on, into every moment of happiness my love for Juliette is infused. It’s there as a gold thread, a Kintsugi ceramic piece. My beautiful child is not with me, but my love for her always is, and that has to be enough. COMPASSION | FEATURE: SEVEN THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW (AND WISH I HAD) WHEN MY CHILD DIED Read more You can read more of Geves’s writing on her website geveslafosse.com
8 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY It could have been the hottest, sunniest year on record but, for me, life was cold and miserable and seemingly hopeless. To be honest, the only thing I remember about the weather in 2004 is that it started snowing during Claire’s funeral, something she would have loved. It did make me smile but it also brought the crushing pain of realising she would never make snow angels or snowballs again; never again would I hear her joyful laugh when the white flakes started to fall. In those early days it felt as though my life would never be worth living again but I was wrong and slowly, gradually, life became better, hope entered the picture, and I began to live a good life again. That is very much the theme of one of the books reviewed for this edition of ‘Compassion’ in which bereaved sibling Kay documents how she found her way back from hopelessness and despair to a meaningful life. This made me think about some of the other books we have in the library, written by and for bereaved siblings. The first one that comes to mind is Cathy Rentzenbrink’s ‘The Last Act of Love’ written after her brother Matty was badly injured in a road accident and, after living in a persistent vegetative state for several years, finally died when their parents went to court to have life sustaining treatment, such as artificial feeding, withdrawn. Another very interesting and moving account comes from Clare and Greg Wise in ‘Not That Kind of Love’, subtitled ‘a sister, a brother, some tumours and a cat’. Both books tell us so much about the bond between siblings. ‘The Empty Room’ by Elizabeth DeVita Raeburn is partly her account of her brother Ted’s long illness and eventual death at the age of 17 but it’s also a wide-ranging study of the impact of sibling loss, based on interviews with more than 200 bereaved siblings. A particular type of sibling bereavement is the loss of a twin sister or brother. Joan Woodward has written about that in ‘The Lone Twin’. After her twin sister died Joan always felt like half of her was missing and it was only when she met other ‘lone twins’ that she started to realise how normal her feelings were. In ‘From a Clear Blue Sky: Surviving the Mountbatten Bomb’ Timothy Knatchbull has written a very readable and interesting book about his twin brother’s death, his own grief and his quest to meet the men who caused his brother’s death and to try and understand why they acted as they did. News from the Catharine Pointer Memorial Library by Mary Hartley I’m writing this during the last weekend in September and autumn is definitely in the air. It’s cold and miserable and seems to have been raining forever and, thinking about it, that’s an excellent description of my feelings in the first weeks and months after my daughter died.
9 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | NEWS FROM THE CATHARINE POINTER MEMORIAL LIBRARY To live with the constant awareness that your sibling has been murdered must be very hard and ‘My Sister Milly’ by Gemma Dowler, addresses that trauma. It’s a difficult read but throws light on the enormous, life changing, effect the traumatic loss of a sibling has and how help from therapists and counsellors can enable you to find your way back to some sort of inner peace. Knowing your sibling has died from suicide is also very traumatic and, in ‘An Empty Chair: Living in the Wake of a Sibling’s Suicide’, Sara Swan-Miller has both written about her own sister’s suicide and has talked to over 30 other siblings bereaved by suicide. If you’d like to borrow any of these books or would like me to recommend others for you, please do get in touch. I really can’t finish without writing about my dear friend Gina Claye with whom I spent so many happy hours, in person, on the phone or by email talking about books and words and poetry, as well as genealogy and knitting, and all sorts of other things. We have two of her books in the library ‘Upright with Knickers On: Surviving the Death of a Child’ and ‘Don’t Let Them Tell You How to Grieve: Bereavement Lines to Let You Know You’re Not Alone’. The first is exactly what it says it is, a book to help you survive, and it covers just about every aspect of grieving for a beloved child. As well as Gina’s own kindness and wisdom there is a lot of input from other bereaved parents, and some from grandparents and siblings, and it’s a wonderful resource for our library. The second is a collection of Gina’s poems written after her daughter Nikki and son Robin died and each poem is accompanied by Gina’s reason for writing it. My favourite is called ‘Facing Death’. Gina writes that she can’t know what would happen after she died, it is too big a concept for her to grasp, but she instinctively felt that the great love and energy that was in her children must be somewhere, and couldn’t have just disappeared. She knew for certain, as we all do, that two of her children had already gone through the barrier of death so she would not be leaving them behind. I’ll miss Gina a great deal and I hope she is at peace now and has been reunited with Nikki and Robin. With love from Mary x Facing Death by Gina Claye I do not fear death or even dying, like some do. For when it comes, you will be waiting I will be with you. Mary Hartley, TCF’s volunteer librarian can be contacted at library@tcf.org.uk
10 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS Book Reviews Losing You, Finding Me by Kay Backhouse reviewed by Mary Hartley This book is written by a sister whose brother, Syd, died from a rare type of cancer when he was 36. The book is divided into three parts, ‘Asleep’, ‘Awakening’ and ‘Remembering’ and it documents the way a sibling’s untimely death brings you face to face with what is really important in life, makes you reevaluate your own life and can ultimately almost force you to live the way you were meant to live. Kay has found a way to live the life she was meant to and she’s offering the hope that others can do that too. The first part of the book tells us about the person Kay used to be, a people pleaser, a teenager who dabbled with drugs, alcohol, smoking and became stuck in an abusive relationship. All the time she knew this wasn’t the person she was meant to be; she is actually an idealistic and highly sensitive person who feels her own and other people’s pain deeply. She has three brothers and felt very close to Syd who was the youngest. Syd also struggled with the way the world saw him, hiding his real self in the same way his sister did. Kay eventually got her life into some sort of order, married Rick, the love of her life, and had two sons. They emigrated to Australia, but all was not well. Kay’s marriage was in trouble, her husband’s physical and mental health were not good, and Syd was diagnosed with a neuroendocrine cancer of the thymus gland. The second part of the book tells us how Kay became aware of the need to fight back against her own feelings of helplessness and depression. She describes how she tried to help her brother and herself by learning as much as she could about the cancer, about good holistic patient centred health care and about the way some alternative treatments, alongside formal treatments, could help. In 2013 Syd’s diagnosis was terminal, with a prognosis of about two years, but he actually lived another six years. At the same time Rick continued to struggle with depression and poor health and Kay herself was struggling. In 2018 the family came back to the UK, and she unfortunately had a nervous breakdown, ending up in A and E. Syd died in 2019 and, during his final month Rick was admitted to hospital with sepsis so she was backwards and forwards between hospice and hospital. By then she was displaying the classic symptoms of PTSD, was rushing around trying to be a superwoman and was grieving deeply for her brother. Then along came the pandemic, a blessing in disguise for her. The third part of the book is where hope starts to take centre stage. Kay, like so many of us, was forced by the lockdown to stop and think and she realised she had to take responsibility for her own inner peace while letting other people take control of theirs. She’s built a framework of advice which we can all use. Kay emphasises that this is what helped her, and we must all find our own way but there are plenty of ideas here to help.
11 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | BOOK REVIEWS This is a book about bereavement. The author is a bereavement counsellor with many years of experience. He is not a bereaved parent, but both his parents died of suicide when he was a young man. His intention is to educate and inform us about the process of grief following the shock and pain of losing someone central to our lives. He describes an approach which he found helped himself and others to live with their grief in a more positive way; this is called ‘mindfulness cognitive therapy’. Mindfulness teaches us to focus on the present moment, on our immediate experience, and it is a form of meditation. This book will inform you, but you may also need the support and guidance of a therapist to become mindful; to become self-aware. The author describes it as a tool to train our minds not to live in the past or future, but rather in the here and now. He sets it out under the headings of the five stages of grief identified by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. This book would be helpful to bereaved parents, grandparents and siblings reflecting on our response to our loss and wanting to understand it more. It would also be relevant to students, volunteers and staff, who are supporting bereaved people, because it conveys the reality of the complex nature of grief as a life changing experience. Mindfulness & the Journey of Bereavement; Restoring Hope after a Death by Peter Bridgewater reviewed by Anne McAreavey The basis of the framework is the three necessities for happiness: something to do (purpose), someone to love (love) and something to hope for (faith). That isn’t necessarily religious faith by the way, although it could be, but can mean a realignment with nature or re-connection with our inner selves. It encompasses the comfort we can get from simple rituals like lighting candles. For me this is very much about the continuing bond we have with our child, our grandchild or our sibling. Our relationship with them doesn’t stop but changes and develops and continues to the end of our lives. Kay quotes Elizabeth Gilbert who said “I can’t live without her -so I don’t”; I’d never heard that particular quotation before but it’s exactly how I feel too. In her conclusion Kay writes that she’ll always miss Syd’s physical presence, but her life has grown around her grief, and it is a good life again. She’s still with Rick and they are happy, despite their ups and downs; they live close to the rest of their family in the UK. This is a very interesting, honest and ultimately hopeful account and the title is perfect for the message it conveys. I’d recommend it to bereaved siblings but also to the rest of us. There’s a lot to learn from this book; it’s thought provoking, and it leaves you feeling upbeat and hopeful. See Kay’s article on page 22.
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 Joe Abbess, 22/11/2005 - 31/5/2023 Shared by Ness Abbess Joe was a wonderful son and brother who tragically drowned at Bournemouth beach. He is sadly missed and will always be very loved. We are so incredibly proud of the fabulous young man that he was. Joe was kind and generous, loving and caring, hardworking and funny. He was a talented trainee Chef with great future ahead of him. We were privileged to have him in our lives for 17 years, 6 months and 9 days, but are so sorry that he will never fulfil his dreams and ambitions. Remembering Emma & Matthew Shared by Les and Christine Smith Special memories of our daughter, Emma Elizabeth (Liz Pots) (31.3.76 -5.9.78) who has been joined by her big brother, Matthew Jonathan (Bud) (5.10.72 -10.1.24) this year. All our love Mum and Dad and sister Anna Louise (Rabbit), brother in law Paul and Matthew’s wife Lorraine. Remembering Jake Shared by Jane, Jake’s mum We lost our only child Jake Akeroyd on the 29th December 2023, aged 30. His birthday is on the 21st January. Our absolute best friend, loved and missed so much by Ian (dad), Jane (mum), Derek (grandad) and all his friends.
13 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER Remembering Bethany, 12/12/1999 - 01/01/2023 Your precious life of 23 short years taught us, as your mum and dad, just how beautiful a gift you were to us in our lives. Even though you had many disabilities/difficulties in your life, you had courage, grit, determination and showed us, in your absolutely unique way, just what an inspiration to everyone you could be. We love and miss you so, so much our beautiful girlie and will keep you in our thoughts and hearts until we meet again. With love and great BIG HUGS, Mummy and Daddy xx Remembering Alex Shared by Steph I’m writing this on what should be your 3rd birthday, our 2nd without you, writing through my tears, Alex. I miss you so much. I can’t believe that on 5th November you’ll have been gone for 2 years. You’ve been gone for longer than you were here. My love for you will always endure, my boy who made me a mummy. Alex, love & miss you forever. Remembering Josh Shared by Chell, Josh’s mum My son Josh Hall, 25, who died 31/08/2020 his birthday is 12/01/1995. Remembering Jordan Lewis Shared by Andrea, Jordan’s mum Our second born Jordan Lewis was born on 30th January 1999, arriving on his sister’s 5th birthday. A perfect baby with beautiful blue eyes, he grew to be a mischievous, inquisitive, and gentle boy. He welcomed his baby brother just before his 4th birthday and the family was complete. His little brother idolised him. As a young adult, he was often the peacekeeper, intelligent, knowledgeable, sensitive, and compassionate. His sister described him as the jam in the middle. He had some quirky ways, he was quick-witted and very funny! He was loved by so many. He was my sunshine. He died on 9th November 2022 aged 23, after a very sudden and short illness, leaving us all heartbroken. Jordi, forever in our thoughts and our hearts xxx
14 tcf.org.uk Remembering Dave Shared by Audrey and Mike Foster Our late son’s name is (and always will be) Dave. He died suddenly nearly four years ago at the age of 44, leaving behind his wife Alex and two lovely young daughters. He was born on 23 December 1975 and has two young brothers and one younger sister, and we are still all heartbroken at losing him. Remembering Anthony Shared by Jane My son Anthony Papadopoulos who passed away unexpectedly on 13th August 2023 has his birthday on 24th November. His date of birth is 24th December 1982. Remembering Simon shared by Heather Wicks Simon, our beloved second son, 6 April 1989 - 15 January 1990. 35 years since you left us after contracting bacterial endocarditis, we miss you dreadfully, every day, never more than a thought away, lots of love Mummy, Daddy, Matthew, Hollie and Jordan xx COMPASSION | MEMORY CORNER
15 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE: IF IT WAS ME If it was me… Shared by Marie Innes “You are so brave” …“you are an inspiration” ... “If it was me, I wouldn’t be able to go on… I couldn’t even get out of bed.” I’m sure their intentions are good – they seem to be in awe of my ‘strength.’ But I feel a stab of guilt every time I hear these words. Am I not grieving enough? Should I be sadder? I am sad all of the time! But of course, they don’t know that – they don’t see what’s underneath the mask I wear. They don’t feel the ache I feel inside me even when I am outwardly smiling. The constant awareness that a huge part of me is missing and missed beyond anything I could describe. So, I don’t even try. They don’t know that my body forces me to keep moving. Others need me. So, I get up and out because I must. But I feel hopeless, anxious, overwhelmed…not brave or strong and certainly not inspirational. They are not there when I walk, alone, for miles, sobbing like I will never stop before I pull myself together enough to face the rest of the day and the ‘normal’ world. The world that I know I will never again be a part of. I am truly glad for them that they will never have to feel this way. That they will never be the one for whom others cannot find the words. To know that people have seen you but pretend not to – busy themselves with an imaginary task or cross the street in a hurry. Because to speak to you is just too difficult. Others stop to speak but choose not to acknowledge how my life, my whole being, has been devastated by my loss - because what could they say? Maybe they think they are helping me by not mentioning him -it might help me move on, get back to my old life? Or are they worried that saying his name may cause me to break down, become distressed. And then what would they do? Easiest to just pretend he never existed. If only they knew how this breaks my heart even more than it has been already - if that is even possible. So, I choose to surround myself with those who have never been afraid - of saying his name, of my tears, my rollercoaster emotions. Those who don’t try to find the right words because they know there are none. Those who don’t try to fix it for me – they know nothing ever will. They are just there. And they listen. They are the brave ones…for they had a choice.
16 tcf.org.uk During my time off, all I received from my employer, Virgin Media O2, was a Bupa occupational health phone number, which felt impersonal and inadequate. Returning to work was daunting, and I felt unsupported. Determined to turn my grief into something positive, I sought to improve bereavement support at Virgin Media O2 (VMO2). After gathering feedback from over 400 employees, I discovered that over 50% felt unsupported. Recognizing the gap between employee needs and company offerings, I proposed and presented a new Bereavement support strategy for the business. My proposal included: • Aligning and enhancing our bereavement policies and introducing paid leave for unexpected life events • Introducing manager bereavement training and a manager toolkit to enable managers to support their employees going through a bereavement. • Creating an employee bereavement toolkit to support employees returning to work • Creating a “Hug in a Box” practical care package for bereaved employees, featuring policy information, helplines, befriending services, and support items. • Creating a culture and support community for shared bereavement experiences to break the taboos of talking about grief in the workplace. Presenting my plan to VMO2’s senior leadership team and HR Director, they pledged £200k annually to implement the changes starting October 2022. VMO2 is now best-in-class at supporting their bereaved employees, having received continuous positive feedback and is these solutions are still going strong today. Now, as an internal bereavement consultant, I collaborate with HR to bridge the gap between employee needs and company support. Hug in a Box In November 22, I won the 100 women in tech computing awards for this work which I am very proud of. In May 2023, I also won the Founders Award at the ‘This Can Happen’ Awards, who support mental health in the workplace. Bereavement Support in the Workplace Shared by Harley Cunningham COMPASSION | FEATURE: BEREAVEMENT SUPPORT IN THE WORKPLACE I’m Harley Cunningham, a full-time mother of three. In February 2021, amidst lockdown, tragedy struck when my two-year-old son, James, passed away suddenly from bronchopneumonia. Harley Cunningham
17 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | FEATURE: BEREAVEMENT SUPPORT IN THE WORKPLACE Currently, I volunteer as a befriender with Twins Trust and serve as a bereavement counsellor at CRUSE, a national charity. Guiding others through their grieving process, my focus lies in supporting parents coping with the loss of their child(ren). Through extensive counselling and cognitive behavioural coaching, I’ve gained a profound understanding of human psychology and the workings of the mind. Additionally, I hold qualifications as a mental health first aider, actively participating in and speaking at various workplace, school, and charity events centred around bereavement and mental health. My aim is to enhance my counselling expertise, aiding workplaces in crafting effective bereavement strategies to bolster employee well-being and retention. Leveraging over 15 years of experience in sales and marketing, I’m channelling my efforts into establishing a bereavement consultancy. By developing management and employee training materials, conducting workshops, and raising awareness, I seek to address the glaring disparity between employees’ needs and the support provided by organizations. Bereavement is an inevitable part of life, and it’s imperative for organizations to recognize the importance of supporting their employees during such times. By fostering an environment of understanding and providing adequate support, workplaces stand to benefit from improved employee engagement, well-being, and mental health outcomes, ultimately resulting in reduced absenteeism and turnover costs. Unfortunately, despite its prevalence, bereavement support in the workplace remains inadequate, largely due to the taboo nature of death. My mission is to bridge this gap, ensuring that employees receive the support they deserve, inspired by the memory of my son James.
18 tcf.org.uk Your Stories & Poems Thank you to all those have shared with us your stories and poems honouring and remembering your precious children. COMPASSION | YOUR STORIES & POEMS Look for Me in Rainbows Shared by Dilys, mum of Jon Lee x (attributed to Conn Bernard) Time for me to go now, I won’t say goodbye: Look for me in rainbows, way up in the sky In the morning sunrise when all the world is new Just look for me & love me As you know I love you. Time for me to go now, I won’t say goodbye: Look for me in rainbows, high up in the sky In the evening sunset When all the world is through Just look for me & love me And I’ll be close to you. Time for us to part now, we won’t say goodbye: Look for me in rainbows, shining in the sky Every waking moment and All your whole life through Just look for me & love me As you know I loved you. Just wish me near to you And I’ll be there with you. Grief Gift Gina Judd (Sami’s maman – Sami lost her life to a brain tumour in 2022) Bleak Desolate Aching Heavy limbed Directionless I give you words for the loss which has no name
19 tcf.org.uk Windfall apples Litter the ground Cider fragrance Drifting around September is here Plump figs ripen Leathery flesh Wrinkly soft skin Squashy and fresh September is here Change in the air Musky perfume Our lives with you Fractured too soon September is here Pick up apples Harvest each fig One more year passed Your empty space big September is here Autumn returns Balmy sweet breeze Sunbeams break through Leaves on the trees Your love is still here September Is Here Shared by Safina Powell, written 9th September 2023 COMPASSION | YOUR STORIES & POEMS When time tops out And shouts its overspill. At horizon’s dusk When skies with grey Clouds fill. When glass bound sands are few And well run through. I’ll think of you And love you still When bright house of colours Books of rhyme and dolls Tip toed to fudge and cake for stalls. I thought all to be mine Sweet precious time Sweet stolen time Your name through each day calls Echoing in these empty halls In minds corner At peak and trough of time In shallow and in deep At each morning’s rise At each night’s sleep When Time Tops Out © Andrew Cunningham Shared by Andrew Cunningham in memory of his daughter Anya, written on 20 May 2023 Andrew has a website of photography, poetry and reflection at cunningham.ws
20 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | SIBLING GRIEF - FEATURE: THOUGHTS ON ADULT SIBLING GRIEF For the first and last time, having only one sibling, I have experienced this form of grief. I lost my older brother Peter to cancer in November 2017. He was 65. In an ideal world, brothers and sisters share a deep, loving bond and are emotionally close. Unfortunately, the relationship between Peter and I was somewhat stormy and there were long periods in our adulthood when we were not in contact. But the unique relationship between my brother and I is nonetheless significant, and it brings its individual aspects to loss. The grief felt complex, and I wondered at this until a friend said to me, “Your relationship when he was alive was complex. So why would you be surprised if the grieving process is complicated?!” Wise words indeed. Peter wasn’t the kindest big brother, and he had a talent for belittling me which often made me feel defensive towards him. The flipside of this was that, certainly in adulthood, he wanted a loving relationship with his sister, even if circumstances conspired to make this difficult. We had some exceedingly tense times when, in our teens, Peter began to experience significant problems with what was then termed manic depression, now more commonly called bipolar disorder. Anyone who is close to another person with this diagnosis will know that it makes for testing relationships. The periods of Peter’s illness affected our ability to have a consistent relationship. He lived abroad for some years and eventually settled back in Southwest England. Peter’s anchor was undoubtedly his son, whom he loved dearly, and they were able to forge a good relationship despite the various problematic times. In recent years, Peter and I had gradually and tentatively built bridges in our relationship, and I am glad that we were back in contact when he was diagnosed with liver cancer in December 2014. His treatment was not well tolerated, and he died in hospital in November 2017. Thoughts on Adult Sibling Grief by Andrea Corrie Andrea & Peter
21 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | SIBLING GRIEF - FEATURE: THOUGHTS ON ADULT SIBLING GRIEF After the funeral, when life returns to normal, the world still turns as it turned before, we have all our usual routines and rituals back in place – how then, do we begin to approach and process sibling grief? The broad framework of the grieving process remains the same, I guess, with its non linear stages but it is different because of that shared history, the history which exists when we are made from the same gene pool as one another. My story was intertwined with my brother’s for our early formative years. When I look back at images, I see a loving brother and sister, holding hands, smiling to the camera. I cannot help but wonder when that changed, and whether fundamentally, that blood link, that familial sharing still remained? My sense of loss at Peter’s passing is profound. I miss the fact that the one person who I could talk to about our parents, as parents rather than the individuals they were, is gone. Peter’s recollections of family times were always clearer than mine, and there were shared jokes that would not mean anything to anyone else. I miss seeing his handwriting on the envelopes at birthday and Christmas – whatever else was going on, he always sent cards. We were together the night mum passed away in 2001 and we were closer then than we had ever been, sharing our thoughts and making a dent in dad’s whisky bottle whilst poor dad slept the sleep of the exhausted bereft. Peter was with dad in A and E when he died suddenly a scant 16 months later, but I was not. We again drew close over the ensuing period, sharing the funeral arrangements and the practicalities that follow bereavement. There is no doubt that our lives took entirely divergent paths. We were a bit like magnets, drawing together briefly every so often then springing away in opposite polarity. Ultimately our relationship was full more of what was unsaid than was said, and that is saddening. In the last few years, Peter and I had a new, closer connection as adult siblings. For once, I was proud to say, “I am catching up with my brother next week” rather than pretending he didn’t exist because he was so annoying. He was invited and present at two family occasions - a special birthday and the Christmas of 2016. We finally talked about the loss of our parents and of my son James and were able to cry and laugh together as never before, despite the sadness. I carry with me those memories, and the memories of some happy childhood times too. In the final analysis, the rest doesn’t matter. "I miss seeing his handwriting on the envelopes at birthdays and Christmas."
22 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | SIBLING GRIEF - FEATURE: THE TIES THAT BIND When my three brothers and I were growing up and trouble hit the fan, Mum would often say, in a bid to keep her brood calm, ‘Well, at least we are all still here.’ She reminded me of this affectionate saying only very recently. I can still recall how I felt as a child when she said those words - a collective sigh of relief would ripple across our family unit and if I close my eyes tight enough as I type these words, I can still feel the tsunami of endorphins that quickly engulfed and soothed my young, innocent heart. I knew that in that moment - in the simplest of terms - that if we were all together, everything would be OK – nothing else mattered. It was us against the world. Until the day came when we weren’t all here anymore – and things were definitely not OK. The day my brother, Louis Sydney Wilson died – 17th February 2019. The day when the six of us became five. When four siblings became three. The day when everything changed, and the earth seemed to flip on its axis. Syd - as he was affectionately known from around the age of seven - was my little brother, four years my junior. He was the last person in my family that anyone would ever have expected to receive a cancer diagnosis, let alone a terminal one. Growing up he was the sensible one of the four of us. He rarely drank alcohol, never smoked, or took drugs, recreationally or otherwise, never caused my parents sleepless nights like the rest of us and was always, well… the golden child – you know the one - most families have one. He was the happy-go-lucky kid, funny, and intelligent – not that he would ever think that about himself. And even if he did, he would never say it aloud. Growing up he toed the line in all aspects of his life – he was never promiscuous, rarely answered back and was a ‘good boy.’ He would later comment as he was nearing the end of his life that he felt this was half the reason he ended up sick. For whatever reason he never felt he could fully express himself and became trapped in what I refer to in my book Losing You, Finding Me, as the ‘invisible cage’. His life became a product of what he thought others expected of him rather than being true to himself. A trap many of us fall into and struggle to get out of. When he died, the loss felt unbearable. It was as if I was missing a limb. I struggled to make sense of anything for the first twelve months. I experienced what felt like a never-ending black hole of grief that I didn’t think I could ever The ties that bind; grieving the loss of a sibling by Kay Backhouse Kay with her siblings
23 tcf.org.uk COMPASSION | SIBLING GRIEF - FEATURE: THE TIES THAT BIND climb out of and in all honesty, I wasn’t sure that I even wanted to at the time. You see that’s the funny thing about grief, as much as it’s painful, it can feel like our only direct connection to the person that has died. Without the pain there is no love. In many ways the more pain I felt the closer I was to him. There is a saying that ‘grief is the price we pay for love,’ and I genuinely believe this – they come in equal measure. The sibling bond is like no other – it’s an undeniable connection – we quite literally share the same DNA. When we look at our siblings, we often see aspects of ourselves - the parts we love and annoyingly the parts we hate. It’s the only relationship where we want to push them off a cliff edge and yet catch them at the same time. I witness this playing out in my own sons’ lives. So, when a sibling dies, it’s like a piece of ourselves has evaporated alongside them. The rich tapestry of family life seems to come away at the seams - memories forever altered - every family photo now incomplete. Now don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all roses - we were siblings at the end of the day, and as with all siblings we had our moments. But they were rare. When we didn’t agree completely, rather than argue we would just drift apart like boats cast adrift at sea, not speaking for a few years at one stage, right before Syd’s shocking diagnosis. That diagnosis in September 2011 (on his twenty-eighth birthday) was like a bomb going off at the centre of the ocean – and although shocking and destructive, I will always be grateful that beyond the wake our boats were gently guided back to the safety of the shore. We were back where we belonged – together. Grief affects everyone differently, and when it comes to siblings, we are often overlooked. In the wake of our parents’ unimaginable grief, it can be difficult to process or even prioritise our own emotions without a sense of guilt. I mean losing a child is the worst of the worst, isn’t it? Too painful for most of us to even begin to comprehend. But Syd was my brother not my child, so there were times I didn’t feel I had the right to grieve in the same way my parents did. And how would we all readjust to this new family dynamic - without the golden child? Where was my place in the family hierarchy now? Did my remaining siblings feel the same way? And he left behind a twelve-year-old son; it is a tragedy to lose your father at such a young age. The problem is we often compare our grief, when really there is no comparison. We must acknowledge, accept, and honour our grief – and the many complex emotions that come with it. We are all unique as human beings – as is our grief. I now know there is no hierarchy of grief. It’s ok to feel whatever comes or to feel nothing at all. We must not judge someone else’s grief or our own. And the rule is – there are no rules. Learning to live without the physical version of my little brother has been unbelievably challenging. There are many times when I have wanted to give up, throw the towel in and just give in to my overwhelming grief, but then I remember that his death gave me a precious gift – the gift of a second chance at life and I would be doing him a disservice by wasting it. So now when I think of that saying Mum used to say I remind myself that despite Syd’s death ‘we are all still here’ - it’s only the form that has changed. We will always be a family of six and I now answer that sucker-punch question ‘how many brothers and sisters do you have?’ with a proud ‘three.’ He may not physically be here, but his spirit will always be with me - this I know. Our paths may have changed but our sibling bond will last forever. ‘Losing You, Finding Me; one woman’s crusade to save her brother and ultimately herself’ by Kay Backhouse. Published by 2QT Publishing and reviewed on page 10. "There are many times when I have wanted to give up, throw the towel in and just give in to my overwhelming grief..."
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